I blow out a sigh, clap a hand on his shoulder, and brush past. “You can take the nerd out of the library, but you can’t take the library out of the nerd…”
“Hey!”
❇ ❇ ❇
After needlessly surveying the area twice, we ended up leaving the pack in a tree. Vincent mustered just enough beast mode to carry that thing up fifteen feet, and it disappeared into the foliage. Too bad his time estimations weren’t that great.
It took at least another three hours to reach Hamilton Park on the outskirts of Portland, and we weren’t the only ones heading that direction. People were staggering along, eerily quiet in the shared procession. It wasn’t until the tents came into view that anyone really perked up—not that there was much to get excited about.
Turns out, BEECNs are just that—a beacon to signal emergency services. They can point you to shelters, food, and staging areas, but they’re completely different projects, headed by different volunteers. Efficient? Yes. Necessary? No doubt. But it was the slightest bit disappointing to those of us contemplating the taste of duct tape…
Vincent leans over to me as we stand in line at the tent. “They’ve managed to keep order longer than I would’ve thought.”
“Looks like they’re organized.” I nod toward tables filled with radio equipment, supported by various generators. There are people making notes in binders here, too. I wonder if they’ve had any contact with Seaside’s volunteers.
When we reach the front, he doesn’t waste time. “Malcolm Vincent, thirty-three, Seaside. Elena Cordova, thirty-two, Seattle. We’re walking wounded at this point. I just need you to help me track down my brother’s family.”
“Sir, BEECNs are for contacting emergency services while the phones are down, or to report severe damage.”
“So, you guys aren’t trying to keep track of who’s stumbling around and who’s buried in the rubble?”
“Not in an official capacity.”
“Then in an unofficial capacity, I’d like some help.”
“What’s the last name?” Despite a heavy sigh, the girl is unfazed, probably having heard the same plea over and over since her shift started.
“Vincent. They’re from the Sellwood area.”
The girl thumbs through a few pages, and then curses under her breath before going back to the beginning of the binder. She’s got to be in her late high school or early college years, sporting fingerless gloves and a knit cap. “Did you say Vinson?”
“Vincent. V-I-N-C-E-N-T.”
Her eyes flick from his abs down to the binder a few times before her brows crinkle in true concentration. Not that I blame her. Even in circumstances such as these, we’re all just human. We still have the same needs and desires buried under more pressing priorities.
“It looks like a Vincent family lives on Harney Street. The nearest BEECN would be…” She runs her finger down a column. “Southeast thirty-six.”
Vincent’s broad shoulders relax and then tighten again, waiting in anticipation. “And?”
“And that is located at…” She flips a second binder open. “Sellwood Middle School field.”
“But are they there?” he presses. His voice has an edge to it, but I can tell he’s restraining himself. These people are donating their time to help us. It’s not their fault it’s so hard to track someone down.
“Hold on a sec.” The girl turns to the older woman behind her. “Donna, can you call Southeast thirty-six and ask if they’ve had contact with a Vincent family? We have relatives here.”
“Uh… yeah, just give me a second.”
While the woman does whatever she needs to with her machines and dials, I rub Vincent’s back. “It’s going to be okay. If they’re not there, they probably got held up somewhere else.”
He lets out a breath so deep I feel it push beneath my hands. “Yeah, it wasn’t unusual for him to stay at work until eight or nine o’clock at night.”
“So maybe they went to him.”
“Maybe.”
Somewhere behind us, a hungry baby wails.
“Malcolm?” The girl waves her hand to get our attention. “We’ve confirmed someone spoke with Melissa Vincent after the quake, so they must be around there.”
Thank God.
My Vincent mutters a thank-you and wanders off in a daze. Either he’s overcome with relief, or he’s just come to the realization he is going to have to confront his family tomorrow. Either way, he needs something to occupy his attention right now.
“So, where does Dominic work?” I ask, a new spring in my chafed, penguin-like step, now that things are finally starting to fall into place.
“Last I knew, he was the director of something or another downtown.”
“Sounds like big money.”
He hesitates near a big barrel trash can. “Yeah.”
“But it probably made him soft, huh?”
“Probably.”
Someone hasn’t come to fully appreciate my conversational prowess. “What’s his family like?”
“Shit, Elena, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them for six years.” He nudges something aside in the garbage. “Fish out your boob flashlight, will ya?”
Since he didn’t reach for it himself, I assume this isn’t some kind of weird foreplay and hand it over.
With a click, a golden halo encircles the barrel, highlighting however many days’ worth of sour nastiness. “Look for nonperishables, preferably anything that’s still somewhat covered with packaging.”
Is he serious? I can’t stop my lip from curling in disgust, even though my stomach growls have turned demonic. “We’re eating trash?”
“We’re eating leftovers… from strangers.”
Huh. So it’s come to this.
I pick at the corner of the bag, praying I don’t touch anything slimy, and peer under an empty Styrofoam container. The truth is, I’m not too optimistic. With this many displaced people wandering around, scavenging for limited resources, who’s going to throw away extra food?
“Aha!”
Then again, stupid and wasteful aren’t unheard of adjectives to describe the general populous.
Vincent retrieves his prize, a half-eaten granola bar wedged in a foil sleeve, and passes it off to me. “Here.”
“Did you just make me dinner?” I tease. “Is this a date?”
“Nothing but the best for my… you.” He finally cracks a grin.
“I’m flattered.” I use a napkin to dig through my side. “Can I interest you in a bag of chip crumbs? How about an apple that’s not quite down to the core?”
“How long have we been out here? Is it Thanksgiving already? Toss ‘em over.”
We spend a few more minutes sourcing our recycled feast, and then find a quiet spot under the trees. Vincent flops down and upends the crumb bag with a moan.
“To answer your question,” he says, swallowing with a wince, “I guess I can tell you how I remember them. Missie was your typical suburbanite—Pilates classes, PTO meetings. Nice woman, though. Volunteered a lot. And Paige… Paige was a tomboy. Thought everything Uncle Mal did was cool, and I do mean everything. Guess that’s part of what got me kicked out.”
“They had to understand there were extenuating circumstances.” My mouth is full, too, but I power through it. The story I’m working with is the food fell off a truck. We’re eating damaged goods, not scraps riddled with saliva and gnaw marks. “Why didn’t they try to get you help?”
“I might not have been receptive to the idea.”
“You? Resistant to help? I can’t fathom.”
Vincent throws his wrapper at me with traces of a smirk. I can tell from the way he’s propped himself up against the tree that he needs this time to relax, to unwind a little and clear his mind before the scary parts, so I keep things light.
“How old is Paige now?”
“Fourteen,” he answers without hesitation, his smirk melting into a thin line. “Probably doesn’t even remember me.”
“I don’t think”—I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder—”you’re the kind of guy someone forgets.”
He shakes his head and draws me closer, burying his face in my hair. “Yeah, well… I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
We finish our secondhand feast and end up snuggled for body heat in the grass. For hours, I lay there, turned away from him, staring into the darkness. You’d think I would pass out the second we stretched out, but I can’t. Something’s off tonight, and it’s not the skunky-sweet herbal notes layering the air.
Vincent’s still awake, too. Despite his weight pressed against my back and the protective arm he’s slung over my chest, I know he’s fighting sleep again. We’ve fallen into some kind of intuitive sync, and to be honest, it’s starting to scare me. We’re getting close—too close to walk away after all of this is done without one of us getting hurt.
Two guesses which one of us that’ll be.
I shouldn’t say that. He’s not the same guy who swiped my ring at the promenade last week. Over the course of our disaster-ridden misadventures, something’s changed in the way he looks at me, the way he touches me. I think that’s what kills me more than anything. After years of emotional complacency, settling for someone I knew didn’t love me because I was afraid to be alone, I’m starting to feel again. And I’m scared shitless.
It could be a rebound. I mean, come on. All this alone time with the tortured stranger who saved my life? It’d be weird if I didn’t form an attachment to him, especially after the… intimate moments we’ve shared. But deep down, where only my exhausted mind dares to wander, I know that’s not true.
Vincent has carved out a place in my heart, whether he wants it or not. If we were to go our separate ways right now, I have a feeling I’d never stop thinking of him. I’d always wonder, always worry…
But until then, I know I need to live in the moment, to breathe in his scent and commit it to memory. Because tomorrow, God help me, I’m going to get this man back to his family. My eyelashes flutter. If I can just get him to them, everything’s going to be okay. We’ll find a way to Bend… then Seattle… then…
I wake up gasping in the chilled, early-morning air.
In the space of a breath, my mind had replaced my musings with its new favorite broken record—a nightmare, twisting memory with creative license. Night after night, I’m swept into the Pacific on the roof that kept me afloat during the tsunami. Vincent’s clinging to debris of his own, just out of reach, and the water pulls him under. He’s gone, and I can’t see the shore anymore. I spend hours out there, aimless and waiting to die.
It sounds ridiculous, but it felt real enough to leave me covered in sweat, Vincent’s t-shirt plastered to my chest. I stretch my legs and roll over in the spiky grass, careful to keep my voice low. “Did you get any sleep without your night-night juice?”
When there’s no response, I stifle a yawn and look around, rubbing my eyes. “Vincent?”
Families around us are already starting to stir, adding the low hum of conversation to nature’s ambience. Knowing Vincent, he probably went to secure our trash breakfast before others get the same idea. God forbid we do things the easy way and ask the volunteers where to go. A small smile tugs at my lips.
Just as I’m about to get up and look for him, someone clears his throat behind me. I whirl to find a mountain of a man sporting a beard and mohawk, leaning against the other side of the tree and smoking a joint. “Save your energy. He’s already gone.”
CHAPTER 20
“Name’s Red,” he tells me, holding out a hand. “You’re Elena?”
“H-How do you know my name?” I give the other trees a quick scan to make sure he doesn’t have buddies lurking around. So help me, if he’s laid one hand on—
“Vincent asked me to keep an eye on you.” He studies me with lowered lids, like I’m going to do a trick. “Said you need to stay here until he gets back. He paid me two hundred dollars to make sure you’re safe.”
“Wait, wait.” I hold up my hands to process the information. “Why would he do that? Where did he go?”
“To find his family.” Red shrugs his massive shoulders, as if it’s all perfectly logical. “He said to tell you not to worry, he’s taking care of it, and he’ll bring them all back here.”
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. I can’t. “No offense, but what made him think you wouldn’t take his money and leave me to fend for myself?”
He screws up his face in contemplation and leans back, wisps curling from his lips. “Well, he did put a gun to my head and said he’d know if I screwed him over, but I didn’t care. What else am I doing today?”
Oh God.
It feels like someone just ripped away my safety blanket and braided a noose from its tatters. At least I had a chance to beg Brent to stay, pathetic as that was, but Vincent just up and left without a word. Why? Was I that much of a hindrance to him?
Bile burns my throat, but I know I have to keep the only nutrients I’ve had in days down.
“Got you a water,” Red goes on, tossing a bottle in my direction. “One of the relief workers came through earlier.”
“Oh, uh… thanks.” I have more questions, but I can’t deny my parched throat. I rip the cap off and drain the whole thing in one go, chugging until water dribbles from the sides of my mouth.
“Thirsty?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Ah.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Me reeling, him lost in a haze. Finally, I break the silence again. “How bad is downtown? I mean, why leave me behind at this point?”
“Maybe he’s sparing you the danger.”
I snort. “Danger’s about the only thing I can count on anymore.”
He gives me the skeptical eye, like I don’t know what I’m talking about, but says nothing.
“Vincent and I made it out of a partially collapsed building after the quake,” I explain. “We survived the tsunami and trekked through the forest. I’ve been threatened, ambushed, and had a rifle to my throat.”
My breaths come hard and fast, now that I think about it all at once. “So if you think the last stretch of this journey scares me because it’s dangerous, you’ve severely misjudged me.”
His eyes are a little wider now—in fact, they’re almost tinged yellow—but his expression remains unreadable. “I want to be in your squad.”
“What the hell’s a squad?” Okay, I’m testy now.
Red’s lips twitch as he takes a hit, barely suppressing his chuckle. “You know, an alpha female’s entourage. Her clique. Girl power and all that.”
“Have you been getting baked and reading Teen Beat this whole time? I don’t have time for this shit.” I stand up and brush my knees off, suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing pants.
“Hold on, wait!” He lumbers to his feet and holds his arms out, like I’m going to run. “Just calm down. I was trying to pay you a compliment. You want a hit or something?”
“Do I want hit?” I repeat, incredulous. “Are you threatening me? ¿Quieres pelea, grandísimo idiota?”
When people turn to stare, he holds his joint up as evidence. “I said a hit! A!”
Since Oregon is a recreational marijuana state, no one pays his outburst any mind—not that this particular use is legal. I, on the other hand, feel like a moron. “Oh, I didn’t… sorry.”
“You know, you scare me.” Red exhales. “But in a cool way. I feel like we’ll be friends.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Thank you?”
“So,” he says, pushing off the tree, “what’s the plan? We chilling here?”
“Do I have a choice?”
I run my hands over my hair and pace the patterned shade. Without Vincent around, I’m reverting into a distorted version of my former self. Half doormat, half man-hater—and I don’t like either. What happened to the strong, capable woman I felt myself blossoming into? Was that evolution all in my head? A glamorized idea of my
self to match Vincent’s intensity?
“Sweetheart, I think you’re getting too much secondhand.” Red takes a hit and shakes his head, backing up. “Do I need to put this out?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? ‘Cause it looks like you’ve got some red-eyed paranoia going on over there, and I know red.”
That last part was intended as a joke, but my mind is racing too much to laugh. If Vincent thinks he’s doing me a favor by letting me sit out the last leg of our journey, he’s failed to factor in my fragile mental state. I’m going to worry and imagine all kinds of unspeakable things until he’s back, and who knows how long that’ll be? I don’t even know how far he’s going.
I clear my throat. “Any idea where Sellwood Middle School is?”
“Probably down across the bridge somewhere. Why?”
“That’s where his family is.”
“Ah.” Red kicks at a stick underfoot and draws a line in the dirt with his Vans. “Thinking of heading that direction?”
“Me? No, I… I mean, wouldn’t that… ?”
He watches me trip over my words with raised brows.
“Wouldn’t Vincent be mad if he went to all of this trouble to keep me safe, and then I rushed headlong into the thick of things? We could miss each other and have no way of meeting up again.”
“So, that’s it. You’re afraid you’ll lose your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Red holds his stomach and saunters off. “Could’ve fooled me the way he was describing you…”
“Wait. What?” He doesn’t stop, so I scramble to catch up. “What did he say?”
Oh, great. He looks like the cat that swallowed a canary… and then smoked his catnip. “You really want to know?”
“No,” I tell him, “I’m just this eager for a walk.”
Red cracks a grin, but before he can reply, something whizzes overhead.
“Oh goodie. More drones.” He gestures upward, craning his neck. “Between them and the news choppers, you’d think they could at least drop some snacks.”
As We Know It Page 18
