I’d flown into San Jose, the nearest airport and actual big city, so we have a forty-five-minute drive to my dad’s new house on the coast. Not a hardship, especially when I see we’ll be cruising in a glossy blue muscle car with the sunroof wide open.
My father is a CPA. He used to drive the most boring car in the world. California has changed that, I suppose. What else has changed?
“Is this your midlife-crisis car?” I ask when he opens the trunk to stow my luggage.
He chuckles. It totally is. “Get in,” he says, checking the screen on his phone. “And please text your mother that you didn’t die in a fiery plane crash so she’ll stop bugging me.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Pete.”
“Goofball.”
“Weirdo.”
He nudges me with his shoulder, and I nudge back, and just like that, we’re falling back into our old routine.