36.
Rich
I’m up until dawn is just about upon the city, for the next several hours after Sophia leaves not moving from my spot against the front door. At some point—I’m not sure when—unable to muster the energy to stand, I crawl to my recliner. It feels like a Category 5 hurricane is raging inside my head. No matter how I try, I can’t slow my thoughts, the wind buffeting them relentlessly to and fro. They’re impossible to hold onto; as soon as one is caught, it is blown away, only to be replaced by another which is gone just as fast.
Even when sleep finally does come, I’m given no reprieve, my dreams exactly like my thoughts—endless fragments coming together and dividing instantly. Though I’m out for almost four hours, I feel no better rested when I wake.
The only difference is that I’ve come to a conclusion.
My eyes snapping open, I push myself up from my recliner, my stomach clenching and twisting with the hunger that’s been gnawing at me since last night. By now, it’s been well over twenty-four hours since my last meal. Well, no matter. More important things needed to be taken care of first. I would just have to grab something on the road.
Retrieving my phone from where I’d left it in the front hallway, I open up my messages and draft a new one.
Sophia, I type. I’ve decided. I’d like to come see Becca.
I hesitate for only a second before I hit send.
Her response comes twenty seconds later: Great. Can you come by tonight?
I can be there by 5.
Perfect. I’ll make sure she’s at home. Headed there now. Keep me updated.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I sigh. It was done then. The decision was made. There was no going back now, and no time to waste. Already the clock was pushing eleven. I was going to need to move fast if I wanted to finish what I needed to do and still get to Portland by five.
Feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time, I head towards the bedroom to change.
***
I’m ready to go in less than fifteen minutes, a new record what with having managed to shower, pack an overnight bag (just in case), and brew some coffee. As I lock the apartment door behind me, I take a moment to contemplate just what my life might be like upon my return. Would it be any different? Or would it be the exact same?
I ride the elevator down to the underground parking garage, my car already waiting with idling engine near the entrance thanks to a quick text sent to the attendant. The attendant, a young guy with long, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, gives me a two-fingered salute from inside the garage’s office as I climb into my driver’s seat.
A moment later, I’ve pulled out into the bustling streets of Saturday morning downtown Seattle. As per usual, the traffic is terrible. It takes a full half hour before I’m finally able to escape the city center, my first cup of coffee already down the hatch, my head aching for a second by the time I do. I have the radio tuned to the classic rock station and am singing quietly along. For the first time in two days, my head is no longer buzzing with a million thoughts. All is quiet. That was the beauty of decision followed by action. As soon as the mind got made up, all the rest of the nonsense dripped away.
It’s just after noon when I pull up to my first stop, a jewelry store on the south side of the city. Though my request is somewhat out of the ordinary, the jeweler, an old family friend, is only too happy to comply. A bit odd, he tells me when I’m done explaining what I want, but give me an hour and I’ll have ready what you need.
I wait in a diner across the street, an old mom-and-pop place with greasy counters and coffee like mud. I’m so ravenous by now that I end up ordering two full meals. While I eat, I read the newspaper and watch the local news playing on the television behind the cash register. Though I still have plenty of time, every few seconds I can’t stop myself from glancing at the clock hanging near the front door.
True to his word, the jeweler has what I need ready within the hour. When I get his text, I throw several bills down onto my table, wave goodbye to the group of waitresses eyeing me from the opposite end of the diner, and head back across the street. Two minutes later, I’m back on the road. Only one more stop, and that I’d make when I was a little closer to Portland.
It was just me and the open road now. The day is just perfect for driving, the world so bright and warm and inviting. Small puffs of clouds dot the sky here and there, dollops of white paint on a baby-blue canvas. To my left, Mt. Rainier looms, its snowy top like the hoary head of an ancient patriarch watching over his children. Soon, Mt. Saint Helen’s appears in the distance, her familiar lopsided grin greeting me like an old friend.
A little over halfway to Portland, I stop for another bite to eat, this time from a roadside stand selling coffee and sandwiches. I’m feeling as good as ever, more open and hopeful and light than I’ve been since…well, since that week in Hawaii with Becca. Regardless of what happened, I knew, everything was going to be just fine.
I text Sophia as I’m pulling back onto the highway. Two hours, I tell her. Should be there by five. Unlike before, this time I get no response.
These last two hours pass in a flash, thanks in part to the nervousness growing larger inside of me with every mile closer I draw. By the time I pass over the bridge into Oregon, my heart is cartwheeling in my chest, blood throbbing in my ears. Just as downtown Portland appears on the horizon, a response finally comes from Sophia. All it contains is an address.
I type this into my car’s built-in navigation. Twenty minutes to your destination, a vaguely womanlike voice says. Twenty minutes. Oh boy, here we go.
Seeing as it’s the weekend, the highway is relatively empty, hardly a car in sight. Only when I exit and enter the neighborhoods on the east side of the river does the city begin to show signs of life, more and more people peppering the sidewalk the deeper I drive. As in Seattle, it’s been a beautiful day here, the air still warm though the sun is well on its way down. It’s so nice out that I have no choice but to roll down the windows and retract the hood, the cool breeze that whips through my hair helping to distract me, at least momentarily, from the very difficult thing I’m about to do.
I keep an eye peeled for a florist’s shop, and when I spot one, I pull my car into a parking spot on the street and bound inside. Four minutes and thirty dollars later, I have a handful of irises (Becca’s favorite flower) and am cruising back down the road.
It’s no more than another five minutes to Becca’s house. As I turn onto her street, I take a moment to picture the woman I haven’t seen in months but have spent every spare moment thinking about. What was she doing right this moment? Did she suspect that I was about to appear? Had Sophia told her?
My heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Never before have I been so nervous, not even during one of my several championship games. As I pull up to a small, one-story house with green shutters and a flowering Japanese maple out front, I force myself to take several deep breaths. 3580. This was the place.
Knowing that if I don’t move immediately I might never, I shut off my car and climb out, the box from the jeweler in my pocket, the irises in my hand. Not allowing myself even a second to think, I pass quickly through the front gate and scurry up the gravel sidewalk to the front door. Just as I raise my hand to knock, the door swings open.
“Hi, Rich,” Sophia greets me with a grin. “Glad you’re here. Come on in.”
I follow her inside, my heart beating faster than ever with the expectation of seeing Becca sitting there waiting for me. But all that I find is an empty living room. Standing just inside the doorway, I strain my ears for the sounds of someone elsewhere in the house. But there is only the heavy silence of late afternoon.
“Is Becca here?” I ask, turning to Sophia, the irises trembling in my hand.
Sophia gives me a tight-lipped smile and a slight shake of her head. “Uh-uh,” she says.
“Oh.”
“But I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” she says quickly. Leading me over to the couch, she takes the flowers from my hand and drops them into a vase already filled with water and waiting.
“Have you heard from her?”
“Strangely, no, not since this morning when she texted me asking if I’d be home soon. Unfortunately, I was too busy driving to respond. By the time I got here, she was gone. I’ve only been here a little while though, so I’m sure she’ll be arriving any minute.” As she says this, Sophia peeks out the blinds of the front window. “You’re not in a rush, are you?”
“Of course not,” I say, sounding much more relaxed than I feel. It’s taking everything in me not to run out the door, jump into my car, and speed away. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Perfect.” Crossing the living room, Sophia disappears into the kitchen. “Then I’ll make us some coffee. Looks like we’ll just have to wait together.”