“I’m fine, Dad. Especially now that I resigned,” I say. It’s the truth. In fact, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Several seconds pass before my father clears his throat, then says, “So is this why you and Nicole broke up? Because I know she wouldn’t put up with you traveling with two females—”

“Nicole and I weren’t right for each other.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Okay, fine. Yes. She’s not thrilled with my female friendships. But more important, Nicole and I want different things.” I pause, then say, “She wants your life.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning things like this club,” I say, glancing around the room.

“Oh. You don’t enjoy this club?” he snaps back.

“It’s nice,” I say. “It’s very nice…. I just might want another kind of life.”

“Oh? And what kind of life is that?”

“I don’t know, Dad. That’s what I need to figure out.”

He sighs so loudly that it sounds like a groan. “So you’re taking this trip to find yourself?”

“That feels dismissive.”

“I’m not dismissing you. I’m just asking you.”

“Okay. Yes. I’m going on this trip, in part, to take a step back and figure out what I want my life to look like. So, yeah, I guess you could characterize that as ‘finding myself.’ ”

He stares at me, then shakes his head.

“Why is that so wrong?”

“It’s wrong because you don’t come from generational wealth and the mindless sense of security that comes with that. You don’t have the luxury of that kind of fallback plan.”

“Dad, I understand what you’re saying. But I do have a fallback plan. I have my degree—two degrees—and I have plenty of money saved and invested. And isn’t that the point? Didn’t you and Mom and your parents work hard so that I don’t have to feel trapped? So that I can be in the position where I can go find myself if that’s what I need to do? Aren’t you the man who taught me that ‘necessitous men are not free’?”

“That’s true to a point, son. But quitting your job on a lark—” He pauses, shaking his head. “That sort of entitlement feels disrespectful. To your mother and me. To your grandparents. To their parents.”

“It’s not a lark, Dad. It’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

I almost mention Summer—and our pact—but can’t bring myself to share that much. It’s too risky. If he dismisses my feelings about her in any way, the conversation could really take a bad turn. I can’t let that happen.

“Look, Dad, I’m sorry you don’t agree with my decision, but my friends aside, this is something I need to do. For my own mental health.”

My dad stares at me, then slowly nods. It’s hard to argue with mental health, even for his generation.

“Just remember where you came from, Tyson.”

“I will, Dad.”

“And remember there’s a difference between your history and your legacy. Your history is what happened. Your legacy is what you set in motion.”

I nod again.

“You are my legacy,” he continues. “And I’m proud of you. I also want you to be happy. But your decisions—the ones you make today and tomorrow and the next day—will ultimately impact your legacy. What do you want that to be?”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words. “I’ll keep that in mind, Dad. I promise.”

“Good. Thank you.”

I pause, then give him a half smile. “Now,” I say. “Can I just ask for one small favor?”

My father shakes his head. “Nope,” he says with a chuckle.

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask!”

“Oh, yessir, I do,” he says. “And the answer is no. You’re telling your mother all on your own.”

“Dang. Can you at least give her a heads-up?”

“Sorry, son,” he says. “I’ve got enough problems.”

—

The night before I fly to Dallas, I find my mother in her office. With a working fireplace, an extensive library, and a West Wing–style desk I used to play under when I was a kid, it’s my favorite room in their five-story Kalorama townhome.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, standing in the doorway, inhaling the musty scent of old books.

“Well, well,” she says, putting down her pen, then taking off her reading glasses. “Another country heard from.”

I smile at one of her favorite expressions and ask if she has time to talk.

She nods and says, “You know my door is always open.”

This is true—both literally and figuratively. No matter how busy my mom has been over the years, she’s never made me feel like I’m interrupting her. I take a seat in the armchair facing her desk.

“So I think you may know why I’m here,” I say, crossing my legs, then uncrossing them.

“I may have an inkling.”

I hesitate, wondering who her source is—my father or Nicole—and what exactly they told her.

She holds my gaze for several long seconds, her expression inscrutable. “So you’re really doing this?”

The question feels a little bit like Are you still beating your wife? so I clear my throat and ask for clarification. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Quitting your job, breaking up with Nicole, and traveling with two females?”