The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  I explore my little section of the living room, admiring the furnishings and framed sepia-toned photographs hanging on the wall. When I glance over at Nico, he appears to be doing the same, running his hands obsessively over a Victorian-style tablecloth, as though checking each individual strand for defects.

  It’s ridiculous. We’ve been alone together this entire trip. For three whole days, there have barely been more than a few hours combined when we were not alone. We’ve shared two hotel rooms. How could a single pretend kiss change so much?

  And yet, suddenly, the idea of sharing another hotel room with Nico seems impossible. Insurmountable. Insane.

  “You’re here!” comes a bright, bubbly voice. I breathe out a sigh of relief, grateful to have a third person between us.

  Blanche waddles into the living room in a fluffy pink bathrobe, matching slippers, and pink curlers in her hair.

  “We’re so sorry to wake you,” I say quickly.

  “Oh, don’t be.” Blanche flashes me a beaming smile. “I’m thrilled you stopped by. I was just telling Howie how nice it would be if you came to visit, and here you are. How is your little quest going?”

  I brave a glance at Nico. His eyes meet mine, and we both quickly look away.

  He clears his throat. “Good. Great. It’s been . . .” His eyes dart toward me again. “. . . interesting.”

  Blanche claps her hands. “Wonderful. I just love that young people are still going out there and having real old-fashioned adventures. It feels like all your generation does these days is sit around and play games on those MegaPads.”

  I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.

  “Yes,” Nico says, and I can hear from his voice that he’s also fighting to keep a straight face. “We teenagers do love our MegaPads.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Blanche says. “I’m sure you must be tired from the drive. I’ll show you to your room.” She starts to turn but then stops, as though remembering something, and narrows her eyes accusingly at us. “Wait a minute, did you just say teenagers?”

  Nico and I share another brief look.

  “Yeah,” I reply hesitantly. “We just graduated high school. Is that a problem? We’re eighteen. Legal age to rent a hotel room.”

  “And you’re newlyweds?”

  I choke on empty air, barely able to stutter out a response. “What?”

  How did we go from a fake first date to suddenly being married?

  Thankfully Nico steps in. “No. We’re not . . . um, married.”

  My face feels like it’s on fire.

  Blanche glances between us, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek. “Well, legal or not, I can’t allow two unmarried teenagers to sleep in the same room together. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t feel comfortable with that at all.”

  “That’s okay,” Nico and I both say at the exact same moment.

  I glance over at him, and our eyes meet. His gaze is hot and intense and all-knowing. Like we’re sharing one thought. One memory. One nagging, constant temptation.

  I clear my throat and look straight down at the floor. “Two rooms would be great. Thanks.”

  The old wooden staircase creaks as Nico and I make our way to the third (and top) floor of the inn, brass keys in hand. The ceiling up here is low, and Nico has to incline his head slightly as we walk down the hall to our respective rooms.

  “I’m here,” I say, stopping in front of the door marked with a gold number 10.

  “And I’m here,” Nico says, nodding to the door just across the hall.

  “Great.”

  “Great,” he repeats.

  Then, we both just stand there, staring at each other.

  There’s nothing but an empty, quiet hallway between us, and yet it feels like an uncrossable chasm.

  Nico is wearing an inscrutable expression. It feels like we’re trapped in some kind of standoff. Each one waiting for the other to say something. Do something. Move somewhere.

  As soon as we disappear behind those doors, it’ll be the first time we’ve been apart for more than a few minutes since this whole journey began.

  And yet, somehow that seems more impossible now than being together.

  Nico flashes me a smile. It looks forced. “Sleep well.”

  I return the exact same smile. “You too.”

  He spins around, inserts his key into the lock, and opens the door to his room. I do the same. But just as I’m about to push the door open, somewhere behind me, I hear Nico say, “Ali?”

  “Yeah?” I reply, turning around so fast, I get dizzy.

  As I stare at Nico standing there across the hall, for the shortest flicker of a moment, I find myself fantasizing about all the things I want him to say to me right now.

  “Don’t go.”

  “Don’t close that door.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Can I kiss you again?”

  “Can we really, truly start over?”

  Can we?

  Can we?

  Can we?

  And in that same flicker of a moment, I somehow think we can. It all jumps out of the realm of impossibility and right into that other realm.

  The one where impossible things can happen.

  Where fights are resolved.

  Where mistakes are forgiven.

  Where Nico doesn’t lie and I don’t judge.

  Where I’m not a Commissioner and he’s not a Fixer.

  Where shadowy pits disappear.

  Where Nico wraps his arms around me and we sleep tangled up in each other all night. Just like we used to.

  “Despite what you might think of it,” Nico says, crashing into my thoughts, “I think you’re really lucky to have that car.”

  I deflate just a little. “Why is that?”

  “I think it’s a sign that your dad is looking out for you. Maybe even making amends for his mistakes.”

  “You think people can make amends for their mistakes?” I ask, my voice tight.

  Then I count the seconds. One, two—

  I thought I’d get to at least infinity. I thought we’d both disappear into our rooms, fall asleep, and wake up and I’d still be waiting. But Nico already has the perfect answer right on the tip of his tongue.

  “I do.”

  He flashes me a smile. It’s unlike any I’ve seen on the road over the past three days. It’s an old smile. A vintage Nico smile. A lost smile.

  A found smile.

  Then, he slips into his room and closes the door.

  MONDAY

  The fog is setting in

  And we can’t see yesterday

  The rules for this arrangement

  Are starting to lose shape

  —“Done,” from the album Anarchy in a Cup by Fear Epidemic

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

  Released November 10, 1998

  2:00 P.M.

  ASTORIA, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($323.38), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), USELESS PHOTOGRAPH (1), SEAHAWKS TICKETS (12)

  Gabe from Craigslist told us that he’d be wearing light jeans and a Seattle Seahawks jersey. We arrive at the Safeway parking lot—where he told us to meet him—right on time, but so far, there’s no one fitting that description.

  The neighborhood is nice. The shopping center has a Starbucks and an orthodontist’s office. There’s even a Tomato and Vine restaurant across the street, reminding me of how far we’ve come since that fifty-dollar gift card. This morning, after emerging from our separate rooms and enjoying a delicious homemade breakfast prepared by Blanche, Nico received the e-mail from Gabe, wanting to trade the Seahawks tickets for a Rolex watch that he claims is worth around sixty-five hundred dollars.

  “How will we be able to tell that the Rolex is real?” I ask, sipping from my paper coffee cup. Today, Nico ordered me a Butterfinger Mocha, and I ordered him an English Toffee Latte.

  Nico pushes the but
ton to lower the top of the Firebird. It’s thankfully much cooler than yesterday, and the warm air feels good on my skin.

  “I know a little bit about Rolexes,” Nico says, averting his gaze. “I’ll be able to tell.”

  Once again, I want to ask him how. How does he know about Rolexes? How does he know about any of this stuff? But I keep my mouth shut. Because it’s just not worth the frustration when he gives me a bogus answer.

  So instead, I lean back in my seat and take a deep breath. I can’t seem to stop fidgeting.

  “What if—” I start to ask, but I’m not able to finish because just then Nico points to something out the windshield.

  “Is that him?”

  I sit up taller in my seat, but all I see is what appears to be a young boy—no older than thirteen—walking toward us.

  “No, that can’t be him,” I say confidently. “What would a kid that young be doing with a six-thousand-dollar Rolex?”

  Nico shrugs. “He’s wearing the Seahawks jersey.”

  The kid catches our eye through the windshield and his face lights up. He waves a jerky little wave and literally runs toward us, his brown bowl-cut floppy against his forehead.

  “Do you think he stole the Rolex?” I ask Nico.

  Nico scoffs. “That kid doesn’t look like he could steal candy from a baby, let alone a Rolex.”

  I watch as the boy continues to bound toward us. Nico’s right. He does look pretty harmless. But something is setting me on edge. I bite my lip, trying to pinpoint what about this situation is making me so apprehensive. Apart from the fact, of course, that we’re about to trade thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise with someone who looks like they haven’t hit puberty yet.

  “Are you the couple from Craigslist?” Gabe asks, his voice cracking with every syllable.

  Or just hitting puberty now.

  Nico gets out of the car to greet him. “Hi. You must be Gabe. I’m Nico.”

  “Oh my God. This is so cool! I can’t believe you came! You’re really here!” He’s practically exploding with energy. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I’m such a huge Seahawks fan. Like, the hugest. And they’re supposed to have an amazing season this year. And now I can go to all the games. Every single one of them!”

  I get out of the car and stand beside Nico. “Hi, I’m Ali,” I say.

  The boy beams up at me. “Hi, Ali! Nice to meet you!” He shakes my hand like a perfect little gentleman.

  “How exactly do you plan to get to the games?” I ask, looking him up and down. He definitely doesn’t look old enough to drive. “Isn’t Seattle three hours from here?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” he says confidently. “I’ll take the bus if I have to. But I am getting to every single one of those games.” He glances between us, his eyes wide and expectant. He almost reminds me of a cartoon character. “So, do you have the tickets?”

  “Yes,” Nico says, pulling the envelope out of his back pocket. “They’re right here. Do you have the watch?”

  “Duh,” Gabe says with a nerdy little laugh. He flips his backpack around, unzips the small pocket, and pulls out a beautiful hunter-green box with the word Rolex inscribed across the top in gold letters. Gabe pops open the lid like a suave hero in a romantic comedy proposing to his girlfriend. Except instead of a shiny diamond ring inside, there is the most beautiful watch I’ve ever seen. It has a sparkling gold band with a flawless black face. The glass surface glints in the afternoon sun.

  “May I look at it?” Nico asks.

  “Of course!” Gabe says, pushing the box into Nico’s hand. Nico is gentle and diligent as he removes the watch and inspects it from all angles, checking the weight in his palm, giving the winder a few turns.

  He looks like a professional watch dealer.

  Honestly, where on earth did he learn to do that?

  “It’s real,” Nico confirms.

  I look to Gabe, whose jubilant expression has suddenly turned crestfallen. “It was my grandfather’s. He used to love to collect watches.” He points to the timepiece in Nico’s hand. “Watching you do that just . . .” He sniffles. “Reminded me of him. He died a few months ago and left me this.”

  I feel a pang in my chest as I watch the boy’s eyes well up with tears. I reach out to touch his shoulder. “Gabe. Are you sure you want to get rid of it? It’s a beautiful watch. I think your grandfather would want you to keep it.”

  Nico looks at me, and I know immediately what he’s thinking.

  How ironic. Ali Collins advising someone to keep what was willed to them.

  Gabe wipes his nose. “My grandfather knew how much I love the Seahawks. He would have wanted me to have those tickets even more.”

  “Are you positive?” Nico asks. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything you might regret.” When he says this last part, I notice he’s not looking at Gabe. He’s looking right at me. He’s talking about the car.

  “This is different,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m sure,” Gabe says, completely missing our exchange.

  Nico nods and hands him the envelope with the tickets. “Okay. Have fun, then.”

  When Gabe opens the envelope and peers inside, it’s as though someone has turned a light on from within him. It makes all of my uneasiness vanish, leaving nothing behind but a smile on my face.

  I have to say, there is something magical about these trades. It’s not only that we’re working toward something, trading up. There’s just something about watching these people get what they want. Watching the way it illuminates them. The way, I suppose, that Firebird and that band once illuminated Jackson. Even though it was at the expense of his family.

  Gabe leaps forward and wraps his arms around me. “Thank you so, so much!”

  Startled, I awkwardly hug him back. “You’re welcome. Enjoy the games. I hope the Seahawks win.”

  “I will! And they definitely will.” Gabe turns and walks away.

  Nico returns the watch to the box and snaps the lid closed. “Well, that was sort of adorable.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agree as we head back toward the Firebird.

  But I’m barely able to get the passenger-side door open when I hear the sound of tires squealing on the pavement and the deafening roar of an engine behind us. I spin around to see a very angry-looking woman getting out of an SUV and slamming the door.

  “GABRIEL!” she screams loud enough for all of Astoria to hear. “What have you done?”

  The boy skipping through the parking lot freezes, immediately gripping tighter around the white envelope in his hands.

  Nico and I watch in shocked silence as the woman stalks toward Gabe, grabs him by the arm, and practically drags him to the car. She pushes him into the passenger seat and closes the door. Through the back window of the SUV, I can see Gabe sulking in the front seat.

  Then the woman turns her sights on us and her expression softens. Somewhat.

  She tucks some loose strands of hair back into a messy ponytail as she approaches. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “My son, he’s . . .” She stops, takes a breath, like she’s trying to find the strength to continue. “He wasn’t supposed to take that watch. It was my father’s. And it’s all we have left of him. It’s a very special piece.”

  I panic as I look back and forth between Gabe and his mother. “I’m s-s-so sorry,” I stutter. “He said his grandfather gifted it to him. We didn’t realize—”

  The woman holds up her hand to stop me. “I know. I know. He can be very persuasive when he wants to be, but he had no right to trade that watch. What did he get for it? Comic books? Baseball cards?” She spits out the options like they’re cursed.

  Nico bows his head, looking ashamed. “Season tickets to the Seahawks.”

  The woman scoffs. “Of course. Of course. Those damn Seahawks.” I watch, tormented, as tears start to form in her eyes. She presses her fingertips into them, as if to try to hold the tears back. “I’m sorry. We’re all having a rough t
ime with his death. Maybe me most of all. Would you mind if we—if I—traded them back to you?”

  “Of course!” Nico and I both say at once.

  “No problem at all,” Nico assures her.

  She struggles for a moment, covering her mouth with her hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Then, like a light switch, her anger flips back on. She stomps back to the SUV and reaches into the open passenger-side window. “Hand ’em over,” she commands Gabe. “Now.”

  I can’t see Gabe’s face. I hope he at least looks apologetic. I can’t believe what he just did. I can’t believe he managed to scam us like that.

  I watch Gabe’s arm extend reluctantly from the window, the envelope clutched between his fingers. Gabe’s mother snatches the tickets and returns to us, her demeanor shifting once more.

  “Again, I’m so sorry about this. Believe me, he’s about to lose all of his computer privileges for a year.”

  “I heard that!” Gabe shouts from the car.

  “Good!” his mother shouts back. She smiles at Nico. “Here you go.”

  Nico takes the envelope and hands her the Rolex watch. She gets teary-eyed again as she brings it to her lips and kisses it. “Thank you.” She tilts her head back and looks up at the sky. “Sorry, Daddy. I won’t let it happen again.” Then she turns back to us. “Good luck to you guys.”

  “You too,” I say, getting a little emotional myself.

  I watch as she gets in behind the wheel and slams the door shut. The car peels away, tires screeching and dirt spraying. It isn’t until right then, as the SUV zooms out of the parking lot—at an unusually fast pace—that I notice something peculiar about the car. It takes a moment to put my finger on what it is, but as soon as the car turns the corner and disappears onto the street, I realize it doesn’t have a license plate.

  I turn back to Nico and flinch when I notice all of the color seems to have drained from his face. He looks deathly pale. Like he might throw up or collapse or both.

  “What?” I ask, that uneasy feeling instantly back. “What is it?”

  But he doesn’t have to respond. Because when I look down, I see it too. Nico is holding the white envelope in his hands. He’s lifted the flap and opened it. But there are no Seahawks tickets valued at five thousand dollars inside.