Nowhere but Here (2 page)

He paused with that profound look in his eyes again, and then in a low voice he said, “You’ve lost your spark, Kate. Don’t come home until you find it. Bring back a great story.”

Page 2

Lonely but Not Alone

My boyfriend Stephen and I lived in the same apartment building. We met on a Monday two years ago in the basement laundry room and had done our laundry together every week since. I could barely call Stephen my boyfriend because, aside from our weekly laundry sessions and the occasional Friday night dinner, we rarely saw each other. He was a workaholic and moving his way up the ladder at a prestigious marketing firm. He called his firm a creative agency, but really¸ they were a moneymaking agency. He spent way too much time dreaming up ways to convince clients to sell out and change the look of their products so everyone could make more money. He was dedicated and had drive, but his work schedule left little time for a girlfriend. We had more sex in that basement laundry room bent over a washer than in an actual bed.

That day, I left the
Chicago Crier
early to begin packing for my trip. Stephen met me in the basement at six, our usual time. We would switch off picking up dinner for each other—that week he picked up Thai food.

“Hey, how was your day?” I said as I leaned in to kiss him. Stephen was only a few inches taller than me, around five foot eight, but he had a much larger presence because of his confidence, which some people perceived as arrogance.

“Hi sweetie. My day was busy, and everybody is slamming their heads against the wall over the Copley account. I actually have to take a conference call in a few minutes,” he said as he handed me a food container. “Yellow curry, right?”

“Uh-huh.” He never asked me how my day went. I opened the lid and then immediately closed it. “Is this chicken?”

“Yeah, that’s what you like.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m a vegetarian, Stephen. I have been for ten years.”

“Yeah, but I thought you ate chicken.”

“Normally people don’t call themselves vegetarians if they eat chicken.”

“God, I’m sorry. I could have sworn I’ve seen you eat yellow curry before.”

“With tofu.”

“Well, I would offer you mine, but it has chicken in it, too,” he said as he pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket.

“I’ll just eat the rice.”

He held his finger to his mouth to quiet me before answering his phone. “Stephen Brooks. Yeah, I’ll take it. Hey, what’s up, man? Oh, you’re kidding, right? Two million. That’s what I told her.”

As Stephen continued his conversation, I wiped out the rice and began sorting the laundry. When I bent over, he moved behind me and pushed himself against me. I turned around to find him smirking.

I mouthed,
You’re so dirty
.

You’re so hot
, he mouthed back.

Stephen was attractive in a clean-cut businessman kind of way. He was always clean-shaven. He had a dark receding hairline and dark brown eyes that looked almost black, and he wore only a suit or his gym clothes. He never dressed casually. I had on ripped jeans and a University of Illinois sweatshirt. We were mismatched in many ways, and although there was physical chemistry, I never felt like our relationship could grow beyond what it was. He had never introduced me to his family. On holidays he would go to his parents in the suburbs and I would go to Rose’s. We rarely spent time in each other’s apartments. After Rose died, I isolated myself even more, believing that I had to learn to be alone, so I never pushed things with Stephen. He never pushed for more, either. I stayed with Stephen because it was comfortable. I stayed with Stephen because he was nice and I thought he was all I had, but after two years, he was still bringing me yellow curry with chicken.

I jumped up to sit on the washer. When Stephen ended his call, he walked toward me but didn’t put his phone away; his head was down, staring at the screen. I parted my legs so he could stand closer. Without looking up, he raised a finger and said, “Hold on, I just have to shoot this text off.” It was amazing how lonely I could feel when I wasn’t alone. Sometimes when I was with Stephen, I felt even worse about my situation. I really had resigned myself to the fact that our relationship was mainly physical. It was just a release for both of us. Stephen had never read a single article I’d written. His excuse was that he liked to read business journals and sports articles. He wouldn’t even humor me.

“I’m going to California tomorrow for a story. It’s a huge one that Jerry has been trying to land for months.” He nodded, still staring at his phone. “Did you hear me? I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

He looked up and then leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on my lips. “Have a safe trip. I gotta take this call, Kate. I’m sorry. Will you bring my stuff up when it’s done? This is a really important call, a million-dollar account.” He kissed me again. I nodded then forced a smile. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said as he turned and headed for the basement door, taking his food with him.

Like I said, he wouldn’t give a shit.

That night when I went to Stephen’s apartment to drop off his clothes, he answered the door still wearing his suit. He had ditched the tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but the phone was still attached to his ear.

He mouthed,
Thank you. I’ll text you
.

I handed over the basket full of his clothes and said, “You’re welcome” very quietly.

He liked to text me. He thought it was sexy to send dirty messages back and forth, but the less we connected in real life, the more meaningless those texts became.

Sure enough, two hours later, while I was lying in bed, I got a text from him.

Stephen:
U looked amazing 2night

I would have normally come back with something like
You weren’t so bad yourself
, because at least Stephen was trying, and I felt like he meant well, but that night something became very clear to me. I began to visualize a relationship where I felt cherished. I couldn’t make out the face of the person who would be that for me, but somehow I knew it wasn’t Stephen.

I didn’t respond to him for several minutes. Instead, I got on Google and typed in R. J. Lawson. I scoured endlessly boring articles about his early successes and the contributions his inventions had made toward technological advancements in communications and security. There was little, if anything at all, about his personal life. One article showcased a server prototype he had revealed at a science expo, with a picture of him standing next to the machine. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, prepubescent with a mouth full of braces. I searched over and over for additional images, but every time his name was linked to an image, it was either of a computer gadget, the winery, or the logo for a charity organization he had formed. I would go into the interview knowing a lot about R. J. Lawson’s accomplishments and philanthropic work but very little about the man.

Checking the time, I figured I had given Stephen enough of the silent treatment.

Kate:
If I looked so amazing 2night then y aren’t u in my bed right now??

Stephen:
Early morning meeting. Have a safe trip. See you when you get back.

I didn’t respond. I just fell asleep thinking,
I’m all I’ve got
.

Page 3

Journalistic “License”

The next day I flew into San Francisco International Airport at two p.m. My first interview with R. J. Lawson was scheduled for five p.m., and I still had to get out of the city, over the heavily trafficked Golden Gate Bridge, and up to Napa Valley. I hoped that taxis were readily available once I got outside because I wouldn’t have much time to dillydally. I didn’t eat the plane food, so I was starving and starting to get a headache.

As I waited at the baggage carousel, I pulled out my travel itinerary from the coordinator at the
Chicago Crier
. Under the flight details it showed a reservation number for Avis Car Rental. I immediately dialed Jerry.

“Why is there a rental car reservation on my itinerary?”

“Well, hello to you, too. We got you a rental car because Napa is spread out. I thought you would want to go exploring while you’re there. Plus . . . cab fare just one way would have been more money.”

“I barely know how to drive, Jerry!”

“We have a driver’s license on file for you.”

“Yeah, I got my driver’s license after my high school boyfriend taught me how to drive in a mall parking lot. I haven’t driven since.”

“You press the gas to go, the brake to stop, and you steer with that giant wheel sitting in front of you. How hard could it be?”

“Fine, I just hope you have a big insurance policy. This is going to be a nightmare.” I hung up and reached for my suitcase, which of course was the last one to appear on the conveyer belt.

At Avis, a young female clerk showed me to the car. “I need to do a quick visual inspection to mark any existing damage. I’ll be real quick.”

“Knock yourself out.” I threw my bags in the trunk and then got into the driver’s seat. It was a small Toyota sedan, nothing fancy, but it looked very new. I felt for the ignition and then realized the clerk hadn’t given me the key yet.

She skipped around the car and then stood outside my door. Bending down to look at me through the window, she smiled really cute and said, “No damage, you’re all set, but I think you might need this.”

She held up a little black square. I opened the door. “What is that?”

“It’s your key.”

“How is that a key?”

She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. “You’ve never seen push-button ignition before?”

“No
.
”
I’m so in for it
. Evidently cars had changed in the last ten years.

The clerk gave me a quick tutorial after I told her I hadn’t driven in a very long time. I think she felt sorry for me.

“It’s just like riding a bike, okay?”

“Yes, thank you, that is very good advice.”

I typed the winery address into the GPS and then proceeded to pull out of the rental company driveway. I screeched and slammed on the brakes every four feet until I got out onto the street. There was going to be a learning curve. The GPS lady successfully got me over the Golden Gate, but I didn’t get to enjoy one minute of it. Paranoid that I was going to hit a pedestrian or a cyclist or launch myself off the massive bridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the car in front of me. Once I was out of the city, I spotted a Wendy’s and pulled off the highway. GPS lady started getting frantic.

“Recalculating. Head North on DuPont for 1.3 miles.”

I did a quick U-turn to get to the other side of the freeway and into the loving arms of a chocolate frosty.

“Recalculating.”
Shit. Shut up, lady.
I was frantically hitting buttons until I was able to finally silence her. I made a right turn and then another turn immediately into the Wendy’s parking lot and into the drive-thru line. I glanced at the clock. It was three forty. I still had time. I pulled up to the speaker and shouted, “I’ll take a regular French fry and a large chocolate frosty.”

Just then, I heard a very loud, abbreviated siren sound.
Whoop.

I looked into my rearview mirror and spotted the source. It was a police officer on a motorcycle.
What’s he doing?
I sat there waiting for the Wendy’s speaker to confirm my order, and then again,
Whoop
.

“Ma’am, please pull out of the drive-thru and off to the side.”
What’s going on?

I quickly rolled the window all the way down, stuck my head out, and peered around until the policeman was in my view. “Are you talking to me?”

To my absolute horror, he used the speaker again. “Yes, ma’am, I am talking to you. Please pull out of the drive-thru.”
Holy shit, I’m being pulled over in a Wendy’s drive-thru.

“Excuse me, Wendy’s people? You need to scratch that last order.”

A few seconds went by and then a young man’s voice came over the speaker. “Yeah, we figured that,” he said before bursting into laughter and cutting the speaker off.

The policeman was very friendly and seemed to find a little humor in the situation as well. Apparently I had made an illegal right turn at a red light just before I pulled into the parking lot. After completely and utterly humiliating me, he let me off with a warning, which was nice, but I still didn’t have a frosty.

Pulling my old Chicago Cubs cap from my bag, I decided that nothing was going to get in the way of my beloved frosty. Going incognito, I made my way through the door. Apparently the cap was not enough because the Justin Timberlake–looking fellow behind the counter could not contain himself.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, what can I get you?” he said, and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, struggling to hold back a huge amount of laughter and making gagging noises in the back of his throat in the process.

“Can I get an extra-large chocolate frosty please, and make it snappy.”

“Do you still want the fries with that?” There was more laughter and then I heard laughter from the back as well.

“No, thank you.” I paid, grabbed my cup, and hightailed it out of there.

Napa was beautiful in October. The sun was setting, the last long rays piercing through the large eucalyptus trees that lined the road to the winery. I pulled off and took a couple of photos and removed a few layers of clothes. At that point I was wearing very wrinkled black slacks and a blazer, unsuccessfully trying to pull off the sophisticated journalist look. It was warm in Napa compared to Chicago that time of year. I knew I was only a few minutes away, so I took some time to go over my interview questions and then I hopped in the car and drove toward the R. J. Lawson property.

GPS lady notified me that I was approaching my destination. When I got to a point where I needed to turn left into the winery, I stopped and waited for a car that was coming from the opposite direction to pass. That car passed, and then another popped up in the distance, and then another. Finally, I had to take my chances and turn quickly. I did just that, overcorrecting and running the car smack into a truck pulling out of the winery driveway. The airbag deployed rather rudely in my face at the very same moment that I heard crunching metal and felt the force of the collision. I started frantically pushing away the deflating airbag when I spotted a figure outside of the passenger window.

“Are you okay?!” he shouted.

I nodded and a few seconds later he opened my door for me.

I got out quickly and ran to the front of the car, then I looked over at the truck I had hit head-on. It was an old, classic Ford pickup. It didn’t appear to have a scratch on it, yet the front of my rental car was completely smashed. What a day I was having. At that moment I wanted to call Jerry and tell him that the only way I was going to find my “spark” was if I lit myself on fire.

“Is that your truck?” I said, pointing. I was still shaken and confused.

I looked over at the guy. He began slowly walking toward me. He was tall with longish, sun-bleached hair. His deep green eyes looked concerned. I noticed that he was wearing a black T-shirt with the R. J. Lawson logo on it.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you might be in shock,” he said. I started to sway. He braced me by putting his hands on the outside of my shoulders.

“Do you work here?”

“Yeah, I’m Jamie.” He had a scruffy but defined jawline, and although he was thin, there was something ruggedly strong about him. He had on dark Levi’s and black work boots. The skin on his face was completely flawless. He had darker skin than the typical Chicago white boy I was used to. He evidently spent a lot of time outside. When I looked at his hands, I could tell he used them for work. They looked strong and callused.

“I need to get your information, Jamie.”

His pretty mouth turned up into a lazy smile. “I believe you hit me, so I’ll need
your
information.” God, he was handsome, and my embarrassment level was increasing by the second.

“Fine.” I stood by the door and pulled a piece of scratch paper from my purse. I quickly scribbled out the information and reached behind me to where Jamie was standing. He took the paper from my hand. I didn’t turn around but I heard a light chuckle from him.

I became even more peeved after realizing my car wasn’t drivable and it was only five minutes until interview time.
Damn this world.
When I finally turned back toward Jamie, he was flashing a stupid, smug grin.

“What?” I said to him with as pointed a look as I could muster.

“You’re Jerry Evans?”

“Yeah, so what.”

“Well, when we spoke on the phone this morning your voice was quite a bit deeper.”

“That’s all the information you need, although it doesn’t look to me like your truck will need any repairs. I’m sorry I hit you, okay? I just don’t drive very much and I’m running very, very late for my interview with R. J. Lawson.”

“Oh, you’re the reporter?”

“I’m the journalist, yes.”

“Well, you better march your little tail up there. R.J. gets really pissy when people are late.”

I huffed and then began pulling my suitcase out of the trunk. Jamie stayed firmly planted where he was, still wearing a silly grin.

“Hey, Jerry, do you want a ride? I don’t think this car is going to get you too far.” I leaned around his truck to take in the view of the very long treelined driveway up to the winery buildings. It was a twenty-minute walk at least.

“My name is Kate . . .” I fumbled for words and then in a shaky voice said, “and . . . yes.”

“Yes to what, Katy?” He cocked his head to the side and arched his eyebrows. “You want me to give you a ride up the driveway? Is that how you ask nicely?”

“Again, my name is Kate, not Katy, and yes please, if you would be so kind to give me a ride, I would greatly appreciate it.”

He paused, looked me up and down, and then looked up to the sky and began scratching his chin like he was making the decision of a lifetime.

“Hmm . . . okay, Katy, I think I will. Actually, it would be my pleasure to give you a ride up the driveway, even though you almost killed me today.” I finally gave in and had to laugh at the situation.

Jamie managed to move my rental car off the road. I watched his arms flexing as he pushed. His right arm was completely covered in tribal tattoos. Not the typical kind you find on the walls of a tattoo parlor, but unique, almost jagged-looking, and some were a red-orange color. He was very attractive and seemed strong and capable. I wondered what he did at the winery, but my thoughts were interrupted. When I reached his truck to get in, I noticed a chocolate Lab sitting perfectly upright in the passenger seat, wearing a seat belt.

“That’s Chelsea. You’re gonna have to get in over here and sit in the middle ’cause that’s her spot.”

I walked around to the driver’s side and smiled at him before hopping in. “She wears a seat belt?” I said, laughing.

“Yes, and it’s a good thing she does, otherwise she would have gone flying right through that window when you slammed your car into us.”

“I said I’m sorry.” I sounded a bit whiny.

He got into the driver’s seat, started the truck, and patted my leg. “I’m just teasing you.”

I couldn’t remember the last time someone touched my leg like that. Normally, that would have made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I was already sitting against him, a complete stranger whom I had just hit with my car, but there was something about his demeanor that made me feel at ease, aside from the fact that he smelled strongly of alcohol. There was an overwhelmingly potent scent of wine in the air. “Have you been drinking?”

He reached down and lifted his shirt to sniff it.

“Curious Katy, the reporter who’s first on all the breaking news.” He paused and shot me a self-satisfied smirk. “I work at a winery, cutie. I was cleaning the barrels today.” He pointed his thumb out the back window of the truck. I turned and spotted three wooden wine barrels strapped into the bed of the truck.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at myself.
Really, could I embarrass myself any more today
? I hadn’t even met R. J. Lawson yet, but I was ready to throw in the towel.

“Where were you headed when I hit you?”

“Just a quick run into town for supplies.”

“I thought people in California were more environmentally conscious. Aren’t these old trucks gas hogs and horrible polluters?”

Looking straight out the window, he smiled. “I converted the engine. It runs on biofuel.”

“What’s that?”

“Donut grease. Zero pollution, and I get the fuel for free from the local bakery.”

“You’re kidding?”

He just shook his head.

Chelsea was staring out the front window. When I turned to look at her, she turned as well and looked me directly in the eye. “Hey,” I said. I fully expected her to respond, but instead she nonchalantly looked away and continued gazing out the window.

“She’s like a person.”

“Yep, she’s my girl.”

I smiled at him and then he pinched my thigh.

“Hey!”

“Hey, yourself. We made it. I’ll drop you here.” He pointed out the window to a building. “There’s R.J.’s office. Don’t be too nervous, the guy’s a douche to everyone.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” He helped me out of the truck and pulled my suitcase from the back. When I reached for it, he held on to the handle. My hand landed over his, but instead of pulling it away, for some reason I held it there. I ran my fingers over his callused knuckles and then I looked up at him. He was looking right at me, squinting slightly, like he was trying to read my expression. He moved closer and then leaned in farther, wearing a small, sincere smile. When he closed the gap between us, I could feel the heat radiating from both our bodies as he bent down toward my face. I thought he has going to kiss me—and then he did, just like that, though it was just a small peck on the cheek. His fingertips rested on my other cheek. His lips lingered there for a few seconds and then I heard him inhale deeply. He pulled away a few inches and then smiled. His eyes looked roused with curiosity and something else. Desire, maybe. “I told you, don’t be nervous. It’ll be okay.” His voice was smooth.