Driving Me Wild

by Mia Carter

  “Ah, man, congrats!” The surprise in my voice is genuine. “Fiancée? When did this happen? What’s she like?”

  Josh gives me a look, as if chiding me on the impossibility of explaining his lady-love without a full documentation, but there’s such joy in his face, it makes me a tiny bit jealous even as I feel happy for his obvious excitement.

  “About six months back,” he says. “Her name’s Alicia. She’s wicked smart, I’m telling you.”

  “Six months?” I reply, my surprise evident in my voice. “That’s pretty quick. She must be something special.”

  “She is,” Josh says. “She really is—and when you know it’s right, you gotta jump on that, man, I’m telling you!”

  “‘Jump on that?’” I tease back. “How romantic.”

  “Man, shut up,” Josh says, beaming, as he mock-punches me in the arm. “Why don’t you come out and have dinner with us sometime? You’d like her.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  We wander in through the conference hall, finding the room for our first panel. Just as I go up and find my seat beside Josh, I can feel the pocket of my jacket buzzing.

  I smile when I pull it out and see that it’s a message—and a photo—from Chloe.

  Good luck today! she says, beneath a photo of a crystal-clear blue sky streaked with wispy white clouds.

  The panel moderator is heading up to the mic to introduce us. And just before I put my phone away, something—some impulse I can’t parse completely and don’t understand—makes me text back a reply to this.

  Will you have dinner with me tonight?

  Chapter Five

  Chloe

  Dinner.

  Dinner, with Logan.

  I barely made it through breakfast with Logan, even with him leaving five minutes into it, and now I have to think about how to keep myself composed through dinner? Unfair. But also, irresistible. I text back Sure with no exclamation point, even though my whole body feels like an exclamation point. Then I immediately doubt my response—too curt? Too casual? Maybe I should’ve said thank you, too.

  Great, he replies. I’ll take care of the reservation. Will let you know when and where.

  Okay.

  So. That’s a thing that’s happening.

  It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down. Outside the hotel on one of the many scrollwork benches that line the gravel esplanade with the sun shining down on my face, I marvel for the millionth time at how strange this whole thing is. I mean, objectively, it’s crazy, right? A rich, handsome guy offers you an open-ended trip to a beautiful European city, pays for everything, and wants to take you out to dinner? C’mon. What even is this? It’s nuts. I’m getting to the point where I’m running out of ways to describe just how monumentally nuts this is. We’re talking entire organic hazelnut farms worth of nuts here. Enough nuts to get you permanently banned from elementary school campuses with allergy restrictions in place. All of the nuts.

  But here, apparently, I am.

  I can survive dinner, though. I’m sure I can. Even if, under the briefest of circumstances, being in close proximity to a guy that looks like him would be excruciating. It hadn’t been so bad when he had been in my car—probably because I’d had the road to distract me. It’s just no good to drive off a bridge because you’re ogling the hot guy in your back seat.

  Breakfast, though?

  Oh, it had been so much worse. But worse in a good way. Worse in a way like when you feel fresh and clean after jumping into a cold lake. Sharp and pointed but invigorating. Whatever that space is between pleasure and pain, maybe.

  I take a deep, slow lungful of cool air and close my eyes. The moment I do, it’s like I can see him, sitting there at that glass-topped table, looking up from his phone, his eyes meeting mine. His expression, that mouth, the way his hair had been dark and wavy like black silk bedsheets the morning after an ill-advised romp with some underworld crime lord, or something.

  Logan Weiss’s face is now permanently seared onto my retinas. When I go to my next eye exam, the optometrist is going to be very confused. He’s going to be like, “Hey, what’s this unconventionally attractive yet darkly handsome man doing here on your retinas?”

  What’s the prescription for that?

  Probably something my insurance doesn’t cover.

  Dinner. I can do dinner.

  But first: a little bit of self-indulgent sightseeing.

  The walk clears my head, thankfully, and the sunlight helps wake me up. I’ll drag my circadian rhythm into this time zone kicking and screaming if I have to. I’ll force my consciousness into compliance, even if it protests like a drunk aunt at a wedding when the cha-cha slide comes on. Because Helsinki is beautiful.

  In the first few blocks, I worry that I’m going to get turned around and lose my bearings, but thankfully, the streets are regular, with no twisting alleyways or dangerous-looking areas, and I’ve got a pretty solid sense of direction. It takes me about three or four blocks to get off the main esplanade parkway and past some lovely restaurants, buildings, and shops on my way to what’s undoubtedly the most distinctive landmark in the city: the blinding-white cathedral, perched upon the veritable ziggurat of steps and surrounded by a moat of cobblestones. I pause to admire it before starting my ascent.

  At the top, I can look out across the tops of the buildings, including the neoclassical senate building and the library. The wind is crisp, a little cold, but I love it, especially in contrast to the sunshine. Inside, the building has a quiet, hallowed stillness to it, with polished wood pews and a beautiful centerpiece to admire. I snap some photos, post them to my Instagram, and, after a few more admiring moments, exit.

  Back outside, the stairs are a little more precarious heading down than they were heading up. A tram trundles by, and I think of Logan.

  Then, my feet take me on to the next adventure.

  Down a few more blocks until I find myself in another little park, looking up at a stunning brick cathedral as boldly Slavic as the prior one had been neoclassical. Copper-green roofs and onion-dome accents paint a picture in my imagination. This building, like so many other features of the city, is built into, and in accommodation of, the natural rocky terrain, making it seem as if some primal gods placed it here centuries ago.

  More steps take me to the top. More pictures, posted with startlingly good public wifi. Then I’m back out again, my feet aching with a pleasant soreness, mind brimming with ideas for drawing, painting, creating. Telling the story of this city, as seen through this traveler’s eyes.

  It’s wonderful.

  Being here, being on my own, exploring, with nothing at all pressing on me. I can’t think of the last time I’ve felt like this. Free. Logan, this stranger, has given me such a gift, and I don’t think he even knows it. Even with just today, I’ve been so much more than compensated for bringing him his keys, not to mention the way he’d tended to me in my flight-induced convalescence.

  He’s a kind man.

  Something in my…well, is it too cheesy to say my soul, my gut, one of those lower chakras, it tells me: he’s good.

  He’s not mine, but it’s fun to pretend, even if it’s just for a little while. But there’s no space for someone like me in his world, and I know it’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke. Just playing pretend.

  But it’s nice, sometimes, to play pretend. Especially when pretending is all you have.

  It’s past one in the afternoon before I become aware of two very important things, though.

  One: I haven’t had lunch yet, and two: I’m definitely getting sunburned.

  Crap.

  I didn’t pack any sunscreen. Time to brave actually conversing with people.

  It takes me another twenty minutes to make it back past the hotel and over to where my phone says a department store is located—and it’s massive, too. I head inside, find something that looks like it will work among the various sections right there on the first floor.

  As I am heading over t
o the register, I see it: a glossy, black display presenting an array of lipstick.

  I didn’t even think to bring makeup on this trip, either.

  Hadn’t thought I would need it—but I’m having dinner. With Logan Weiss.

  Handsome, rich, deep-voiced Logan Weiss, who wears bespoke suits and an air of effortless confidence. A man, capital-M Man, who expects the finest things in life.

  I reach over, select something red, and take it and the sunscreen to the register.

  Outside, I step into a nearby café and navigate my way through the line, purchasing a sandwich and a water with no problems whatsoever. Everyone here speaks English, which is great for me because in the whole length of the flight, I never stopped to learn any Finnish at all.

  I take my food outside, under the shade of an umbrella, at one of the tables emblazoned with the logo of the café, and pull up my phone with the intention of remedying that.

  Only to be greeted by a flurry of texts, missed calls, and Instagram comments from both of my sisters.

  Guess my Finnish lesson will have to wait.

  I’m alive, I text back, choosing our sisterly group chat as my primary response channel, rather than spamming them everywhere. I’m fine. It’s really beautiful here.

  As both Miranda and Eleni respond with near-instantaneous bouncing dots, I switch over to the World Clock and double-check. It’s nearly three here and nearly five in the morning at home. Miranda is probably waking up at this time to do a friggin’ yoga challenge, while if I had to put money on it, Eleni is staying up late, working. Under any normal situation, I’d be keeping my asana in bed at a time like this, but my internal clock is currently distracted by a nice sandwich and salad.

  When Miranda’s message pops back, I switch to the chat window once again to read the whole thing. Like usual, it’s a missive.

  El told me you were going off with some guy and I told her she must’ve bought a bad batch of melatonin, her text reads, because that’s not like you, but now I see on your Instagram that you’re in Helsinki? What’s going on? I’m calling.

  She’s fine. Eleni’s text is underneath it. She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think.

  My thumbs aren’t fast enough to keep up with the flurry of conversation though. Miranda adds: She’s not fine, do you even know this guy? Chloe what’s going on?

  Don’t call, I reply. I’m fine. Everything’s fine, we’re all fine here.

  Blink twice if you’re being abducted, Eleni adds.

  Out of equal parts spite and amusement, I take a selfie. The light is nice here, making me look almost poreless—with the hearty application of a nice filter, that is. I post it and switch back to the screen, reading down my sisters’ chatter, almost hearing it in their voices.

  I told Eleni everything, I add, beneath their debate. A fare dropped his keys in my car, he has a lot of money, he flew me out here to return them.

  LOGAN WEISS!!!! comes Eleni’s typically enthusiastic reply. God he’s so hot. Are his eyes that pretty IRL?

  Yes, I reply, a grin spreading on my face. Yes, very much so. Mir, nothing hinky is going on. Stand down, soldier.

  It’s weird though, she replies. You have to let me be concerned for you. Mom thinks you’ve been abducted into a freaky sex cult.

  I have NOT been abducted into a freaky sex cult, I reply. And almost add Bold of you to assume I’m getting any action at all.

  Just because he has nice eyes and money that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy, Miranda continues. And if Eleni won’t say it, I will. Be safe.

  I will, I reply. Scout’s honor.

  LOGAN WEISSSSSSS Eleni types again, followed by a string of emojis, some of which are water droplets, fire, and a siren.

  You two are hopeless, Miranda replies. I can almost hear her exasperated voice from here. Mom was always so busy with her work, it often fell to Miranda to raise us—at least, if you ask Miranda, that is. It’s not like Eleni or I ever asked her, but here she is to save the day. Completely hopeless.

  He put me up in a very nice hotel, paid for my tickets, and is being a gentleman, I text back. I told Eleni if I end up getting murdered and thrown into a fjord that’s on me.

  A new message pops up—but it’s not from either of my sisters.

  It’s from Logan.

  Do you want to meet here at six? it asks, followed by a map location, a restaurant that’s situated just across the esplanade from our hotel.

  Our hotel, by which I mean the hotel he and I are staying at, separately.

  Although the thought of waking up, tangled in his bedsheets is, I’ll admit, a really, really nice one. I scoff at this. Nice, and impossible. I know what I look like, and I’m not the kind of girl that guys like him go for. All my life, I’ve been perfectly, exceptionally average. After my older sister earned crazy-good grades, all of the teachers looked to me to be round two—but no, that role was reserved for our little sister, Eleni. I have never been type A like the pair of them are. Never stood out, never had the drive to win scholarships and accolades. I never stopped feeling that I was Mega Bloks, and they were very clearly LEGOs. They held together properly. I fell apart. And the fact that the pair of them inherited just the right combination of features and height and build, while I got the combination that was an exercise in how many ways people could make the word “interesting” sound like it wasn’t an insult.

  I’ve known, ever since I was little, that I wasn’t remarkable. I wasn’t a marvel, wasn’t entrancing, wasn’t beautiful—sure, I’m no bridge troll, but the fact is, not everyone wins the genetic lottery. Slowly, I’ve come to terms with that.

  Mostly.

  I need to stop living in a fantasy world and come back down to earth.

  Sure, I type back. See you there!

  Exclamation point.

  I guess he deserves it. It’s not really his fault he makes me feel like I’m slowly going insane.

  Back down to earth, I think to myself.

  No sense in pretending I can have things—or people—that are forever out of my reach.

  Getting ready for dinner is a torture all unto itself.

  The closest thing to a nice dress that I’ve brought with me is a very cheap, very old black wrap dress. I think I might have bought it while I was a freshman in college, and it’s been my stalwart, one-size-fits-me-for-now companion since graduation. I tug it on, straightening out the sleeves, then scrunching them to just below my elbows, frowning at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is brushed, I’m less sunburned than I’d feared, and…

  And the red lipstick makes me look like an idiot.

  With a few squares of toilet paper, I wipe it off.

  Cinderella transformation sequence, this isn’t. It’s just me. I fiddle with the neckline of the dress and consider, for a moment, what kind of women someone like Logan Weiss would date. Who would be in his league? Tall, I think. Elegant. Confident. Someone so womanly and refined they’re basically some other type of creature. Like Arwen, condescending to walk among mere mortal men. The kind of person who is soft and gentle, not brash and exuberant and messy like me.

  Logan, I decide, would date a woman who wears lipstick. Perfect lipstick, blood-red and elegant. She’d never get it on her teeth.

  He’d surely be drawn to the kind of woman who owned more of those shoes with the red soles than she could keep track of. Oh, these old things? I think to myself, simpering in the mirror. Louboutins are just murder on the feet, but oh, the price of fashion is high! Of course I only take my third-favorite pair in my luggage.

  Looking down at my own sensible flats, which have no red soles, probably cost me no more than ten bucks at a Payless BOGO event, and do not raise me above my God-given five-foot-six, I sigh.

  I can’t even walk in heels like that, let alone afford them. If I had a pair, I’d probably either sell them for rent or just plant some fucking succulents in them and put them by the window.

 
Inside my purse, I find my plain lip balm. I slick it on over my now red-free lips.

  There. That’s my best, for what it’s worth. Just me.

  It may not be worth much, but it’s all I have to offer. And this is just his way of saying thank you. Nothing more.

  Chapter Six

  Logan

  The walk back from the convention hall and up from the tram isn’t quite enough to get my mind to stop spinning, but it helps. I’m still turning over the events of today’s conference, the people I’ve spoken to, connections made and renewed, new information absorbed. It’s September, and being farther north than home, the night falls just a little earlier, the air turning sharper and cooler as I arrive at the restaurant.

  I half expect to get seated and wait for Chloe again—an echo of this morning—but she’s there already, standing a little nervously off to the side of the entrance to Ravintola Kevät when I walk up. Her hair is down, and her hands are clasped over the little lavender backpack-style purse she had this morning, but I can barely process anything else when I get a look at her body in that simple, black dress.

  It hugs her hips like a promise, falling just above the knee, and when she turns, the situation gets even more dire, because I can see that the deep V-neckline is crossed over her heart like the wrapping of a present I’d really like to open. A present that’s not for me.

  “Hi,” she says, moss-eyes luminous in the soft glow of the restaurant’s windows.

  “Hi,” I say. “You look nice.”

  Nice. Nice? What is wrong with me?

  “It’s from Target,” she says, when my inability to finish a simple sentence drags on a little too long. “It’s not— I hope it’s okay.”

  “Yes,” I say. Very much so. And then, before I can stop myself, “You look beautiful.”

  Chloe laughs.

  “You must have sisters.” She grins as she says it, although I don’t follow her line of thought.

  “Sorry?” I hold the door for her and follow her inside.

  “You’re very polite,” she explains. “Older sisters, who taught you to be decent, how to talk to girls, that’s all I mean.”