Page 24 of Life After You

“Right. That totally sounds like Mac,” I deadpan.

Sam chuckles. “Alright, whatever. You’ll find out soon enough.”

I sigh. “How’s Phil taking all this?”

A dark laugh crackles over the line. “Phil’s losing his goddamn mind. Contracts, agreements, expectations—you know, the usual disappointment speech. He wanted you in a studio yesterday. That cover last night? Blew up, bro. Like, seriously. I don’t even know if we can call it a cover—it was something else.”

“Fucking Phil,” I mutter. Then, softer, “And thanks, man.”

“Anytime.”

I glance at the road sign. Portland, 20 miles.

“I’ll call you when I find her,” I say.

“Alright, brother. Take it easy. I’m gonna go throw something at Trey.”

A smirk tugs at my lips as the call disconnects.

Twenty minutes to go.

And then I’ll have to face whatever the hell I find.

I have a real surreal moment just before crossing into Oregon when the I-5 takes me through Vancouver, Washington.

Get your own fucking names, I grumble, gripping the wheel tighter. For miles, I feel completely disoriented, not a hundred percent sure I’m even in the right place. The confusion sticks with me all the way into Portland, my head still in a fucking state as I turn onto the 405 Stadium Fairway.

The Willamette River slides beneath me, slow and steady, as I trundle forward.

Portland’s got a lot more green than I expected, trees growing up between high-rises like nature is trying to reclaim the city. I half-expected to stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of silent Priuses, but there are plenty of normal gas-guzzlers crowding the roads too. Still, I might’ve gotten off the I-5 too soon—I’m gonna have to meander through city traffic to get to Old Town, where Mac was last seen.

Faded lampposts with Victorian-style heads line the streets, giving me flashes of Gastown back home, their ornate designs a little out of place against the grittier parts of the city. Coffee shops and so-called “taverns” dot nearly every block. If you everasked someone out for coffee here, you’d better have a go-to spot, or it’d take all damn day to pick one.

Not that I’m here for a coffee date.

The GPS chimes, announcing I’ve arrived.

I glance at the pin on the map, my stomach tensing. Mac’s last known location.

It’s a nondescript street, one of those places that could be anywhere in America. There’s an old-school auto shop right where the pin dropped and a diner a little further down. Perfect. I can park the Charger by the shop, let it blend in, and skulk around on foot.

That way, at least, she won’t hear the old girl prowling and bolt before I even lay eyes on her.

Fuck.

I’m here now. No turning back.

One of the mechanics thuds toward me, wiping grease-streaked hands on a rag. He’s built like a linebacker, his expression quizzical as he takes me in.

The shop looks like it’s been plucked straight out of the ’80s—faded signage, oil-streaked windows, the faint tang of gasoline in the air. Out front sits a shiny red Porsche that looks like it doesn’t belong. The thing smells like it just came off a track, heat still radiating from the hood.

“First time out in a while?” the guy rumbles, eyeing the Charger.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“She’s a beauty. Service?”

I exhale, debating. “Not sure how long I’ll be in town.”

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