Driving Me Wild

by Mia Carter

  I smile at him a little and look back down so I can securely replace the top of my coffee cup. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Man, I’m telling you,” Josh says. “You need it. We all do.”

  I straighten, cup in hand, and he pushes off of the wall behind him to walk in step beside me. I can’t think about the word vacation too hard. Because if I do, then I’ll think about—

  Chloe.

  About the way she’d described just one day in this city. The things she had seen, how far she had walked and explored. Someone waves to us from across the crowded hallway, and I wave back, wondering if Chloe did any drawings at all of what she saw today. If she did, would she let me see them?

  We pass by a huge bank of floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I look outside. Into what little of the brilliant blue sky that I can see. I wonder if Chloe is out there again, soaking it all in. And suddenly I realize that I want to be soaking it up beside her. I don’t want to be here, trapped inside this glass-and-chrome box while the world spins on. I’ve become so numb to it, the haze, the madness, the panic, the feeling that if I don’t hold my life, my company, myself together, it will all fall apart.

  All through the next session, I can barely retain a goddamn thing.

  I keep thinking about babies. Love and marriage. All of the ways my friends and peers and classmates have moved on with their lives, taken steps into a future that included something more than just productivity and metrics. I keep thinking about someone else’s shampoo in my shower, someone else’s damp towel on the rack.

  Someone else’s breathing, deep and even, in my room.

  I’d been alone last night. That had been proper, appropriate. The right thing to do.

  Before the next session is over, I find myself sending Chloe a text.

  Maybe, just for a little while, she’ll let me see the world through her eyes. I want that, just a moment of that, if she’ll gift it to me. How lucky I would be just to see her eyes again in the bright light of day—before night falls, before my pitch is due, and before my dread and anticipation merge into a future that is murky, and shadowed, and hidden.

  Chapter Nine

  Chloe

  Do you want to grab lunch?

  Logan’s texts come in just as I’m adjusting a filter on another Instagram photo, and I swipe them away before reading them out of pure habit—before seeing his name.

  Then, when I hurry to switch apps so I can read them, a grin spreads on my face, an effervescent feeling of bubbling, irrational hope somewhere behind my sternum.

  Have you eaten? the next one says.

  And then: It’s fine if you have. It was just an idea.

  I haven’t yet, I reply, heart lodged somewhere in my throat, hands steady, somehow. I was thinking of checking out this outdoor market.

  Say when and where. I’ll meet you.

  Okay, I send back.

  Okay.

  Wait—

  Don’t you have a lunch meeting or something? He hadn’t said he had one I don’t think, but he’s an important guy and his time is valuable. Surely there’s something more vital, more interesting, than meeting me for lunch. You don’t have to leave on my account.

  Did that last text sound too… Ugh, I don’t know. But, it’s sent, and he’s already typing a reply, so, no takebacks.

  If I have to stay inside all the way through lunch I think I might jump out a window, he replies.

  How about you just use the doors instead?

  That does seem to be a safer option.

  I stifle a laugh at this and, phone still in hand, look up and around me in something akin to wonder. I’m standing in the middle of a cobblestone plaza, looking up at a weathered but handsome bronze statue of three men hammering around a central anvil. It’s located right next to where I bought the sunscreen—which I am wearing—and the lipstick—which I am not—yesterday.

  Across from me, there’s a line of beautiful old buildings, more pale yellow with ornate cream moldings, with banners for shops draped from the walls.

  And a Hard Rock Café.

  Seems authentically Finnish, I think to myself, with a smile.

  If any of the residents of the city take issue with a smiling, slightly stunned American standing in the middle of the plaza, they at least have the good grace not to comment on it.

  Or, alternatively, maybe they are saying it and I just don’t know what “crazy American” is in Finnish yet.

  I look back down at my phone and see that Logan’s most recent message to me has gone unacknowledged. Is that okay?

  Oh my God, I’ve just left the hottest man on the planet on read.

  I type back a reply: Yes, absolutely, it is very okay.

  Hastily, I go back to the search I’d just been using and double-check the location before sending it to him. Meet you here?

  I’ll see you there!

  I’d dressed casually for walking today: my favorite pair of jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt. My shoes, the only pair I brought, have low soles and canvas sides, and I can already tell that I’m going to have to be careful not to overdo it and rub myself into a hot blistered mess. I’ve already been up to see a beautiful church of stone and wood, nestled into a raw hillside, and come down past the natural history museum, where I could’ve spent even more time. But it feels so good to be outside under a canopy of endless blue. There’s just so much to see and I can’t stay still. The world is ablaze in new sights and sounds from the tram as it passes by, rattling on its tracks to the distinctive click-beep of the crossing signals as I carefully cross three lanes of traffic.

  And the combination of cool wind and sunshine is perfect—especially when I remember the sticky-hot awfulness of The Portland Summer That Would Not Die.

  Walking down to the market square, I feel like hurrying although I know I have time enough to spare. In around twenty minutes, I’ve made my way down to the cluster of neatly arranged bright orange tents that have been set up in the market square and realize, now that I look over in the vague direction I’m pretty sure our hotel is placed, that I’ve gone in kind of a big, oblong loop today.

  I walk through the loose assembly of people waiting there at the water to board a sightseeing boat. The wind whips my hair as I tug the elastic free and try to gather it back. Seagulls dip and call to each other. In the distance, across the shimmering water, I can see even larger ships waiting. Cruise ships—the largest one, blue and white, with what looks like a seal for the logo.

  The cobblestones underfoot are uneven. People push their strollers or guide their adorable blond children on bikes up and down the aisles, ordering, wrapping up their things, tucking them into bike baskets or bags they’ve brought from home.

  Looking left from where I stand, the vivid orange tents are interspersed with clusters of tables and benches. There’s netting overhead, and a moment later I see why it’s there—a little boy, in a blue-striped hat and red jacket, ducks to cover his newly acquired crepe as the seagulls call and dive for a bite.

  And oh, crap. Logan is walking toward me.

  I can’t lie and say the sight of him doesn’t give me a pleasant sort of jolt—something close to the feeling of getting food poisoning, but like, in a good way. The sight of him in that, frankly, unacceptably well-cut suit, the way it shapes across his shoulders, the way he moves in it, makes me feel some kind of way. It isn’t just his height, or his build—rock climbing, I think with a desperate little tremor of pleasure—or anything he’s doing on purpose, it’s just him.

  He doesn’t walk so much as stalk. Powerful. Confident. Unselfconscious, as he tosses a little bit of his windblown, dark hair out of his face.

  Then he sees me. And he smiles.

  Oh no, I think. Oh no, I’ve got a problem, and his name is Logan Weiss, and he owns my whole entire ass, and I am so, so screwed.

  “Hey,” I say instead of any of that as he steps closer. I have to look up a little at him, squinting because he has his back to the sunlight, but
also because I am now convinced that if I look him straight in the eyes, he’ll see right through me and just know.

  “Hey,” Logan says. “Thanks. Hope I wasn’t disrupting any big plans.”

  I laugh a little at this and shake my head. “No. What plans would I have?”

  His grin widens. “Did you get down here already when you were out and around yesterday?”

  “No. I went the other direction, up to the botanical garden.”

  “That’s supposed to be beautiful,” Logan says. Is it just me, or does he sound a little wistful as he says it? I can only assume being cooped up inside a convention hall all day is rough for someone like him. He seems outdoorsy, and I can definitely relate.

  We start walking along the sidewalk, looking left and right at the stalls, which seem to be selling local merchants’ wares; jams and carved wooden things; hides of thick, soft reindeer; and all kinds of things made with antlers.

  “It was amazing,” I say, noting how he adjusts his long-legged stride just a little to keep pace with mine. “They had a beautiful glass greenhouse, and there’s a section inside with these giant water lilies. They’re so big a person can actually sit on them!”

  We stop near one of the market stalls by a big display for magnets, which have been painted like the Finnish flag. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, flicking it open with a thumbprint, and look for the photo I’m thinking of.

  I show him the picture. Logan peers down at it and lets out a soft breath of surprise. “Wow. Didn’t know they got that big, that’s crazy.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Did you get on it?”

  I laugh. “No way.”

  “We’ll have to go back there someday, then,” Logan teases, his voice warm like the sunshine on my skin. “So you can.”

  I blush at this—and the use of “we” like it isn’t just him and me, separate and distinct. I lift my free hand—don’t drop your phone, don’t do something dumb like touch his face, don’t fuck this up—and shield my eyes from the sunshine.

  “This city is absolutely gorgeous,” I say, nerves making my voice sound higher-pitched in my ears. “Why did the conference pick Helsinki?”

  Logan shrugs. “I think it just rotates through different major cities. There’s a lot of high tech in this area.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. And it’s true.

  “I bet you were hoping for Paris or something,” Logan says, casually—almost too casually. “When you were saving up to travel, I mean. Where did you want to go?”

  “Anywhere,” I reply, honestly. “I just wanted to get out.”

  “Portland is pretty, too,” he says. “Are you from there?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You?”

  He shrugs and picks up one of the giant, carved wooden spoons from the table beside us, examining it. “We moved around a lot. But yes. I suppose so.”

  “For sauna.” The woman behind the counter appears, her weathered face creased with smile lines, a life of laughter and joy evident in her skin as she answers a question that neither of us have asked. “The cup. You two go to sauna yet?”

  “I—no,” I say.

  “There’s one in the hotel,” Logan says, with a quick glance back at me. “Maybe we should.”

  The woman smiles and looks at the two of us like she’s in on a joke we haven’t been told yet. She’s obviously heard us talking, pegged us as tourists but it’s not, I don’t think, in a mean-spirited way.

  “You must go to sauna when you are here,” she enthuses. “Sit and sweat, very relaxing.”

  I smile and nod, a little charmed by her, and a little awkward and uncertain. I know what a sauna is, even if I haven’t been to one properly in the country where it’s clearly revered. But I really, really don’t want to think about sharing that kind of space with Logan. At some point during the flight here, I’d read in the in-flight magazine about sauna culture. Mixed sexes, no clothing, not even swimsuits, just steam and clean pine and the splash of cold water. Just the thought of stripping him down, seeing the body beneath that suit—

  The cold Baltic air isn’t enough to cool the fire of a blush on my cheeks.

  Logan puts the ladle down just as I reach for one of the flag magnets.

  “I wanted to get this one,” I say, showing her the magnet. “Please.”

  She nods her assent to this. “That one, two for one euro, you can get any from the board here.”

  I don’t need two, but—

  “Here,” Logan says, and he selects the same flag magnet for himself. “I’ve got it.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  He gives me a smile that makes me feel like I’ve just stepped into a sauna. “It’s fine. I said I would cover everything, right?”

  The woman smiles at us and takes Logan’s money, thanking him. As we turn away from the kiosk, he pockets his magnet and, before I can even say a thing, takes my open hand in his.

  He closes my fingers around the magnet, ever so gently, as if it’s a priceless treasure.

  “Don’t want to forget this,” he says, voice quiet amid the bustle and noise.

  I don’t, either.

  But somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about anything else besides a magnet.

  We find lunch in one of the safety-cone-orange tents at the other end of the market, and it’s as different from the high-end restaurant as it’s possible to be, while still being utterly delicious. Logan carries two paper plates laden with round bits of tender, steamed potatoes, cooked vegetables, and crispy-seared salmon as we dodge the eager, excitable seabirds, laughing on our way to find a table. Under the ubiquitous orange tents, the call of the birds as they move onto some other hapless meal ticket makes me smile. Sitting on the slightly too-small plastic picnic table, Logan looks just a touch out of place. And a little bit orange from the filtered sunlight.

  “It comes with coffee,” he says, “and bread. Do you want both?”

  “Yes, please,” I say. “But I can—”

  He’s already up and heading for the folding table bearing two large thermos-type containers, one marked kahvi and the other marked tee, before I can finish. Even I can figure out which is which.

  The cups are, like everything is in his hands, tiny. They’re small in my hands, too, but the coffee is hot and delicious.

  We dig in. And the food is as delicious as it looks. After I’ve plowed through a third of it, Logan’s over half finished already. The boy has an appetite.

  “When’s your big important meeting?”

  Logan makes a face and finishes chewing his bite of food.

  “Sorry, we don’t have to talk about work.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he says, stabbing his plastic fork into one of the potatoes with slightly more force than necessary. “It’s the whole reason you came, I would expect you’d be curious about it.”

  Oh. He’s right, but that wasn’t why I was curious. I let the matter drop and take another bite of my salmon. My coffee is finally cool enough to drink, and so I pick it up with the little folded paper handles and take a sip.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask, did you want cream or sugar?”

  I shake my head, swallowing the bitter brew and setting my cup down carefully on the oilcloth. “No, I really do like it black. But thank you.”

  Logan gives me a curious, almost amused look.

  “What?” I smile. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who likes those sugar bomb blended drinks that barely pass for coffee?”

  “They’re good,” he mutters into his fish. “And I don’t have them that often.”

  I laugh out loud. “Unbelievable. You realize this knowledge is far more lucrative than any corporate secrets, right? Just think of what they’d do if your whole ‘Darth CEO’ vibe was tarnished by the presence of an extra-pump white-chocolate mocha.”

  Logan looks up and glares at me, playful, from across the table. “‘Darth CEO?’”

  “You know, your whole…” I gesture vaguely at
him. “Intense thing. You’re intimidating.”

  His smile falters a little. “You think I’m intimidating?”

  “Well I don’t, obviously,” I say, hastily correcting my earlier flippant comment. “I think you’re… People see you one way is all I’m saying. It happens to all of us.”

  “So how do people see you, then?” he asks.

  I laugh, but it’s a little nervous now. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “I already know how people see me,” I say. “I don’t need to go over that. I’m very much aware.”

  When I look up from my meal, Logan is watching me, curious. “They think you’re talented. Creative. Vibrant?”

  “Average,” I say. “Not quite good enough. If you saw my sisters, you’d understand.”

  “I’m not here with your sisters,” Logan says.

  “Neither of them found your keys.” I smile at him, trying to deflect his analysis of me without making it seem like that’s what I’m doing.

  “I don’t want to be here with your sisters,” he amends. “Although I’m sure they’re perfectly lovely people.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. So, instead, I pick up my coffee again, blow on it to keep my mouth from trembling. It hurts too much to have someone pretend to want you.

  “The meeting is at three.” Logan’s voice is quiet, subdued, when he speaks next.

  “I’m sure you’ll do great,” I reply. A contrived platitude if ever there was one. But he softens a little when our eyes meet. “I’d offer to come and help, but somehow I doubt I’d be useful.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he says.

  “I just feel like I should do something,” I say, “because you keep paying for things.”

  “I like to pay for things,” Logan replies. “Not like— You know what I mean. It’s something I can do to show my appreciation.”

  I can’t help but shift a little uncomfortably under the warmth of his gaze. The thought of being with him in the sauna once again rises to the forefront of my mind. “I know, it’s just—”