The air is crisp. The wind blows soft kisses upon the rough skin of the two men, George hangs his arm out the window and relishes in the licks of air running over his arm as they brush through the street and down to the forest. 

“Pull the window up.”

George is drawn from the view and blinks at his father. 

“Why?” he asks as he moves his hand inside of the car.

His father presses a button to his left and the last bits of wind comb through George’s matted hair before the window shuts firmly with an empty bump. 

His father only jerks his chin toward the sky and George gazes at the last beams of light slowly being sucked behind the large clouds feathering the sky. An air of silence coils around the two men before Ben squeezes through the silence, “‘s gonna get cold.”

“Oh, okay.”

They had been driving for at least an hour. George had no idea how his father had not fallen asleep after being met with the same stretch of road for so long. He perks his head up when finally, the long strip of empty road begins to be dotted with the occasional tree. The occasional tree becomes the occasional cluster of trees. The occasional cluster of trees becomes a frequent cluster of trees and, before they know it, they are flanked on both sides by thick forest. George dares to crack the window for a second, the familiar piney fragrance tickling his nose. The smell abruptly halts when Ben presses his little button once more.

“Still cold.”

“I know.”

“So why’d you open the window?” he cocks a brow, puzzled. 

“It smells nice.” Ben ponders his son’s words for a while before George adds, “smells like home.”

They sit in the thrum of the radio before it slowly begins to divulge into static and Ben altogether turns it off. 

“Any word on mom’s condition?” George asks, his fingers dancing in his lap.

“Same old, same old. Just praying things will change.” Ben drums the pads of his fingers against the wheel, “how is that boy -- Kevin?”

“Same old, same old…” George smiles to himself. “We’re fine.”

Eventually, the neverending wind of backroad turns into a dirt path that the two men follow until they find themselves below a bellowing door of oak, guarding the entrance to the forest.

“Hm,” Ben hums. “You remember this tree?”

“No. Has it really been that long, though? Tree’s so big it must have taken a while to grow.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time.”

Ben takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at his son. George notices, but he keeps his gaze forward anyway. His father would be embarrassed if he was caught and then spend the rest of the trip trying to save himself from drowning in a pit of emasculation. Ben really looks at George. Really looks. For the first time since he had come home for his spring break. And arguably since he was probably in high school. His hair had grown longer, much longer since he had last seen him and it was a little lighter. Maybe sunkissed from too many hours spent basking in the sun? Enjoying himself with his friends. Away from his family. Away from him. He often wondered if George thought about him as much as he thought about George. 

George, growing antsy under the intense stare of Ben, runs a hand through his hair. Two strands fell around his face and framed it well. In one swift movement, he unlocks his door and opens the car. George pivots in his seat and turns to face him, “You still know the way to go?”

He nods.

They collect their materials for the trip from the trunk of the van. Conversations between birds are thrown across the tops of trees and rustling leaves from rampant wildlife welcome George back home with a familial embrace. 

“You coming?”

George is plucked ungracefully from his trance by Ben’s words. He looks forward, met with his father’s figure, head dipped slightly, hat casting a shadow over the top half of his countenance. Ben was grateful for that, less than excited about the prospect of his son being able to dissect the vulnerability in his eyes. Throughout this trip, when he was doubtful, he would try to remember that George had passed up a trip to Cancun with his college friends to be here. 

“Yeah, sorry.”

Ben looks at George curiously before giving a slight nod and beginning their trek into the dense forest. While the animals of the forest greet George warmly, the foliage is not as forgiving. Forgotten sticks scratch his legs, long, grotesque branches reach out to him and smack him in the face. Leaves coated in malicious intent hide between greenery, awaiting an opportunity to scratch his ankles and coat the tender skin in a mess of bumps and redness.

Ben leads them in a linear direction until they come to a large, moss covered boulder. When George had first come to this forest with the hidden lake, there actually hadn’t been any moss coating the rock. The last time George had come, though, the moss had simply covered the surface in a thin sheen. Now, it was a thick carpet. 

Deep caverns outline George’s mouth, he frowns at the image before him. Ben regards it wistfully. 

George’s hand itches to touch it but a look from Ben suggests otherwise, “You don’t know what kinda bacteria is on this thing. Or what wildlife is dependent on it. Best to just leave it be.”

George hums, “Do you remember it being this bad? The moss, I mean. Has it really been that long?”

Ben looks at the boulder and narrows his eyes, lines forming in the crease between his brows, “No, I don’t. But I haven’t been here since I last came with you.”

“What -- why?” George cocks a brow, “I thought you loved fishing.”

Ben shrugs and adjusts the bags hanging off his shoulders, “It’s boring when you don’t have anyone to go with you.”

“You never invited mom?”

“Too sick.”

George grunts in acknowledgement and watches a gust of wind sweep over the moss and make it dance, “Some say nature heals.”

“Yeah, well some people are made of bullsh*t. Let’s go.”

Ben leads them down through the heavily wooded trail until, peeking through the curled branches, they spot a great pool of blue. 

***

George casts the line out to the water, his lavender shirt riding up at the exertion of strength. They sit for a second and watch the motion of the string remain static. After a half hour and a wasted line of string, George says his first words since stepping out onto the lake, “I think we should go deeper.”

Ben looks behind them hesitantly, “Weird. Just here used to always work for us.”

“Yeah, things change I guess.” George reels the line in. “‘s what happens when you don’t come for so long.”

Ben hums in symbolic agreement as he pushes the oars forward, propelling both of them deeper into the lake. They had never been this far out. 

George scratches his exposed knee. “How’s mom doing? How’s she handling stuff?”

“Fine,” Ben continues rowing.

“What does fine mean? Not really an adjective you use to describe someone in hospice.”

He looks up at George.  “Means not dead.”

“Wonderful, great conversationalist as usual.” George reaches for the small cooler of beer and tugs at a twist-off cap. “It wouldn’t kill you to show some kind of remorse.”

“Remorse?” The rhythmic flow in the rowing stutters.

“Yeah,” George swallows his sip from the bottle, “for treating her like sh*t for a majority of the marriage.”

“Son, the only person here with any kind of remorse should be you. You abandoned your mother when she needed you the most. When I needed you,” his father spits. 

“When have you ever needed me?”

“Since the house started smelling like death godd*mnit!” He slams the oars down and the boat rattles. “Since it started feeling like just me, her, and the grim reaper every day. I can tell she doesn’t wanna fight anymore and that’s not something either of us want to bear alone.”

“So you’d rather just put it on me, like how you always do, let’s make George our therapist-”

“You can be pissed off all you want, son, but the fact of the matter is you left and I stayed. You can’t put a value on that.”

“Oh please, screw off. You treat your family like sh*t for years and all of a sudden you’re some kind of hero for not leaving your wife on her deathbed?” George squeezes the fishing rod until his knuckles turn white.  

“Like sh*t? You call providing for a family ‘sh*t’?”

“No, I call not being emotionally available for your family and screaming at your wife treating your family like sh*t.”

“This isn’t just about mom.”

George lets out a loud guffaw.

“No, it’s not about mom. It has never been about mom.”

When there’s no response, George takes a gulp of beer. “I knew I never should have come. This is how these things always go.”

“How do they always go?” The boat creaks under their tension and the water ripples.

“You act all--disapproving. Invite me out like you want a relationship and screw it up how you screw everything up. I never should have come.”

“Well, you chose to come, George, so-”

“It’s not like I wanted to,” George eyes a bird flying overhead, futilely trying to tune out Ben.

“Well of course you wanted to come, you could have gone to Cancun for God’s sake.”

“Mom is dying, what choice do you think I have,” George let the aftertaste of his words float in his mouth before he spit over the side of the boat. Never once did his father’s eyes leave him.

Ben blinks. 

“In fact,” George takes a swig of beer, “I was about to book the trip anyway but Kev convinced me otherwise. Didn’t want you to get your panties in a twist. More than they already are anyway.”

George had his eyes locked on the lake below, still except only for the occasional ripple in the water. 

“So you wanted to skip seeing your mother for possibly the last time for what, girls and alcohol?”

“Alcohol and Kev, yes.”

“Wow,” his laugh is empty. “You’d rather be surrounded by the stench of sweaty balls for a week than allow your mother to spend her last couple of days in comfort.”

“He’s good company and he actually smells like fruit.” 

“What?” Ben scoffs. Better company than us? He almost finds himself saying the words but clamps his mouth shut. 

“Forget it. Besides, I wasn’t gonna skip coming home because I’d rather be in Cancun. It was because I didn’t really wanna be here.”

“What does here mean?” Ben regrets the words the second they escaped the confines of his mouth.

“On this lake,” George looks at Ben, “with you.”

They hold eye contact for a while, an invisible line of anger and hurt tethering them together. 

Ben looks away first. 

He picks up the fallen oars, inspects them, turns them over in his hand, and runs his thumb over the indentations in the wood with a newfound fascination. Finally, he slips them into the water and defeatedly brushes through the lake with them. 

They arrive on the bank with an empty boat and even emptier men. 

Ben picks up his things and quickly makes his way through the forest. He wasn’t worried about George finding his way back to the car. More worried about having enough time to find a long-discarded napkin somewhere on the mat of the van.

George, on the other hand, takes his time stuffing all of his belongings into his ratty drawstring bag. His legs swing heavily over the side of the boat and he takes a couple of minutes to adjust to moving on land again. He makes calculated steps down the dirt path until he comes to the big rock. Before he turns in the direction of the van, he inspects the boulder.

Hesitantly, he runs his hand over it. He brushes some moss off of the rock, surprised in finding that it came off as easy as dust. 

His movements reveal a large crack in the center of the veneer.