The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  I snorted out a laugh. “Repeat after me,” I said. “New . . .”

  “New . . . ,” he said diligently.

  “Fin . . .”

  “Fin . . .”

  “Land . . .”

  “Land . . .”

  “Newfoundland.”

  “Newfarklehead,” Nico said.

  “You’re doing that on purpose.”

  His smile grew. “I just like watching you say it.”

  “What? Newfoundland?”

  He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment I was able to stare at his long eyelashes. “Mmm. So sexy.”

  And even though I laughed, I couldn’t help but think, Yes. So sexy.

  So dangerous.

  I swallowed hard, trying to remember every fact I knew about Newfoundlands.

  “They’re very friendly and loyal. Great with kids. But they need lots of exercise,” I began, and Nico’s eyes fluttered open. He remained quiet, listening intently. “They’re excellent swimmers. Very strong.”

  “Strong,” Nico repeated, in an overly macho voice. “That’s obviously why you thought of me.”

  “No,” I corrected. “I thought of you because they’re giant goofballs.”

  “Like me?” Nico confirmed.

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t really know you all that well yet.”

  Nico smiled, but he didn’t respond right away. He just continued to look at me, those small blue-gray eyes staring intensely into mine. “I think you should,” he finally said.

  “Should what?”

  “Know me.”

  There was a gravity to his words. A heaviness that made me feel like something was cracking open. To this day, I couldn’t tell you if it was me or if it was him. Maybe we both broke open a little bit that night. Maybe we both had every intention of staying open. Of continuing to crack wider and wider until there was nothing left of our protective shells but dust.

  “Maybe I should,” I replied softly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of lightning. My back was to the window, but I silently started counting.

  One Missi—

  BOOM!

  The storm was right over us now. We were trapped beneath it. All twenty-seven bodies stuck in this room. Pixie whimpered and climbed over my hip, burrowing herself between us, pushing us a few more inches apart. Like a chaperone at a middle school dance, making sure we didn’t get too close.

  But it was too late for that. We were already too close.

  My heart was already too open.

  And Nico had already climbed inside and made himself at home.

  That night was the start of so much. We crashed together like the charged particles of air crashing outside in the storm. We collided fast and so furiously, there was nothing to stop us. We were helpless. We were useless. We were just along for the ride.

  Nico didn’t go home that night. He stayed with me—with us—until morning. Until light streamed in through the windows and the rain slowed to a gentle drizzle.

  I made sure to kick him out before Pam, the owner of the pet hotel, arrived. I didn’t know what the policy was about overnight visitors in the sleeping suite, but I didn’t exactly want to find out the hard way.

  After putting all the dogs back in their kennels—except Pixie, who cried when I tried to put her down—I walked Nico out to his truck. He opened the door and then turned back to me with an urgency in his eyes, like he wanted to say something. Like he wanted to tell me all of his secrets.

  But instead, he put one hand behind my head, pulled me toward him, and kissed me.

  Right there in the parking lot of Chateau Marmutt, with raindrops falling quietly between us, and Pixie still tucked in my arm. He kissed me like a conversation. A heated dialogue. Every spark that had passed between us with words was intensified by a thousand without those words.

  It was the first of many kisses. Seemingly endless kisses. More than I could ever count. But it was the one that counted.

  “Can I see you later?” he asked as he pulled away and reached out to give Pixie a quick scratch under the chin.

  “Who? Me? Or Pixie?”

  Nico laughed. “Whichever of you wants to see me more.”

  It was a challenge; I knew that. It was a request for validation. Nico never struck me as the kind of person who needed assurance. He always seemed so confident. So incapable of vulnerability.

  And yet, there he was.

  Standing in front of me.

  Vulnerable.

  “That would be me,” I said. “And yes, you can see me later.”

  He kissed me again and then left. As I watched his truck drive down the driveway, the buoyant smile returned to my face. The one my mother would later ask me about. The one I would study in the mirror for days to come, trying to figure out where it had been all this time.

  11:02 P.M.

  GARBERVILLE, CA

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($570.89), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), BEATLES CDS (4)

  Nico and I stand in the middle of the small rustic-themed hotel room and stare at the single king bed in front of us, like we’re two lone rangers starting down the incoming cavalry.

  The god of breakups—if he even exists—sure has a warped sense of humor.

  When we arrived at the front desk, there was only one room left. And, of course, it only had one bed. I considered walking right back to the car and telling Nico he’d simply have to stay awake. I’d pump him with as much coffee as it took to get to the next town. But he was already looking worse for the wear, yawning every few seconds and blinking rapidly to keep from falling asleep at the wheel.

  “You can take the bed,” Nico finally says. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  I know common decency and politeness tell me that I should reject the offer. No, Nico. Don’t be silly. We’ll share the bed.

  But I’m no longer living by the rules of common decency. I’m living by Ali and Nico’s Rules of the Road, which clearly state:

  9. YOU MAY ABSOLUTELY NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, SHARE A BED!

  “Okay,” I say quietly, and drop my backpack on the comforter. “Thanks.”

  Nico and I don’t utter a single word as we get ready for bed. It’s almost as though we’ve turned into an old married couple, moving silently around each other, anticipating each other’s movements, giving each other space.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Nico has already pulled the spare blanket and pillow from the closet and made himself a makeshift bed on the floor. He’s lying on his side, the covers pulled up to his chin.

  Guilt twists my stomach. Can I really let him sleep on the floor? After all, he’s the one who has to do all the driving. Should I let him sleep in the bed with me?

  But then I notice his long-sleeve T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans hanging over the wooden chair in the corner, and by process of elimination I deduce that he’s only wearing his boxers under that blanket. And that’s when my heart practically shouts the answer back at me.

  No, you should NOT.

  I quickly climb into the bed and switch off the bedside lamp, plunging the entire room into an uncomfortable darkness.

  There’s no storm tonight. Not like that night at Chateau Marmutt. But the wind is harsh and relentless. Beating ferociously against the sliding glass door, demanding to be let in. I can’t help but wonder if it’s an omen. Like a neighbor wildly banging at your door to warn you about an incoming tornado. Quick! Get to safety!

  Under any other circumstances this would be romantic: a cozy little hotel room in the middle of nowhere, the wind howling, our breaths practically synchronized.

  But we’re not under any other circumstance.

  We’re under this circumstance.

  So it’s torture.

  There’s just something about Nico’s presence. I’m acutely aware of it. Like he’s messing with gravity and the entire room is tilted toward him.

  I reach up to adjust the four pillows behind my head, and the guilt immed
iately returns, this time hitting me like a truck.

  “Here,” I say, pulling two of the pillows out. “You should take these.” I climb to the side of the bed and peer over the edge at Nico. He blinks up at me in the darkness.

  “Thanks.” He sits up to grab the pillows, and that’s when I realize my mistake. The blanket falls to his waist, revealing his bare chest and stomach. I suddenly feel like the bed has dropped out from under me.

  There’s absolutely no reason to believe that Nico’s body would have changed in the one month since we broke up, but the sight of his lean, toned muscles still startles me. There was a time I used to get lost in those curves, running my fingertips around their smooth edges.

  He catches my eye, and I swallow and force myself to look away. There can be no eye contact right now. This room is already too small. This situation is already too intimate. Adding eye contact would be like striking a match near a puddle of spilled gasoline.

  Dangerous and stupid.

  Because we both know what a little eye contact in the dark can do. We were both there that night. Crammed onto the single bed in the sleeping suite at Chateau Marmutt, staring into each other’s eyes while lightning veined through the sky and thunder crashed.

  I hastily scramble back up and settle under the covers. I lie in the darkness and listen to Nico’s soft breaths, the hum of the air-conditioning, the squeak of the bed every time I so much as twitch.

  There’s no getting comfortable in this room.

  It’s too dark.

  The sound of Nico’s breathing is too loud.

  The air feels too hot and stuffy.

  I gather my hair atop my head and go to secure it with the rubber band around my wrist, before remembering that it’s gone. Nico traded it with that woman on the beach for the old cell phone.

  And then suddenly, all I can think about is the way Nico’s hand felt on my wrist as he pushed up my sleeve.

  “Nico?”

  I can hear shifting on the floor, Nico also trying in vain to get comfortable. “Yeah?”

  “How did you know I’d have a rubber band?”

  There’s a moment of silence and then, “What?”

  “You saw that woman on the beach who needed the hair band and you immediately reached for my wrist. How did you know it would be there?”

  “You always wear a hair band around your wrist,” he replies as though this is the obvious, most innocent answer in the world.

  Except while it might be obvious, it’s not innocent.

  “You remember that?” I ask, feeling my throat tighten. I roll over onto my right side and brave a glance in his direction. And that’s when I see it. A flash of white. Two blue-gray gemstones in the darkness. Nico’s eyes a mere five feet away, looking at me, searching for me.

  I’m right here.

  “I remember,” he whispers.

  I shiver. Because the room has gone from hot and stuffy to freezing cold in an instant.

  “Ali,” Nico says a moment later. There’s something about his voice that sounds tentative. Cautious.

  “Yeah?”

  “About that night . . .”

  My teeth start to chatter, and I cross my arms, trying to stay warm.

  “Are you cold?” Nico asks.

  “Yeah.”

  The blue-gray stones disappear, retreating back into the darkness. Then I hear him moving again, the sound of bare feet padding on carpet. I see a flash of movement—Nico’s half naked body darting through the room—and I close my eyes tight.

  A moment later, I hear the hum of the heater turn on, followed by more rustling on the floor.

  “I turned on the heat,” Nico says.

  Always the Fixer.

  Always the protector.

  Great in a crisis.

  I wait for Nico to continue whatever he was about to say.

  About that night . . .

  Which night was he talking about? Which night was he thinking about? That first night we slept side by side? At Chateau Marmutt? Or that last night? In his truck? With the comet of doom streaking the sky above our heads? The one that started us? Or the one that ended us?

  Something tells me it was the second.

  But he doesn’t continue where he left off. The cabin remains silent save for the quiet purring of the heater and the owls hooting outside. And, as the warm air from the vents covers my skin like a blanket, chasing the goose bumps away, I fall asleep, wondering if I’ll ever know what Nico has to say about that night.

  SATURDAY

  She keeps her distance

  She knows this world’s not safe

  It’s full of minefields

  She won’t go down that way

  —“Numb,” from the album Salvage Lot by Fear Epidemic

  Written by Nolan Cook, Slate Miller, Chris McCaden, and Adam French

  Released February 20, 2009

  8:32 A.M.

  REDWOOD HIGHWAY

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($570.89), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), BEATLES CDS (4)

  Miraculously, Nico wakes up to a response to his updated Craigslist post. Someone in Fortuna, about fifty miles north of here, wants to trade the Beatles CDs for a fifty-dollar gift card to Tomato and Vine, one of the most popular Italian restaurant chains in the country. This puts Nico in an insufferably good mood.

  All I wake up to is a text from my mother, asking how the packing is going. I text her back and tell her I’m “almost there.” It’s only partially a lie. We are almost there. Just not to where she thinks.

  Nico and I grab some muffins, fruit, and coffee from the breakfast buffet at the hotel and check out. We’re both anxious to hit the road, although admittedly for very different reasons. I’m eager to finally get up to Crescent City and ditch this car, while Nico is eager make his next trade.

  As soon as we’re back in the Firebird, I slide on my Sea-Bands—which, it turns out, are pretty magical—and cue up another episode of the podcast. “I think this one is about fonts,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Today is a new day. We only have a few more hours left together before we’re on a bus home to Russellville. I’m determined not to let Nico get to me today.

  Nico straightens up in his seat, giving the steering wheel a firm pat. “Bring it, Linus. Tell me everything there is to know about Times New Roman.”

  “You know, I’ve always been more of an Arial type of girl.”

  Nico scoffs. “Arial is the dullest font there is.”

  “It is not! And I’m not dull.”

  “I didn’t say you were dull. I said your choice of font was dull.”

  “So what’s your favorite font?” I challenge.

  “Comic Sans,” he says proudly. “Because I’m hi-larious.”

  I grunt. “Yeah. Right. If anything, you’re Edwardian Script. Cheesy and over-the-top.”

  Nico feigns offense. “Fine. Then you’re Pristina. Overly pretentious.”

  “I am so not pretentious,” I argue.

  Nico sighs. “Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t think of any other fonts.”

  I laugh. “Maybe I should just play the episode.”

  As Nico and I listen to the history of fonts—which is actually more interesting than it sounds—I stare out the window at the passing scenery. We head into the Humboldt Redwoods State Park, and the road becomes heavily wooded, the massive trees rising on either side of us like fortress walls. According to a sign we pass, we’re officially on the Redwood Highway.

  “I’ve never seen redwoods,” I say to Nico as the episode comes to a close.

  Nico’s face scrunches up. “Is that a font?”

  “No. They’re really huge trees.”

  “I know what redwoods are.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. You looked really confused there for a moment.”

  “Only because you suck at making segues.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry. Let me try again.” I clear my throat theatrically. “So, Nico. What a lovely episode about fonts that was. I
particularly enjoyed the part about the history of Bookman Old Style, and how it’s meant to look like fonts used in old books. Speaking of things made from trees, I’ve never seen the redwoods. Have you?”

  He laughs and plays along. “What a fantastic conversationalist you are. In fact, I have seen the redwoods. Once.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, sounding overly interested. “When was that?”

  The playful expression falls right off Nico’s face. He tries to resurrect it a moment later, covering the transition with a sip of water from his bottle, but I see the gap. “When we drove out from Reno.”

  My stomach tightens. It’s the first time he’s really even mentioned Reno since we started dating. I used to notice that he never brought it up. And the one time I casually mentioned it, he quickly changed the subject. I just assumed he had a girlfriend back there that he wanted to forget, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to remind him of that. So I never mentioned it again. But here he is, openly mentioning his past life. I want so badly to ask questions, find out more about why they’d move from a big, exciting city like Reno to a sleepy little town like Russellville. But for some reason, his brief mention of his past life doesn’t feel like an open invitation to ask questions. It doesn’t feel like a welcome mat. Come inside! Make yourself at home, Ali!

  So I click another podcast at random and press play.

  Thirty minutes later we arrive at a thift shop in Fortuna called Second Chances. It’s owned by Vick Leeman, who wants to trade the Beatles CD for the gift card because apparently his new girlfriend is obsessed with the Beatles and he’s trying to educate himself.

  “Also,” Vick says as he hands over the Tomato and Vine gift card, “she can’t stand corporate restaurants. So this doesn’t do me much good.”

  As Nico takes the card, my gaze falls on the familiar logo on the front—a bright red tomato with a grapevine tangled around it—and I have to shut my eyes against the incoming tidal wave of memories from the last time I ever went to a Tomato and Vine. One week before Jackson left to join the band on tour.

  Nico thanks Vick for the exchange and immediately updates his Craigslist post with the new item. We walk back out to the parking lot, and I wait for Nico to unlock the car, but something seems to have caught his eye. “How about a quick pit stop?”