Some stops change more than your route

Chicago traffic was unbearable, the very reason he had come off the road years ago. It had cost him the bigger salary, but Larry hadn’t missed it. He had grown comfortable in the yard, working as a spotter, jockeying trailers around for the past few years. It was only because the company needed someone to haul an important load to Chicago that he found himself back out here again, hating every minute of it.

Chicago had been Larry’s regular route once. For nearly twenty years, he ran two loads a week between Dallas and Chicago—auto parts north, empty racks south. No waiting on docks, no delays. The trailers were always ready. It had been good money, but he had gotten too old for it.

He would be seventy in a couple of weeks and had been thinking seriously about retirement. His wife, Dana, had been dropping hints for months. He figured he’d fill out the paperwork when he got back. Two weeks’ notice ought to be enough.

Traffic crawled. Stop and go, stop and go. He left plenty of space ahead of him, which only invited cars to dart in and fill it.

More than an hour later he finally reached the southern suburbs and pulled into a truck stop he used to frequent. He needed fuel and something to eat. At the pump, he frowned at the price of diesel. It wasn’t his money, but that didn’t make it any less ridiculous.

Inside, the restaurant was busy, drivers settling in early for the night. Larry had always preferred driving late. Less traffic, fewer chances for something to go wrong. In forty-five years behind the wheel, he had never had an accident worth reporting. There had been that minor fender-bender early on, but he had paid for it himself. The company never knew.

He slid into a booth in the truckers’ section and pulled out his iPad, scrolling through the news. A waitress came by and set a menu down in front of him.

“I’ll have an iced tea,” he said.

She jotted it down, studying him for just a moment before walking off.

He glanced over the menu, made his choice, and looked up again. The waitress was talking to another woman, and both of them glanced his way. It made him feel slightly uneasy, though he couldn’t say why.

A few minutes later she returned with the tea and a handful of sweeteners. She lingered just a second longer than necessary, looking at him. He placed his order and she left without much to say.

Larry opened his game, Word Master, and played a few rounds while he waited.

Ten minutes later she set his plate down in front of him.

“Enjoy, Larry,” she said, then turned away.

He watched her go. She had called him by name. He had a vague sense of familiarity, but he couldn’t place her, and that unsettled him more than he liked to admit.

When he finished eating, a busboy cleared the table. Moments later the waitress returned and slid into the booth across from him.

“You called me by my name,” Larry said. “You must know me.”

She flinched, just slightly.

“You don’t remember me?” she asked. “That hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not placing you.”

“Larry, dammit, it’s me. Katy.”

The name landed, and suddenly the years fell away. Of course. Katy. They had had something brief but real, twenty or twenty-five years ago, back when he ran this route every week. Before Dana. Before everything settled down.

She looked different now, older, heavier, glasses where there hadn’t been any before. Her hair was no longer red. Then again, he was sure he didn’t look much like the man she remembered either.

“Katy,” he said, “how have you been?”

“Fairly well,” she replied, though her expression suggested otherwise.

“I know,” she added with a small smile. “I don’t look the same.”

“Haven’t we all changed?” Larry said.

“Tell me about you.”

“Still driving,” he replied. “Same company. Saxon Brothers. Mostly local now.”

“You ever get married?”

“I did. Twenty-four years ago. My wife’s name is Dana.”

“Kids?”

“A daughter. She’s at SMU. The birth almost killed Dana, and the doctors said no more after that.”

Katy nodded, as if letting that sink in.

“How about you?” he asked, already unsure he wanted the answer.

“I did,” she said. “His name was Billy. Wagner, a Chicago firefighter.”

Larry caught the word “was.”

“He died seven years ago. House fire. He was trying to get a little girl out when the roof came down.”

Larry lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That kind of thing sticks with ya.”

They talked for a while after that, some laughter, some tears, filling in decades in pieces. Eventually Larry checked his watch.

“I’ve got to get moving, Katy” he said. “Schedules.”

“I understand,” she replied. “It was good seeing you again.”

She walked back toward the counter.

Larry paid his bill and headed out. He was halfway to the truck when he heard his name called and turned to see Katy hurrying toward him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said when she caught up.

“Sure,” he said, bracing himself.

She hesitated, as if deciding whether to go through with it.

“Larry… you have a son,” she blurted.

The words landed, and for a moment nothing else did.

“It’s true,” she said. “His name is Alex. He’s an accounting executive in Indianapolis. Married, with a little boy.”

She handed him her phone with his picture.

Larry looked at the image and stared. The resemblance was unmistakable.

He looked up at her, struggling to find the right question.

“Katy… why didn’t you tell me?”

“How could I?” she said. “You stopped coming around. Then I married Billy. He thought Alex was his. I couldn’t risk losing that.”

Larry stood there, the camera still in his hand. A son. A life he didn’t know existed. He thought of Dana. Of everything waiting for him back home.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure what his life looked like anymore.

And it was going to be a long ride back to Dallas.