Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  Will she end up heartbroken again? Or has she finally found someone who loves her kind of crazy?

  Chapter 1

  Warm September sunshine. Not at all what I was expecting when I planned this last-minute trip to Portland, but it makes this Phoenix girl happy. Rain and gloom aren’t my thing, so thank you, weather gods, for this beautiful morning. And for my tendency to dress in layers.

  The first stop on my “eat my way through Portland” tour is too far from the hotel to walk, so I open my favorite rideshare app and request a ride. I thought about renting a bike to burn off all the calories I plan to consume today, but I didn’t think I’d want to pedal my way from restaurant to restaurant on a full stomach. No, thank you. The lazy way it is today.

  My phone dings with the alert that someone’s accepted my ride request. Apparently, “Nicolas” is going to provide that lazy way with his Toyota Prius.

  Nicolas and his black hair. His open and friendly smile, his blindingly white teeth, and his clear, blue eyes.

  His face looks so familiar, but I have no idea how I’d know him. Huh.

  Instead of overthinking it while I wait, I sit in a grassy spot near the sidewalk. My colorful maxi skirt spreads out around me, and I tuck my legs to the side. Then I pull my long, seafoam-green hair over my shoulder and take my itinerary out of my small purse. By itinerary, I actually mean a rough list of restaurants I want to try today. I gathered it at the last minute from one of the many Facebook groups I’m in. Someone named Colin Girard knows a lot about specific Portland eats.

  Sure, I’m only here to escape my reality for a while. But why not enjoy some culinary excellence while I’m at it?

  Not much takes your mind off a shitty situation like amazing food does.

  I’ve reached the bottom of my eight-restaurant list—how I’ll narrow it down to four or five, I don’t know—when Nicolas drives up in front of the hotel. So he’ll see me, I wave my hands over my head before I stand. Then I return my list to my purse, brush grass off my skirt, put my purse’s long strap across my body, and walk toward his car.

  The passenger’s side window rolls down, and I bend a little to peek inside his car. The first thing I notice is how clean it is. Not too surprising—all drivers for this company need to keep their cars in great condition. But then his full head of black hair comes into view. His smile, his blindingly white teeth, and his clear, blue eyes.

  And I’m hit with that same shot of recognition. But I still can’t place him. Hmm.

  So I freeze, think about it for a second, and come up with nothing.

  “Do I know you?” I ask, pointing my finger at him.

  Way to cut to the chase, Alexa…

  His mouth closes, and he squints his eyes, presumably getting a better look at me. “Umm, I’m not sure, but I think that’s information only you would know for sure, right?”

  I put a hand on my hip. “You could know if I know you.”

  “True,” he says, his smile returning. “But maybe you’re some kind of stalker and know me without my knowing that you know me.”

  Oh. I guess he has a point. And I like his style. I’m no stalker though. So this puzzle has not been solved. But I can’t figure out where I could possibly know—

  “The meter is ticking,” he tells me, snapping me from my thoughts. “We can figure this out while we drive? Save you some money?”

  This guy makes a lot of sense.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I open the door and get in. And I stare right at him. “I will figure this out.”

  “Well, we can figure it out together on your way to…” He pokes around on his cell phone before he cocks his head, squints his eyes again, and cracks a small smile. “Oh, how weird.”

  “What?” I press. “Did you solve our mystery? Is this place the missing piece to our puzzle?”

  He shrugs. “Could be.”

  This guy also frustrates me.

  “Then what’s so weird?” I ask in a huff.

  While attaching his phone to his dashboard mount, he says, “Nothing. Let’s do this, shall we?”

  The whole time I’m putting my seat belt on, I glare at him through narrowed eyelids. I’ve known this guy for two minutes and I’m already annoyed. But highly intrigued. So I don’t stop staring at him for the full ten-minute, quiet car ride. Not even when he parks the car down the street instead of dropping me off at the front of the restaurant.

  “I was wondering how long you’d do that,” he says as he pushes buttons on his phone. “I didn’t think you had the entire ride in you, but I stand humbly corrected.” He shuts the car off and steps out of the vehicle.

  And I’m left in utter shock.

  Seriously. Sputtering while trying to open my door. Fumbling with the handle. Because what the hell? I came to Portland to get away from frustration. To leave irritation and stupid situations behind. Not get myself caught up with another one.

  I know, I know. It’s not a big deal. I should let it go, try this restaurant’s food, and move on. Follow my original plan. This is just one rideshare experience in the grand scheme of my trip.

  But Nicolas is walking to the door, and that’s where I’m headed, so…

  He holds the door open and gestures for me to enter first. Which I do. And then turn right around to face him again and almost poke him in the chest with my finger.

  “It’s highly unnecessary that you walk me to my door. I’ve been here for less than a day, but I can already tell that Portland is pretty friendly.” That gives me pause though. Then I cross my arms over my chest. “Is this a Portland rideshare thing? Do all of you walk everyone to the door of their destination?”

  He laughs and mimics my crossed arms. “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh,” I say before I quirk an eyebrow. “So, what makes me so special?”

  Bringing his thumb to his lip, he gives me a crooked smile. “Are you sure you want me to answer that?”

  My jaw drops as a small gasp escapes and my arms fall to my sides. When I finally gather myself a few seconds later, I say, “I don’t know if I want to know what that means. All I want to do is enjoy a meal here and move on. Thanks for the ride.” I spin on my heel and greet the hostess.

  “Welcome to Paradox Cafe. How many for breakfast this morning?” she asks.

  “Just one,” I say at the same time Nicolas says, “Two.”

  So I swing back around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Uh, hoping to eat breakfast,” he deadpans. “What else do you think I’m doing?”

  “I think you’re being vague and weird.” I throw my arms out to my sides. “Who’s the stalker now, hmm?”

  He points a finger at me. “I still think it’s you.”

  “Oh, really,” I say dramatically, putting my hands on my hips. “Please enlighten me on how you came to that conclusion.”

  “Well, considering that I was headed here, to this very restaurant, before you requested a ride… That makes you the stalker.”

  “Umm,” the hostess says, fidgeting with the edges of our menus, “do you two want to sit and eat or take this outside?”

  “He’ll be leaving,” I say over my shoulder at the same time Nicolas says, “We’ll sit and eat.”

  I huff out a breath. “You have a bad habit of speaking over me. And for me. I can make my own decisions, you know.”

  “And some are good,” he says as he walks past me, toward the table the hostess is standing next to. “Like your decision to come here for breakfast.” He sits in a chair at the table, facing the front of the restaurant. To the hostess, who is apparently also the waitress, he says, “She’ll make another great decision and get the Belmont Combo—French toast, breakfast potatoes, and veggies. I’ll have the breakfast burrito, extra potatoes on the side, please.” Then he motions a hand toward the empty seat in front of him.

  The waitress looks at me as if to confirm my non-order.

  It takes a few seconds for me to recover from the shock. But, eventually, I give her
a single nod.

  “Anything to drink?” she asks.

  Nicolas widens his eyes at me then looks at the waitress. Oh, I guess I get to order my own beverage.

  “Orange juice, please.”

  “I’ll have the same,” he says.

  The waitress nods and heads to the back. Then I amble across the small restaurant and plop down in the chair. Once I’ve settled into the seat, I release a long exhale from my nose and glare at him.

  Putting one finger up, I say, “Number one: Good decision or not, I can make them all on my own—thank you very much.” I raise another finger. “Number two: Rude.” Then a third finger. “And number three: You’re lucky I have already read the menu and know that the food you ordered me is vegan.”

  His eyes light up. “Ahh. I was hoping that’s why you were here.”

  With that, my curiosity has been piqued, and I point all three fingers at him. “Are you vegan too?”

  “You’re in Portland,” he says, his tone even and low. “Is that shocking?”

  After a moment, I place my hands on the table. “No, I suppose not. But it’s shocking that I can’t be mad at you now, even though you’re interrupting my breakfast.”

  He counters with, “The way I see it is you interrupted my breakfast.”

  “You didn’t have to accept my ride request, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he tells me, but something unspoken lingers between us as he entwines his fingers together in his lap and relaxes into his chair. “So.” He draws the word out a little and looks around the restaurant. “Why can’t you be mad at me?”

  “Well,” I say, sitting back in my chair, “I suppose I can be. Vegan for the animals?”

  “Why else would I be vegan?” He winks.

  I smirk back. “Right answer.”

  The waitress brings our drinks to the table and smiles. “Your food will be out shortly,” she says before returning to the back.

  I use the break in our conversation to peek around the place. It’s quaint, with a U-shaped diner bar in the middle and tables all around. The area is joined by a separate room that has a muffin and pie display case, and everything in it looks delicious.

  “This place isn’t bad for my first stop,” I muse.

  “Your first stop?” he asks.

  Instead of answering right away, I dig into my purse and remove my itinerary. Then I slide it across the table to him.

  “Portobello, Blossoming Lotus, The Sudra…” He catches my gaze. “Are you having an ‘eat your way through Portland’ day at all the vegan-friendly restaurants or something?”

  My mouth opens, and my eyes go wide. “That’s exactly what I called it in my head!”

  He reads through the rest of the list. “It’s a good plan. But, FYI, Prasad and Harlow are sister restaurants, so their menus are basically the same.”

  “But they’re worth visiting?”

  “I’d choose one if you only have the day,” he says, looking up at me though his head is tilted down toward the paper on the table.

  It feels like a leading-the-witness inquiry. His gaze is full of questions, but I came here to have a good time by myself. What’s the point of running away from a suffocating situation only to mire yourself down with another one?

  Somehow, though, I don’t think he’d suffocate me. He keeps me on my toes with his smartass remarks and witty comebacks. And, well, he’s vegan. For. The. Animals.

  I’m not committing to anything though. That’s what made me run away in the first place. So I don’t answer.

  “Thanks.” I reach across the table and pick my itinerary up. “Which one do you think I should go to after this?”

  But the waitress brings our plates out from the back and I start rethinking my plan. Nicolas ordered me so much food!

  “Here you go,” the waitress says as she sets our meals on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Sriracha,” he and I say at the same time. Then we look at each other and laugh. “Jinx” we tell each other in unison. And laugh again.

  She grins at us. “How long have you known each other?”

  Nicolas checks his watch. “Not even an hour,” he says.

  “And you’re ordering for her already?” she asks him, a hand on her hip.

  He glances at me and then tells her, “Well, she’s eating her way through Portland’s vegan restaurants. She needs to try the best of the best. And I know a thing or two about this subject.”

  “He better,” I chime in. “Though, by the looks of it”—I gesture to my food—“he’s not lying. It looks great. Thank you.”

  “You two enjoy,” the waitress says. “I’ll be back with the Sriracha.”

  I waste no time before digging in. “Mmmmm,” I moan around a mouthful of French toast. “Yep. You do know a thing or two about this.” I push my list back toward him. “I guess can I trust your opinion now. What other restaurants should be on my need-to-go list?”

  The waitress returns with our hot sauce, and after he’s squirted a sufficient amount on his potatoes, he asks for a pen. I hand him one, and he gets to marking my list.

  “There,” he says. “I’ve marked the musts off.” But, instead of handing my itinerary back to me, he stuffs it in his pocket. Then he goes back to eating like that wasn’t my list.

  “What are you doing?” I ask mid-Sriracha squirt on my own potatoes.

  “Well,” he says. Takes a bite of his burrito. Chews. Swallows. Points at me with his fork. “You seem to need transportation to these places.” He scoops up another bite. “And I happen to know a thing or two about that as well.”

  “And I’m supposed to get back in your car so you can chauffeur me around from restaurant to restaurant? You’re a stranger.”

  His hand—and his burrito—freeze halfway to his mouth. “You heard what you said, right? Back in my car. I was a stranger when you got in it the first time.” Then he takes another bite of his food.

  “Yes,” I say, cutting a chunk of French toast off. “A professional one. This seems…rather unprofessional.”

  He pins me with a stare. “And you,” he counters, “don’t seem like a girl who cares about professional. With your hippie skirt and your mermaid hair. Does your name happen to be Dandelion?”

  If my jaw drops one more time around this man…

  “I’d take offense to that,” I tell him, “if it weren’t such a compliment.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Now, eat your food. We have a big day ahead of us.”

  Chapter 2

  “Next stop: Harlow,” he announces as we walk out of Paradox Cafe.

  “I’m so full though,” I complain, holding my belly.

  “Whose idea was it to eat their way through Portland, huh?” He points in the direction of the car. “Don’t worry though. We’re only going to get juice. It’ll be like a palate cleanser or something.” Then he turns right, walking around the corner instead of toward his Prius.

  “Wait. Why aren’t we getting back in the car?” I ask, keeping my gaze on it as we pass it.

  “It’s a ten-minute walk, which is why this is the best place to go next.” He gestures with his head down the block.

  “Ugh,” I groan, but I shuffle on anyway. The idea of liquids instead of more solid food seems okay. For now.

  “Come on. You can do it.” He claps at me like it’s supposed to be encouraging. “Geez. Good thing you didn’t rent a bike or something.”

  I stop and stare at him. It’s almost like he’s in my head, and it’s becoming more than eerie.

  When he notices I’m not with him anymore, he turns and asks, “You thought about it, didn’t you?” while walking backwards.

  I just shake my head at him and continue on.

  Ten minutes later—as promised—we arrive at Harlow. Thank goodness it didn’t take too long, because I was too full to even make small talk as we strolled down the beautiful Portland sidewalks.

  He’s rig
ht though. This was my idea. But I thought I’d eat some food, not half of a menu in one sitting. Then I imagined I’d take a break between and sit in a food coma before moving on. I didn’t think I’d eat my way to a food death.

  “Just juice,” he reminds me as he opens the door for me. “You can do it.”

  I slug my way through the door, but the wooden, rustic inside of this restaurant wakes me up and renews my senses. Benches, chairs of all different styles, and tables of many lengths take up the space. A row of chandeliers lines the ceiling, and greenery hangs from floating shelving above the bar area.

  I picture myself writing poetry here. Having community meals at one of the long tables with benches here. Meeting Nicolas for coffee here.

  Whoa. Hold up a sec.

  “You okay?” he asks. “I didn’t think French toast would make you sick.”

  I meet his gaze and shake myself out of my unusual thoughts. “I’m fine. Juice.” Then I point to a table.

  He raises an eyebrow at me, but I ignore it and stride past him, taking a menu on the way. When I go to sit, he stops me.

  “Sorry, but they want you to order before you take a table,” he says. “Those are the rules.” He gives me a cute grin. “You’ll learn.”

  I’d find it cuter if I weren’t, well, me right now.

  In an effort to have some space away from him, I decide to keep tradition. “Okay, then. Since you’re so good at this, order something for me. But nothing with too much ginger.” I dig in my purse, pull a ten-dollar bill out, and hand it to him.

  “All the ginger they have. Got it.” He winks, takes the money, and spins around to approach the counter.

  I sit at the table—rules be damned—and pick at my nails. Crazy—this whole thing is. This whole trip is. This whole morning is. This whole everything is. My whole life is. Yet again, I’m getting ahead of myself. I mean, it’s not like I started planning our fiftieth wedding anniversary party or anything, but still. This is the story of my life—I move too fast for people. I scare them off and freak them out. They go running for the hills, and I go…running for Portland, apparently.