Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  But it’s not my fault that I feel things so deeply. Is it? I can’t help how I feel. I can help how I act on those feelings, but the feelings won’t change. And I shouldn’t have to hold back because someone else isn’t on my level, right?

  UGH.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Nicolas says as he slides said penny across the table.

  I take the penny with my index finger and slide it around on the smooth surface of the wood. “I think that’ll cost you two cents.”

  “No”—he sits opposite me—“that’s not how that works. You pay the two cents to put your opinion in. So you might owe me a penny, in that case.” Then he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. “But I won’t charge you,” he says, grinning.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, my gaze firmly fixed on the coin.

  “Hey.” He leans over the table to look me in the eyes. “What happened? I was only gone for a few minutes.”

  I meet his gaze, but I don’t crack a smile or toss some playful joke back at him. That only furthers his concern.

  “Seriously. What’s up? You can talk to me.”

  “Can I?” I ask in a huff. “I don’t know you at all. I mean”—I throw my arms in the air—“is your name even Nicolas?” Then I drop them in my lap.

  “That’s not what you’re upset about,” he tells me like he knows everything there is to know about me. “My name is not what has you looking like…that.”

  “Like what?” I spit back.

  “Like…” He stares at me for a moment while presumably finding the right words, which softens me on the inside.

  I like the way he pays such close attention. The quick way he banters with me. The way he seems to be on my level—

  Nope. Shut that down. No one wants to hear that shit.

  “Like you’re struggling to make sense of something,” he says. “Like you’re frustrated about trying to find some kind of balance.”

  God, he’s on my level.

  “But also like you’re a little bit constipated.”

  My mouth and my eyes open wider right before a giggle bubbles out from my chest. “I don’t look like that!” I ball up a napkin and throw it at him.

  He catches it against his chest with both hands and chuckles. “No, you don’t. I just wanted to make you laugh,” he explains.

  Which makes conflicting emotions rise up in me—more laughter and more frustration, playfulness and irritation, freaking appreciation and punch-him-in-the-face anger. But the fun stuff wins out.

  I finally crack a smile, and it even reaches my eyes. Laughing is fun, and I’m here to put the bad behind me. To move on, let go, and get back to a normal life. One without misunderstandings and running full speed ahead while the person next to me is going at a turtle’s pace.

  “Mission accomplished,” I say as a waiter arrives with our drinks.

  He places a green juice in front of me. “Melody for the lady.” Then he puts a rather brown-looking liquid down for Nicolas. “And a Brut for the man. Anything else I can get you two?” he asks as he drops straws on the table.

  “That’s perfect. Thanks,” Nicolas says back.

  As the waiter leaves, I open my straw. Before I pop it in the cup, I look at my companion. The question must be blazing in my eyes though, because he answers sooner than I can ask.

  “No ginger at all,” he assures me. “It usually comes with it, but I asked them to leave it out because I couldn’t resist getting a drink called Melody for a mermaid.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” I joke before I sip my juice. But it rings true.

  His thoughtfulness is sweet—unlike this drink, which is more sour lemon than anything else, but I dig it anyway. I can use some vitamins and minerals after that carb-loaded breakfast.

  Just like I can use someone with thoughtfulness in my life.

  Or, well, anyone who isn’t driven away by my “special brand of crazy” and my “strong personality.”

  I shake the stupid thoughts off. “What’s in your juice?” I ask him then drink more of mine.

  “Carrots, beets, and spinach—which is why it’s so…” He glances at the cup before finishing. “Well, it’s pretty brown.” After taking a sip, he quickly adds, “But it tastes good! Wanna try it?” and offers his cup to me.

  “No, thanks,” I say before I look out the window. “I think I’d rather see some more of the city. Let’s go.” I gather my things and stand, taking my drink with me.

  “I don’t have cooties, you know,” he tells me in a low voice, right near my ear as he slides by me, his cup in hand.

  “I never said you did.” I flick his arm and smile at him.

  “Okay, then. On to the next restaurant!” He sweeps a hand in front of his body. “After you, m’lady.”

  We head out the door, successfully dodging the oppressive Debbie Downer shit zipping around my brain. Portland sunshine and some fresh air will do me good.

  Chapter 3

  “Where to next?” I ask when we get back to the car.

  “Well,” he says as he unlocks the doors, “the next place I want to take you doesn’t open until eleven.” He rests his arms on top of his Prius and grins. “So how about dessert?”

  “Oh my god!” I nearly shout. “Vegan dessert. Yes!” I rush into the car and belt myself in.

  He slides in behind the wheel. “Sure you’re not too full anymore?”

  “Sure you don’t want to get flicked in the arm again?”

  His chuckle echoes in the small space.

  “Seriously though. No one is ever too full for dessert. It’s a scientific fact,” I tell him as he pulls the car out into the street.

  “I’d question what studies those findings came from, but I think I can agree with that.”

  I give him a self-satisfied smile and settle into the seat. A few moments pass before I say, “I hope this is the best vegan dessert place in the city.”

  When he glances at me, his lifted eyebrow and his pursed lips give me the feeling that I should have known better than to make that kind of remark.

  “I’m not sure why you’re doubting me now. I haven’t given you any reason to do so, have I?”

  “I suppose you haven’t.” I tuck my hands under my legs. “But it might all be hanging in the balance here. Regular vegan food isn’t all that terribly difficult. Baked goods, on the other hand?” I give him a sideways glare. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Well, then,” he says as he turns a corner, “if it’s any baked goods, we might be early enough for donuts.”

  “Donuts!” I shriek. “No way!”

  “Yes way,” he responds, a light laugh in his tone.

  “Oh my god. I haven’t had a donut in…” Really—when was the last time? “I don’t even know how long it’s been!”

  While I snatch my purse from my lap and dig for my itinerary, he says, “Yeah, well, most people say Voodoo Donuts or Blue Star, but I prefer—”

  “Sweetpea Baking Company,” we finish together.

  “It’s on my list!” I point to where it is on the paper.

  “Imagine that.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye and winks.

  I pull my “mermaid hair” over my shoulder and braid it while bouncing in my seat and watching Portland fly by until we get there.

  “You’re always so quiet when we get back in the car,” he says as we walk up to the bakery’s storefront.

  “I’m observing,” I answer. “Taking this new place in.” I stop in front of the door and look straight at him. “That okay with you?” I ask with a smirk full of attitude.

  “Why would it not—” he starts as he opens the door.

  My hand flies up in the air between us. “I wasn’t really asking.” I flash a smile again and enter the bakery.

  The scent of doughy-bagel goodness and sugary-sweet cakes, cupcakes, and—yes—donuts swirls around the small space. The red pops of color stand out against the wooden décor, and the little girl in me wants to run up to the display ca
ses to pick something out.

  So I do it.

  “Ahhh!” I sigh, knowing I can choose anything I want guilt-free. A rush of happiness dances circles in my stomach.

  Nicolas comes up behind me as I admire the baked-goods heaven. “She’ll have one of everything.”

  “Ha!” I glance at him then speak to the woman behind the counter. “More like I need to extend my trip so I have enough time to try one of everything.”

  But he answers me instead. “That might not be a bad idea.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, so I face him to gauge his demeanor. All that accomplishes, though, is getting stuck in a stare-off. Neither of us looks away, and I cannot seem to pull my gaze from his. The cashier ends up being the one to break our strange trance.

  “I can certainly make one of everything happen,” she says, helping to lighten the mood.

  “I’m sure you can,” I tell her as I manage to force myself to face her. “But I was promised the best vegan donuts in all of Portland, and I’d like to try one of those, please.”

  The woman beams a smile at me. “Good choice! We have blueberry pie, pumpkin with salted caramel, vanilla confetti, and chocolate cookie crumble. Take your pick.”

  Though I’m not even close to being hungry yet, my stomach rumbles. The anticipation of sugar, fried dough, and more sugar hitting my taste buds has my mouth watering too. And I totally can’t decide on just one donut. Plus, I thought we were coming here for dessert, so I may need to get a cupcake too. Or one of these pumpkin turnovers. Hmm.

  She must notice that I’m eyeing the other desserts—or I’ve been staring at them for that long. Anything’s possible at this point.

  “We also have some chocolate chip, peanut butter monkey bread,” she informs me. “You know, if you needed more options.”

  The wide grin on her face could mean lots of things. She’s probably proud of her shop’s offerings. And she might really think she’s helping me by giving me yet another delectable item to choose from. But all she’s doing is making this so much harder. Even though she’s being so sweet about it.

  UGH. It’s just a donut. Decide already!

  “Why is this so hard?” I groan, spinning around toward Nicolas.

  His gaze is—perhaps still—fixed on me. That’s how it feels, anyway. Like he was staring at me the whole time. And the emotion behind his eyes forms a lump in my throat, which I try to swallow over.

  “It’s probably because you don’t have this extensive list of options back home,” he says.

  I am momentarily lost in his rich voice, the light but physical touch of his gaze on my skin—and then his words sink in.

  “And how would you know that?” I ask him.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. So he closes it and exhales. And I get the distinct impression that he just stopped himself from telling me something. Something important. Something that might explain that I-know-him-from-somewhere feeling.

  Finally, he says, “You don’t live here. That’s how I know.” Like he wasn’t about to help me solve the day’s mystery.

  My glare threatens to burn a hole in the middle of his forehead. But he doesn’t react. Stays cool as a cucumber.

  So I tell the cashier over my shoulder, “Blueberry donut, chocolate cookie donut, and monkey bread.”

  Now, he decides to react and raises his eyebrow at me.

  “Breakfast tomorrow too,” I explain and shrug. “Or a late-night snack. It’s better to be prepared.”

  But he puts his hands up in surrender. “No need to defend yourself. You’re a grown woman.”

  I am, aren’t I? This trip is about me. No one else. So I’ll do what I damn well please.

  As I turn around, the cashier punches my order into her computer and starts to give me a total. But that suddenly doesn’t seem like enough food.

  So I do what I damn well please and add, “Wait. And the pumpkin turnover.”

  She patiently amends my order. Yet, when she begins to inform me of my new total, I stop her again.

  I need a cupcake too, right? “And a cupcake. Your choice. Surprise me.”

  Go big or go home and all that.

  This time, she includes the additional food item and eyes me for confirmation before speaking. When I nod, she tells me the outrageous-but-likely-worth-it amount I owe her, so I hand my debit card over. Once the transaction is finished, I move out of the way so Nicolas can place his order.

  After we’ve received our items, we head back outside. As the warm sunshine hits my skin, I waste no time before digging into the bag. But I do waste time trying to decide which one to try first.

  “Definitely a donut,” he says as if he read my mind. “Probably the chocolate cookie one since this was supposed to be dessert.” Then he bites into his vanilla confetti donut.

  I shrug. Since I plan on eating them all eventually and have to start somewhere, it makes sense that I might as well start there. So I remove it from the bag and take a slow, savoring bite.

  Oh. My. God.

  Best. Donut. EVER!

  A low moan rumbles up my throat, and Nicolas pauses mid-chew.

  “That’s what I thought,” he states confidently. “No Sriracha needed.”

  I give him a squinty, mouth-full-of-donut, pursed-lips, all-in-good-fun “bite me” glare. But he wasn’t wrong. That’s for sure.

  A painting on the cement wall on the left side of the entrance to the bakery catches my eye, and I walk toward it. Inside a blue robot-looking creature with four eyes and a wide, open, toothy mouth, it says what brings you joy? So I eat my scrumptious donut and ponder the question.

  “So?” he says as he steps up behind me.

  When I’ve twisted around to look at him, he gestures with his head toward the painting.

  “What brings me joy?” I ask for clarification.

  He nods.

  I face the robot dude again, bite into my donut, chew, swallow. I repeat the bite, chew, swallow twice, and then the donut is gone. Which means I have nothing to keep myself from answering—unless I start my other donut. Or any of the other desserts in my bag. But my belly is beyond full from everything we’ve already consumed.

  And I’m in the mood to be honest with Nicolas.

  To be fair, I’m always honest. When I speak, anyway. Silence isn’t exactly honesty. But I feel like he won’t judge me. Like he’ll listen. Maybe even help.

  Then again, I’m not an excellent judge of character based on my previous relationships.

  Oh well. I’m not interested in hiding. I’m not interested in living behind a shield or a veil. I am who I am, and I make no apologies—even if it lands me with heartbreak.

  “Being me,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my waist. Then I clear my throat and say it louder. “Being myself and not worrying what others think about me.”

  He steps closer to me. “I can see that about you. And I admire it.”

  “Yeah, well…” I turn around. “Not everyone loves it. In fact,” I say, staring at the ground and kicking a rock with my flip-flop, “some people really don’t love it.”

  Silence stretches between us. When it becomes uncomfortable a few beats later, I raise my half-lidded gaze to Nicolas and keep my head low. I don’t know anyone who’d call me shy, but I don’t normally make a habit of telling my life story to people I just met. And, well, that was some of that forwardness some people “really don’t love.” So a little oops runs through me—and a dash of can I take that back now?—as I wait for his response.

  Which is his hand reaching out toward me.

  I look at it then look at him. Then back again.

  “The bag,” he says as he twitches his fingers in a gesture for it. There’s only kindness in his voice, none of the irritation or anger I expected.

  So I hand the bag over. But not without a warning.

  “Whatever you do, don’t eat those.”

  He cracks a smile as he walks to his car. Then he unlocks it and
drops my bag on the front seat. “Come on,” he says, closing the door. “Can’t take food in there”—he nods to the store next to the bakery—“and it’s a must-see on our tour even if there’s no food involved.”

  He swings the glass door open for me to enter, but I’m frozen. Stuck in my spot. I threw a tiny tantrum back there and he hasn’t batted an eyelash. As much as I don’t understand, I want to go with it. So I shrug and enter the building.

  Which blows me away.

  It’s filled with clothes, books, bags, purses, wallets, belts—all presumably vegan with a store name like Herbivore. I’ve never seen a selection quite this big in one place. And my heart knows that it’s found where it belongs.

  My head, though, ignores the fact that Nicolas is currently within the four walls my heart never wants to leave. Well, it tries to, anyway.

  “You’re lost, huh?” he asks. “Don’t know where to start?”

  That’s one way to put it. So I give him a nod.

  “We’ll start here,” he says, pointing to my left. “Clothes. The shirts all have fun sayings on them, so that might ease the overwhelming feeling you look like you’re suffering from.”

  And he’s right. With quotes like “Eat like you give a damn” and “Love life—no matter whose,” we had no problem putting my what-in-the-world-do-I-start-with anxiety to rest.

  Over an hour later, we’ve checked out the whole store, left nothing unturned. And I’m somehow only leaving with two shirts, three buttons, and a new bag. Which I take out to his car once I’ve paid for everything.

  “That place is amazing!” I exclaim as he closes the trunk. “I don’t know how that didn’t end up on my list.”

  “You only asked for restaurants—places to eat,” he says, unlocking the car doors.

  My hand freezes on the handle before I can open the passenger’s side. “Excuse me?”

  “You asked why this place didn’t make it to your list. And I said—”

  “I heard what you said,” I spit at him. “What I don’t get is why you said it.”

  He drops himself inside the car, so I follow him and fold myself into the small space. I am, though, careful not to hurt my precious baked goods.

  “How could you possibly know what I asked for? How could you possibly know why I put what I put on my list? How could you possibly be okay with just taking all of this time off from your job and carting me around this city? How could you possibly be okay with my ‘strong personality,’ my ‘special brand of crazy,’ problem and this stupid fucking rant I’m going off on right now?”