“Are you,” Charlie paused. His dad finished for him.
“Angry? Do you want me to be?”
“I don’t know. You’re the dad.”
This emptied the car. The temperature chilled. The whistling of highway cars was nullified in the tense. Charlie swallowed, shifting. His eyes traced the watershed of raindrops slipping off the window, making a confluence of tributaries.
Why is this so hard?
“I-”
“You know-”
They both began.
His dad looked to the rearview to meet his son’s eyes, but Charlie was still observing the bleak outside. Camden took a chance to study his kid. He loved him. Charlie’s straight nose was a little off. He fell from a branch in the backyard eight years ago. Charlie cried for hours in Camden’s lap. They went for ice cream, after, two soft served vanillas with chocolate sprinkles. Charlie was handsome. He still had his dad’s skinny arms. Football would buff him up.
Camden punched the radio button. Charlie turned his head to match his father’s stare.
“I don’t want you angry.”
“I don’t want me angry.”