Grady’s voice lowered and he hissed into the phone, “Patricia is about to give herself an aneurism. You’re already twodayslate.”
“I know, I know. It was unavoidable.”
“I checked traffic between SeaTac and Foothills, and you should be clear.”
“Um… I’m in Portland.”
“What?”
“That’s all they had.” He turned at the sign pointing toward rentals and wove through a scattered cluster of lost tourists.
“You didn’t think to try another airline?”
“It’s spring break for half the schools in Arizona. I’m lucky I got the flight I got.”
“Just don’t get yourself killed making up time,” Grady muttered.
“I’ll be there,” Ryder said firmly. “I’m at the rental car desk. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
Ryder stuffed his phone in his pocket and slid to a halt at the desk. “Hi. Ryder Mallory. I hope you have my information; I transferred my reservation from Seattle.”
Moving with music no one else could hear, the rental desk attendant didn’t respond, but started typing in sync with the inaudible tune. His red braid swished over his back, loose hairs littering the uniform black polo.
Ryder fisted his hand on the desk before he started tapping impatiently. Was he being ignored, or had the guy not noticed him? Smile lifting to match the man’s upbeat mood, Ryder debated repeating himself.
“Ryder Mallory. Gotcha.” So he had heard. Hands lifting dramatically for the big finish, the attendant rocked out the final notes and spun a screen toward him. “Sign a few hundred times for me, and I’ll get you on the road.”
Ryder flipped through the routine swiftly.
“Looks like the premium you reserved is not available. Would you prefer a minivan or an economy?”
Heart sinking lower, Ryder swallowed the grimace and winced pleasantly. “I’m in a huge hurry. Which is faster?”
“Assuming you won’t exceed the legal limit…” the guy said, still swaying as he dug out a key from the drawer. He passed it over and dangled it in front of Ryder. “The economy is going to be your friend.”
Ryder plucked the keys up and said, “Thanks.” He dashed out the door, and any hope of picking up lost time on the drive spilled all over the asphalt as a shiny orange covered-lawnmower pulled up. Fuck.
The next attendant left the door open and smiled brightly for the exchange.
At five-foot-ten, Ryder wasn’t exactly a giant, but he felt like it in the Micromachine. He dumped his backpack in the back seat and laid his garment bag over the front passenger seat. Folding his body into an origami-like contortion, he squeezed inside and felt around under the seat, finally finding the manual lever and slid the seat back so his knees didn’t straddle the steering wheel.
The engine was quiet, at least. He zipped out of the parking lot and made his way to the interstate. As soon as he hit sixty, the engine whined like a mosquito. And kept whining. The whole. Fucking. Drive.
An hour in, he called Grady. In the background, he heard delighted laughter and chatting, some familiar voices, and others he didn’t recognize. Grady’s voice was strained, but he at least pretended to understand, even though Ryder knew he didn’t. The quiet life had claimed Grady. Now a business partner for a small-town microbrewery, he was happily married to the love of his life—the woman had dumped Ryder for his blond, perfectly imperfect brother.
Ryder drew in a long breath and loosened his hands on the wheel. He wasn’t actually bitter about how things turned out. Claire was amazing, but they hadn’t had a damn thing in common, and he’d been a shitty boyfriend.
As soon as he got that promotion, the fat paycheck and executive hours, he could be a good brother. He’d say again, but fuck, they’d been little kids when he might have last achieved that accolade.
Once that promotion eased his schedule, he might even find a partner and be a decent boyfriend. Maybe even do the normal thing and have kids and a life; the things he’d planned on with Claire. The seltzer campaign had better be that golden ticket. Thirty-three years old, and he was done hustling.
Instead of shopping centers and factories and housing developments, he drove through miles upon miles of farmland. Instead of a flood of neon signs, he drove past a single, bizarre sign insulting the liberals in Olympia and something about global warming being a hoax. Charming.
Then the state capital itself, green and lovely. Mid-day, traffic was light. As he wove through Tacoma, the notorious paper mill aroma hit him, too late to turn the air on recirculate, and nothing but time could rescue his sense of smell.
Then Fife. Good to be home. Or not, but it was a good milestone. Traffic thickened and lanes widened, and he had to get creative, but he kept the buzzing engine steady as he exited.
