The Camry turned over on the first try, a near miracle. It had traveled over 180,000 miles and I was waiting for the inevitable breakdown, which would mean a new car. Or an old car, actually. But a new payment. Which would require more commercial work. At forty-six, I’m no longer at the top of the call sheet. But we’d find a way to make it work. Cassie and me. We always had. Some one-night stands are meant to last.

I used to obsess over the life I’d given up for her. The freedom, the years on the road. But looking back, I know who really got the better end of that deal.

Caspian was already starting to nod off in his seat, wheezing like a geriatric with emphysema. That could easily have been me.

He got a second wind as we turned onto the highway, however, and sat up, switched on the stereo and cranked the volume loud. “Radio out here’s for shit,” he said.

It was ‘Beds are Burning’ by Midnight Oil. I liked that song.

“So turn it down.”

He did. Barely. I reached out and turned it down more.

“Fucking princess,” Caspian slurred.

Yep, this is exactly where I would have been had I not gotten Cassie pregnant. Drooling in a drunken stupor. Looking ten, fifteen years older than I am. But where would she be? Cassie had been working as an art designer for a music label when we met. Making shit money, but loving what she did. Doing good work too. She had talent. Still does. Just applies it toward decorative covers for our photo albums now. A little freelance work when she can get it. Mostly wedding invitations and stuff. She quit the label when The Accident happened.

I still call it that, ‘The Accident’. My mind does, anyway. My protective ego. But it’s with a capital T and capital A. The Accident.

Okay, here goes. I had gone out for drinks after working a double shift at Best Buy. I hated that fucking job, but needed money to help support our baby – our Big Surprise (capital B, capital S, believe me). I gave guitar lessons on the side and used that for bar money. Being a regular helped; they’d give me breaks on my tab. Plus I’d play happy hour every so often. ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ and shit like that.

Razz, the bar manager at this place called The Mule Kick, was testing a new drink special. Two-for-one Long Island Iced Teas. Fresh pours, not the mix. Liquor all the way to the brim. A couple of those and the bar lived up to its name. A couple more and the night got dark and murky. I have no idea how many I had that night. My tab was never over ten bucks.