I tug on his hoodie sleeve and whisper, “Maybe we should just go.”
He holds up a hand. “One sec.” And then he turns back to Sandy. “What about Paul McCartney?”
She glances over both shoulders again before whispering, “He’s dead.”
“He is?” Nico asks, peering down at the CD on top of the stack. It’s the Let It Be album, where each of the four Beatles are pictured in four corners of a square. “Why didn’t I hear about this? When did he die?”
Sandy looks extremely satisfied to be sharing this news with him. She leans in even closer to Nico. “November 9, 1966.”
“WHAT!?!” Nico screeches, and Sandy quickly shushes him.
“It’s true. He died in a car crash in 1966. MI5, British intelligence, covered up the death to prevent mass suicides by Beatles fans.”
“Then who’s this guy?” Nico asks, pointing to the top right corner of the square on the cover of the CD.
“A double,” Sandy explains.
“Whoa,” Nico says, looking shocked.
“Okay!” I give Nico one final nudge. “Well, we should really get going. Nice doing business with you. Enjoy the phone!”
“Well,” Nico says blithely after we’re back in the Firebird. “That was certainly interesting.”
“That was scary,” I correct.
“Oh, Sandy was harmless.” He flips through the stack of CDs, stopping on the famous Abbey Road album, where all four Beatles are walking through a crosswalk. He brings it up to his face and squints at it. “Huh. Have you ever noticed that Paul is the only one in this picture not wearing shoes?”
“Why were you indulging her?”
Nico opens the compartment in the center console and stores the CDs inside. “You have to admit she was kind of interesting. And I can’t totally disagree about the phone thing.”
“Really? You think the government is listening in on all of our conversations and watching us through our phone cameras.”
“I think someone is listening.”
I pull my darkened phone out of my bag. “Hello,” I whisper to the camera. “Whoever is listening, I’d just like to say for the record that Nico Wright is officially insane.”
Nico grabs the phone and stuffs it facedown under his leg. “Shhh!” he says conspiratorially. “They’ll find us.”
I burst out laughing.
9:32 P.M.
WILLITS, CA
INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($691.10), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), BEATLES CDS (4)
“Hello, knowledge seekers! Linus McKee here. Welcome back to another ‘Everything About Everything’ podcast. In this episode: Where do things go when you delete them?”
The now-familiar opening jingle plays as Nico turns off Highway 20 onto the 101. We have a full tank of gas and a bag full of snacks and are heading north toward Leggett. It feels good to be back on track, traveling in the right direction. But according to Google Maps, we’re still four hours from Crescent City.
“Remember that file you deleted three weeks ago from your computer?” Linus kicks off the episode with another series of thought-provoking questions. “Or that blurry picture you swiped off your phone? Or what about those letters you typed into the keyboard but then backspaced because you thought of a better way to say it? Where are all of those things now? Can you really completely delete something?”
I steal a glance at Nico.
No, I respond silently to Linus. You can’t.
I lean back in my seat and, for the next thirty minutes, listen to Linus McKee explain about deleted files and memory and data pirates who can resurrect shredded hard drives.
“Can you hand me a candy bar?” Nico asks as the episode comes to an end.
“Sure,” I reply, as cordially as I can. I rifle through the bag of snacks Nico picked up at the gas station, finding an impressive variety. “What kind?”
“Dealer’s choice,” he replies.
“Okay.” I find a Milky Way bar, peel the wrapper down like a banana so Nico can eat it while he drives, and hand it to him.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’ve now graduated from small talk to nauseatingly excessive politeness.
I reach into the bag again to find myself a snack, pushing around some of the items, until I come across a mysterious cardboard box. I squint to read the label in the darkness.
“What are Sea-Bands?” I ask Nico.
“Oh, right. I forgot I bought those. They’re motion sickness bands. I was telling the cashier at the gas station that you got carsick on Highway 1, and he told me to try these. Apparently, you wear them on your wrists, and they have little balls that push against your pressure points. I don’t know. They’re supposed to help with car sickness.”
Of course he would have a whole conversation with the cashier in the three minutes he was inside the gas station. And of course he would remember I was carsick on Highway 1 and try to help.
Still the Fixer.
Why does he make it so hard to stay mad at him?
I blink and glance up at him. I have no idea what kind of expression is on my face right now—gratitude, pain, more confusion—but Nico says, “Look, I don’t know if they really work, but they’re worth a try. They can’t hurt, right?”
I swallow. “Right. Thanks.”
Nico makes it through another hour of driving before he starts to yawn.
“We might need to stop. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open.”
I cringe. I knew this moment would come eventually, but I’d sort of been avoiding thinking about it since we turned around. Avoiding thinking about the fact that I don’t have the thirty-two thousand dollars that I thought I’d have by tonight. I can’t afford to rent us two hotel rooms.
Which means . . .
“We should probably find a place to sleep,” Nico says.
I stare through the windshield at the darkened sky. The stars are brilliant and white. His statement hangs in the air like a challenge.
My mouth goes dry. “Yes. Sleep.”
His gaze darts over to meet mine before quickly returning to the road. We both fall silent. We’ve reached a stalemate, sinking back into the large, shadowy pit.
Nico is the first to break the silence. “Wanna look for a . . .” He seems to swallow up the next word, like he’s trying to bury it. “Hotel?”
I clear my throat as I reach for his phone and unlock the screen. “Yes. Sure. I’ll look.”
While waiting for the GPS to find us on the map, I glance at Nico again. He has one hand on the wheel, and the other is rubbing anxiously against his jeans.
Are his palms sweating?
Google Maps places us about ten miles south of Garberville, where there’s a hotel that looks clean and safe.
“Can you make it another ten miles?” I ask.
“Yeah. What did you find?”
“A Best Western. It should be right off the 101. It’s nothing special, but it’ll get the job done.”
“The job?” Nico asks, and I’m grateful for the darkness in this car, because I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.
“I—I mean—” I stammer, but Nico just laughs.
“Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”
Even though he can’t see the pink in my cheeks, I still turn and face out the window again, praying to the almighty god of breakups that this hotel at least has a room with two beds.
The first time I slept next to Nico was the night of the huge January rainstorm. I was working at Chateau Marmutt for the night. All of the dogs were on edge because of the thunder. Normally I spent the few first hours of my shift finishing homework and making rounds to check on the dogs. But not tonight. They were way too riled up for me to get any work done. It was nine o’clock at night, and I’d just finished my third rotation around the kennels, cooing and reassuring everyone that it was okay. I was here. And the thunder couldn’t hurt them. But no one seemed reassured. I’d never heard so much crying and
whimpering and pawing to get out. It was breaking my heart.
That’s when Nico’s text came. Syncing up ominously to a giant clap of thunder.
Nico: This is one hell of a storm. Are you somewhere safe?
I would later come to learn this was a very Nico thing to write. He was always concerned with my safety.
I texted back.
Me: Yes. I’m safe. I’m at work.
A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and I silently counted the seconds.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three—
Thunder crashed, shaking the room. The storm was less than three miles away. The dogs were howling. And yet, I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
Nico: Where’s work?
Me: Chateau Marmutt in Santa Rosa.
Nico: ???
Me: It’s a pet hotel. I get paid to spend the night with the dogs.
Nico: Is that a form of canine prostitution?
I burst out laughing, startling Pixie, a white Maltipoo whose kennel I was standing directly in front of. She yelped and ran to the corner, quivering.
“Oh, Pixie. I’m sorry. Come here.” I opened the kennel and scooped Pixie into my arms. “You can help me make my rounds, okay?” She seemed to calm down almost immediately. The problem was, as soon as Chew Barka, Pixie’s pug neighbor, saw me holding Pixie, he started to whine and yelp and paw at the latch of his kennel, wanting to be held too.
“Well, I can’t hold both of you at the same time,” I told Chew Barka. Chew Barka didn’t seem to understand this logic. He yapped and yapped, pawing so hard at the latch that I was afraid he might break a nail and start bleeding.
I sighed. “Okay, okay.” I took him out of his kennel too.
With a pup under each arm, I couldn’t read my phone when it dinged again. So I carried Pixie and Chew Barka into the sleeping suite and sat down on the bed. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to see Nico had texted again.
Nico: Uh-oh. Did I offend you with the canine prostitution comment?
I laughed and immediately sent a reply.
Me: No. Sorry. I couldn’t text. Hands were occupied.
Nico: WHAT KIND OF JOB IS THIS?
I grinned, trying to come up with a flirty response, but Pixie and Chew Barka were climbing all over me, begging to be cuddled, and the dogs in the kennels were still howling. My creativity seemed to be left outside in the rain.
Me: I assure you, it’s perfectly legit. I’m here for emotional support only. So the dogs don’t get scared.
Nico’s creativity, on the other hand, was perfectly dry and functional.
Nico: What if I get scared?
I bit my lip as I responded.
Me: ARE you scared?
Nico: Maybe.
My stomach flipped with anticipation.
Nico: I’m more concerned with this so-called “legit” establishment you’re working at. I think I might need to check it out for myself.
The grin on my face was now the size of the moon. I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop thinking, This is it, isn’t it? This is the kind of feeling they write poems and songs about. This is what I’ve been missing out on my whole life.
It wasn’t as though I purposefully avoided relationships; I had simply known every single boy in our school since we were in kindergarten. I’d had plenty of time to decide whether or not any of them were datable. And I’d decided they weren’t.
And then Nico moved to town.
He was different.
He was exciting.
He was new.
And there was something about his newness that made me bold. That made me throw all my fears about high school relationships out the window, into the storm. There was something about his natural confidence that turned my natural caution into a chaotic pile of mush.
It’s the only explanation for what I texted next:
Me: 7787 Pacific Ave.
By the time Nico arrived at Chateau Marmutt, the storm (and the dogs) had gotten worse. He must have thought he’d arrived at a canine insane asylum with all that whining and whimpering. The ones who weren’t pacing anxiously in their kennels were curled up in the corners shaking.
But if he was at all put off by it, he didn’t let on. In fact, he barely even flinched when I let him in the back door with Pixie and Chew Barka in my arms. He just glanced around the kennel room with an interested expression and said, “So this is where you work?”
I laughed. “It’s not always like this. It’s the storm.”
He nodded like he understood.
“Do you have a dog?”
“No,” he said, so quickly it startled me. Then, upon seeing my reaction, he went on, “I mean, yes. Once. A long time ago. But it didn’t work out.”
I frowned. “Oh, did you have to put him down?”
He seemed to fall into a daydream for a moment before shaking his head and saying, “No, we had to give him away.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Already I could feel the energy between us turning awkward. I shifted Pixie and Chew Barka in my arms. They were getting heavy. Another clap of thunder struck a moment later, and the dogs started howling again, effectively ending the awkward silence. Nico walked over to the nearest kennel and peered inside at Charlie, the Cavalier King Charles spaniel, with pity in his eyes. “Poor little guy.”
Charlie was standing next to the latch, panting wildly.
“I’ve been doing my best to calm them,” I explained. “Walking around, talking to them. But they don’t like being locked up during the storm.”
“Then why don’t we let them out?” he suggested.
I bit my lip. I’d thought about it. But the problem was, I had no idea where they’d all go. During the day, they play outside, but I knew that putting them out there would only freak them out more.
“I’m not really supposed to let them out at night. Except the ones who have sleeping-suite status.”
Nico blinked like he’d misheard me. “Excuse me? What status?”
I chuckled. “Sleeping suite. Some of the owners pay extra for their dogs to stay overnight in the sleeping suite with me.”
“This sounds like a very elitist system.”
I laughed. “It is! I always feel so bad for the others.”
“The peasant dogs, you mean?”
“Yeah. They clearly want to sleep with me but—”
“Naturally,” Nico interrupted. “I mean, who wouldn’t?”
I tried to slug him, but my arms were full of dog and I nearly dropped Pixie. She whined and clawed at my shirt.
“Here,” Nico said, taking her from me and tucking her adeptly under one arm, like he’d done this a million times. Then he turned the other arm toward me. “Now you can hit me.”
I smirked. “Never mind. The moment is gone.”
At first Pixie looked a little freaked out to be held by a stranger, but I guess she figured it was better than being put back in her kennel, so she settled into Nico’s arms and seemed to relax.
The sight of him with a Maltipoo tucked under his arm like a fluffy white purse made me laugh.
“What?” Nico asked, feigning confusion.
I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just, I don’t know. You don’t seem like a Maltipoo type of guy.”
“And what kind of guy do I seem like?”
I paused, seizing this rare opportunity to outwardly study him. I took in his soft cheeks and strong jaw, his longish dark blond hair that swooped over his forehead and tickled the tops of his ears. I ran my gaze over his thick eyebrows, the sprinkling of freckles over his nose and under his eyes. I wanted to stare at him forever. And in that moment, I felt like I could stare at him forever.
But then he said, “Well?” and I knew my free pass was expired.
“A Newfoundland,” I decided confidently.
“A what?”
“A Newfoundland. Sometimes called a ‘Newfie.’ ”
“I’ve never h
eard of that dog.”
“Oh, they’re great. Really friendly. And optimistic. They make great family dogs. Although they do drool a lot.”
Nico stared at me as though he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He started walking up the aisle of kennels. “Okay, I gotta see one of these Newfer-wafer things for myself.”
“Newfoundlands,” I corrected with a laugh.
“Is that one?” he asked, pointing to Howie, who looked up expectantly at him, hoping to be let out.
“That’s a beagle,” I said.
“What about that one?” He pointed to the kennel next to Howie.
“And that’s a labradoodle.”
Just then, lightning streaked across the sky, momentarily lighting up the darkened kennel room. I started to count.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississi—
The thunder crashed less than two miles away. Howie let out a pitiful howl of fear. Pixie nearly crawled down the neckline of Nico’s shirt.
“It’s getting closer,” I said, glancing anxiously around at the dogs who had all started to pace and whine again.
“That’s it,” Nico said. “We’re bringing down this elitist system once and for all. Everyone is coming into the sleeping suite.”
“Uh—” I stammered. “There’s twenty-five dogs here. The sleeping suite was designed to fit five . . . plus one person.”
Nico pointed to Howie, who was now staring at us through the bars of his kennel, his wide eyes pleading. “Are you really going to say no to that?”
Twenty minutes later, we’d somehow managed to cram every single dog—plus the two of us—into the sleeping suite. The twelve-by-twelve-foot room smelled like fish breath and farts. But the dogs seemed happy. They were all still panting from the stress of the storm, but the howling and pacing had stopped. Probably because there was nowhere to pace. We had squeezed in as many dog beds as we could, and still the dogs were practically on top of each other. Nico and I lay on the single bed with Pixie, Chew Barka, Charlie, and one giant Great Pyrenees named Marshmallow, who was pretty much the size of a polar bear.
“Tell me more about these Newfandangos,” Nico said, his eyes locked on mine. His nose was inches away. We were sharing the same pillow, and our bodies were crammed so close together I was practically on top of him.
The Geography of Lost Things Page 12
