“Yes, kiddo?”
“I like this. Us. Like this.”
I swallowed hard, remembering the call from Emily and the white carpets, the sterile life I’d been excluded from. “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
We stayed there until the sun began to dip, painting the rocks in shades of red and purple. I watched Barnaby rest his head on Lily’s lap as she ran her fingers through his fur. He’d saved her before—he saved me too, in a way I hadn’t understood until now.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture, not to post, not to prove anything, but to remind myself: this was real. This was ours. No filters, no white carpets, no rules that said we didn’t belong.
That night, as we slept under the stars in the cab of The Beast, I realized something vital: I had spent years chasing permission to exist in someone else’s idea of home. I’d let the phone calls, the appointments, and the expectations decide my worth. But out here, in the desert, with the wind and the fire and a dog who never left my side, I knew the truth: I didn’t need permission anymore.
The open road was ours. The map was ours. And every mile we drove, every sunrise and sunset we witnessed, was proof that life didn’t have to fit anyone else’s mold. We made our own.
Barnaby shifted in his sleep, tail thumping softly, a small vibration that felt like affirmation. I stroked his fur and whispered, “We’re okay, buddy. We’re really okay.”
And in the morning, when the sun rose again, we’d pack up The Beast, hit the road, and let the world catch up.
Because the best seat in the house is wherever you decide to stop.
