“Like a relationship,” I say quietly, causing Emily to stop her search and peer over at me.
“Yes, exactly.” She glances in the direction of the bathroom. “What’s the story there? The Craigslist post said something about the two of you being exes.”
I nod. “Yeah. We broke up a little over a month ago.”
“So what the hell are you doing on a road trip with him?”
I laugh. “I ask myself the same question every five minutes. I’m trying to earn enough money to save my house. The bank is foreclosing on it.”
She winces. “I’m sorry.”
I’m actually surprised at how easy it was to tell her that. I haven’t told anyone about the foreclosure except June and Nico, and this woman is a perfect stranger. Somehow, though, I just feel comfortable talking to her. Maybe because she’s a perfect stranger.
“Thanks,” I say. “I thought I was going to be able to sell this old car my dad left me when he died, but it turned out not to be worth as much as I thought. So Nico is helping me trade up to something worth enough money to get the bank off our backs.”
Emily frowns. “Why is he doing that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he want to get back together?”
I shake my head, thinking of all the glares and underhanded jabs Nico has thrown at me since the start of this trip. “No. I really don’t think so.”
“Then why would he go through all that trouble?”
“I’m paying him.”
Emily stares at me for a long moment and then bursts out laughing. It’s a deep belly laugh that suddenly makes me sorry I did open up to her.
“What?” I ask.
“No, that’s definitely not the reason.”
I gape at her. “How do you know?”
But she doesn’t answer that question. “Why did you two break up?”
I sigh. “It’s a long story.”
She tilts her head, studying me, and for a moment I think she’s going to ask me to rehash the whole story—the night of the comet, the text messages, the glove box—but instead she asks, “You know what the biggest complaint is that I get from readers of my romance novels?”
I shrug. “Um, too much sex?”
She shakes her head.
“Not enough sex?”
She laughs again. “Definitely not that.”
“I give up.”
“Unrealistic heroes.”
I squint, confused. “What do you mean?”
“People claim that guys like the ones I write about in my books don’t really exist. There’s no such man. No one would ever do the kind of things my characters do, go to the kind of lengths they go to. My response to those comments is always the same.” Emily scoops up a pile of used tissues, frowning when she still can’t locate her keys.
“What’s that?” I prompt.
“I tell them that men like that do exist. They’re just rare. That’s why I write about them.” She nods in the direction of the bathroom again. “If he’s still around after all of this, if he’s really willing to go the lengths he’s gone to help you, it’s not for money.”
I snort. “What else could it be for?”
Emily stuffs her hands into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulls out a key chain. “Aha!” She grabs her bag and starts for the front of the bar.
“What else could it be for?” I call after her, this time more insistently.
She stops and turns around, looking bewildered, like she forgot what we were talking about just a second ago. Then she blinks and focuses on me. “I’m just saying, maybe you should take a second look at that ‘long story’ you mentioned. It might be due for a revision.”
After a dockside brunch with some very chatty sea lions (who reminded Nico of some of the girls who used to sit next to our table in the cafeteria), we walk back to the Firebird.
It didn’t take us long to find a taker for the tablet. In fact, it’s proven to be our most popular item yet. Within twenty minutes of updating our post during brunch, Nico had five offers in his inbox. We chose to accept the one from a travel blogger named Kamil who lives 190 miles north of Bandon in Tillamook, Oregon, where the famous cheese is made. According to Kamil’s e-mail, he’s leaving on a yearlong trip around the world and needs a nice compact computer to take with him. He’s offering to trade us his entire season of Seattle Seahawk tickets (two seats!), since he won’t be around for this year’s football season.
“It should only be another ninety minutes to Tillamook,” I tell Nico as we reach the car. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. The day has continued to heat up, and now it feels like it’s almost a hundred degrees outside.
When Nico doesn’t respond to my comment, I look up to see he’s not even focused on me. Something behind me has caught his attention.
“What?” I ask.
His face breaks into a wide grin. “Is that a Newfoundland?”
I roll my eyes as I turn around. “For the last time, not every single dog we come across is a—” But I’m cut off when I see what Nico is looking at. Sure enough, farther down the street, tied up outside a candy store, is a very large, very black, very fluffy, and very hot Newfoundland.
The dog’s tongue is hanging out the side of his mouth, and he looks like he might pass out at any moment.
“He’s cute!” Nico exclaims at the same time that I yell out, “He’s overheated!”
“What?” Nico asks, but I’m already dashing down the street toward the dog.
I hold out my hand cautiously toward the dog’s nose. When I’m certain he’s not going to bite me, I reach for his mouth and pull up his lip to reveal his gums. Sure enough, they’re dry and blue.
“What are you doing?” someone asks, and I look up to see a young woman walking out of the candy shop, her gaze darting between me and the dog.
“Your dog is dehydrated,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen. “What? How do you know that?”
I show her the gums. “See that color? That’s not a good sign.”
The woman gives me a concerned once-over. “Are you a vet or something?”
“Not yet,” Nico chimes in, giving me a pointed look.
I shoo him away. “I work with dogs. You need to get him home right away and soak his paws in cold water. It’s the fastest way to cool him down.”
The woman glances anxiously up the street. “My car is parked a few blocks away. Would you mind waiting with him?”
I nod. “Sure.”
The woman hurries away, and I turn to Nico. “Can you go inside and see if they have some water for him to drink?”
“On it,” Nico says, disappearing inside the candy shop and reappearing less than a minute later with two overflowing paper cups. We tip one toward the dog, and he eagerly laps up the water, finishing it off quickly before turning toward the second cup.
“So,” Nico says, jutting his chin toward the water-guzzling dog. “This is the famous Newfoundland. You really think I look like that?”
As if sensing that we’re talking about him, the dog stops drinking and looks up at us, his tongue still hanging clumsily out of his mouth.
I give him a scratch under the chin. “Yup. You’re definitely a Newfie.”
Nico studies the dog, a look of mock disapproval on his face. Just then, a huge pile of drool drips from the dog’s mouth, making a large splash on the pavement by Nico’s feet. I stifle a laugh.
“That’s cool,” Nico says with a nonchalant shrug. “I bet these dogs are really good kissers.”
12:07 P.M.
HIGHWAY 101
INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($345.12), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), USELESS PHOTOGRAPH (1), SURFACE PRO TABLET (1)
It’s a four-hour drive from Bandon to Tillamook, but the day is way too hot to put the top down. So Nico blasts the Firebird’s air-conditioning, I slip on my Sea-Bands, and, with a full tank of gas, we set off again, filling the drive with more episodes
of Everything About Everything.
Our route takes us through countless more trees, the Oregon sand dunes, and several state parks. The scenery out the window is breathtaking. Towering, rocky cliffs plunging toward the sea on one side of the car and thick green forest on the other. As though this part of the planet was having an identity crisis when the earth was being formed and couldn’t decide whether it wanted to become an ocean or a forest.
“Keep your eyes open,” Nico says after another episode comes to a close. “We’re officially in the Pacific Northwest now. This is prime Bigfoot country.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe there are people out there who actually believe in Bigfoot.”
Nico scoffs. “You don’t believe in Bigfoot. That’s like saying you don’t believe in oxygen.”
“You don’t believe in oxygen. It’s just there.”
“Exactly,” Nico says.
I stare at him, agape. “Wait, you’re kidding, right?”
“About what?”
“You believe in Bigfoot?”
He steers the car around a sharp turn. “Like you said, you don’t believe in Bigfoot. He’s just there.”
I scoff. “Stop messing with me.”
“I’m not messing with you. Why would I joke about a giant, hairy half-man-half-beast?”
“Um, maybe because he’s not real,” I say.
Nico pretends like he’s choking on something. “Not. Real? Of course he’s real!”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Have you ever seen oxygen?”
I throw my hands up. “That’s completely different.”
“How?”
“Well, for starters, you can see oxygen molecules under a microscope.”
“So? People have seen Bigfoot in the woods.”
“You’re starting to sound a lot like our friend Sandy back in Fort Bragg.”
“There are photographs.”
“That are clearly Photoshopped. People haven’t seen Bigfoot in the woods. People have claimed to have seen Bigfoot in the woods.”
Nico seems undeterred by my logic. “Maybe those scientists are only claiming to see oxygen molecules under a microscope.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” I’m still unable to believe where this conversation is going. I keep waiting for Nico to flash that infamous smirk of his to let me know that he’s kidding. But he doesn’t. He’s being perfectly serious. How, after dating him for three months, are there still things about him that I don’t know? For our entire relationship all we seemed to do was talk and drive and kiss. And yet, somehow, out of all those hours of talking, we never made it to the topic of Bigfoot? I thought we’d covered all topics under the sun. But apparently not.
The sun, as it turns out, is huge. And there are infinite topics hiding underneath it. Things you’d never even thought to ask.
“I’m just saying,” Nico goes on, “no one believed that the giant squid was real until one washed up onto shore. One of these days a giant Sasquatch is going to be found dead in someone’s backyard, and then all of you skeptics are going to be like, ‘Ooh, um, yeah, sorry about that, I guess we were wrong. Derp. Derp. Derp.’ ”
I laugh aloud at his impersonation. “Is that what skeptics sound like? Like the bumbling Swedish chef from the Muppets?”
“Yes,” Nico maintains.
“So, you’re saying that after all of these years, even though every inch of this planet has been explored and no one has ever come up with undeniable proof that Bigfoot exists, you still think he does?”
“You really think we’ve explored every inch of this planet?”
I balk. “Well, no. Not every inch. I just think if he’s out there, we would have seen him by now. Someone would have captured him in a picture that doesn’t look like a grainy, Photoshopped tabloid magazine photo.”
Nico shakes his head, making a tsk sound with his tongue.
“What?”
“I just think it’s sad.”
I cross my arms. “What is?”
“That you’re so unwilling to trust in something you’ve never seen.”
The comment stings, and I can feel an argument sneaking up on us. “Let’s just listen to another podcast,” I suggest, scrolling through Nico’s phone. “Here’s an interesting one. We can learn about how Stockholm syndrome works.”
Nico hesitates. “I think I’m learned out for the moment.”
“Oh, okay. Do you want me to find another podcast?”
“How about a personality quiz? Do you still do those?”
I feel my muscles involuntarily seize up.
“Sometimes,” I say. It’s the understatement of the century. The truth is, I don’t just do personality quizzes. I live for them.
“Got any good ones?”
I force out a laugh. “Feeling the need to define yourself?”
“Always.”
I click off the podcast app and navigate to my favorite quiz website. Seeing all the new quizzes that have been added brings me an instant wave of comfort. With my phone data hovering between low and nonexistent, I haven’t had a chance to visit the site since we left.
“Okay,” I say, scanning the list. “How about ‘Which Disney Prince Are You?’ ”
“Sounds good.”
I click the quiz and read the first question. “What is your best physical trait?”
“That’s easy. Hair.”
I groan. “I haven’t even read the answers yet.”
And the answer is your eyes, I add silently in my head.
“Fine,” Nico allows. “Go ahead.”
“Eyes, chin, hair—”
“Hair!”
I chuckle and tick the box. “Okay. What is your idea of a perfect day? Hiking in nature, combing the seven seas hunting down pirates, riding your horse looking for damsels in distress, running cons on royalty—”
“That one,” Nico decides.
I snort. “Why am I not surprised?”
After eight more questions, I hit submit, and the site spits out Nico’s result.
“You got Flynn Rider.”
“Which one’s he?”
“From Tangled.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The Rapunzel story.”
“Which one’s Rapunzel?”
I sigh. “The one with the long hair.”
“How long is the hair?”
I glance at him to confirm that he’s messing with me. “Let’s find you another quiz.” I swipe through the list. “How about ‘Which Summer Crush Song Are You?’ Or maybe ‘Which Crusade of Kings Character Are You?’ Or how about—”
“Do you remember that first quiz we took?” he interrupts me.
I swallow. “Which one?”
Even though I know which one. Of course I know.
“The sixteen personalities one,” he clarifies. “Remember, we took it the night of . . .” His voice trails off.
But we both know what he was going to say.
The night of June’s party.
The night all of this began.
The night we crashed into each other like two helpless stars colliding, leaving behind a black hole.
I fight to keep the pain from flashing across my face. I fight to keep my voice calm. Neutral. Professional. Like the Commissioner that I am. “Right. Yeah. Why?”
“That one was fun. Let’s do that one again.”
I peer at him in the darkness, confused. “Why would you want to do that one again? You already took that one.” I continue to scroll through the list on the screen. “How about ‘Find Out Which Sesame Street Character You Are Based on Your Choice of Salad Toppings.’ ”
“Ali?” Nico says pensively.
“Mmm?”
He suddenly sounds nervous as he navigates around another steep curve in the road. “I never told you this, but I sort of fibbed my answers.”
I freeze. “What? You mean on the Disney prince quiz?’
“No, o
n the personality type quiz.”
“But—” I stammer, my stomach curdling. So much for the magic Sea-Bands. I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“You were looking over my shoulder the whole time. I couldn’t exactly answer honestly. I was trying to impress you.”
My head is reeling. This is his idea of lighthearted road trip conversation? A confession that our entire relationship was based on a lie? That’s like saying, “Oh, since we seem to have nothing else to do, let’s drop bombs on people and watch as they explode.”
“But . . . ,” I begin again, struggling to stay calm. But the calm is slowly slipping away. I’m running out of it. “That whole time we were together, we made jokes about you being the Fixer and me being the Commissioner.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, exactly. Jokes. Wasn’t that all they were?”
I think back to the nights I spent reading and rereading his personality profile, committing it to memory, planning my whole life around it. “Right. Yeah. Jokes.”
“Are you mad?” he asks. Like he can just tell. Like he’s always right there, inside my brain. Is “Mind Reader” the name of his real personality type?
I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. But I can hear the waver in it. “No.”
Nico glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re mad.”
“I’m not.” I assure him. “I’m just . . .” I pause. “. . . wondering why you didn’t tell me earlier.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. And you seemed to be having so much fun with our two personality types. Plus, I kind of liked you calling me the Fixer.”
“But it was a lie,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He grows quiet for few seconds. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You shouldn’t have lied on the test.”
“Relax, Ali,” he says, the easiness in his voice gone. “It’s just a stupid test.”
The Geography of Lost Things Page 23
