It seems most of Feathered Nest has the same idea. All the spots in front of the bar are full when I arrive. I have to drive around to the back of the tavern. I'm only partway down the alley when I notice two figures behind the building. Stopping, I look more closely and realize it's Jake and LaRoche. They're close together, speaking animatedly, but not loudly enough for me to hear them. Their gestures get bigger and angrier. It looks like Jake is doing exactly what I asked him not to and confronting the police chief about what I know. An instant later, LaRoche grabs Jake by the front of his shirt and slams him up against the brick wall of the bar. He brings his face close to Jake's and says something, then turns and stomps away.
Jake steps forward and combs his fingers angrily back through his hair, then turns and stalks back into the bar, slamming the door behind him. I put my car in reverse and back out of the alley. Now isn't the time for me to confront him anymore. I don't know what just happened between the two men, and I don't want rumors spreading among the regulars in the bar. The fewer people who know about my suspicions, the better. I'll wait until the bar closes and then talk to him.
Back at the cabin, I find myself unable to focus. I can't get my brain to settle down and concentrate. Finally, I curl up on the couch and put an old favorite movie on my computer. It's one I've seen probably a hundred times in my life, and I can repeat every line by heart. There's something soothing in that. The predictability takes away all anticipation and lets me just completely relax. My brain wanders, and I don't have to feel like I'm missing anything if I realize I've drifted into thoughts for any stretch of time. This is a technique I learned a long time ago when I couldn't get my thoughts to straighten out. Just having something familiar to rely on was often all it took to get myself back into a place where I could think.
That's not how it works this time. The next thing I know, I am waking up, and the cabin is dark. The only light I had left on before sitting on the couch was the kitchen, and it gives just enough light for me to see around the room. My computer screen has long-since gone into standby mode, and all around me, the cabin had fallen asleep with me. It's disorienting waking up and having no idea what time it is or how long I've been asleep. Rubbing the mouse pad on my computer, I wake up the screen and see it's already the middle of the night. My lack of sleep over the last several days must have finally caught up with me. I've been out for several hours.
Climbing off the couch, I stretch muscles and joints made tight and tense with staying in the same awkward position for too long. My throat is dry, and my lips feel sticky from the open-mouth position I tend to assume when I fall into a deep sleep. I can thank Bellamy for my knowledge about that. A particularly unflattering picture posted on the refrigerator in our tiny shared apartment was restitution for crashing in the middle of an all-nighter back in college. That image will never leave my memories or her rotation of embarrassing stories.
I make my way into the kitchen and squint as my eyes become accustomed to the light. Pouring myself a glass of water, I feel in my pocket for my phone. It's not there. I head back into the living room and see it sitting on the side table. I realize I left it there in my rush to return the key to Jake. It's blinking with a notification, and I see I have a text message sent to me hours ago. It's from Jake. I open it, half expecting a long, rambling explanation and plea for a second chance. Instead, there's only one sentence.
“It was Busch Gardens Tampa,” I whisper.
Pulling up a search engine, I type in the name of the amusement park. It opened decades earlier than Animal Kingdom, well enough time for Jake to have visited with his family when he was 7. The African theme of the park means his memories of the elephants are accurate. It was just the park that wasn't. I instantly feel guilty for snapping at him the way I did without even giving him the benefit of the doubt. Going back into the bedroom, I repack my bag and make my way to his house. He should be there by now, and I look forward to surprising him.
But when I drive up to the house, it's completely dark. His car isn't in the driveway. It's possible the bar is still going at this hour, but he should be wrapping things up soon. I'll just wait inside for him. Using the key from my pocket, I let myself into the house and drop my bag at the door to the living room. I turn on several of the lights to chase away the shadows and flip on the TV to bring some sound to the stillness. I haven't been in here enough to feel totally comfortable yet, but it will feel better when Jake's here.
Two reruns of a baking competition show later, Jake still isn't home. The patrons must have been harder to chase out into the cold tonight. Either that or he had several people he needed to escort home. I can only imagine after what I told him; he's going to be more on edge and want to keep track of as many of his customers as possible. Depending on how many he can stuff into his truck and if he can convince one of the bartenders to help him, it may take some time to get them all home safely. He's going to be exhausted when he gets here, and likely starving. I go into the kitchen and explore the refrigerator and cabinets trying to find something to make for him.
By the time the bowl of apples withering up in the corner of the counter has turned into pie, and a simple pasta sauce is simmering on the stove, it's late enough that I can't deny the worry creeping up the back of my neck. I wipe my hands on a towel I tucked into my belt loop and pick up my phone to call Jake. He doesn't answer. I call again, but there's still no answer. Telling myself he's probably just driving and doesn't want to be distracted by the call, I set my phone within easy reach and sit back down for more of the baking marathon. Ten minutes later, my phone rings.
Relief washes over me as I answer.
“Jake?”
“Sorry I missed your call. I was bringing some people home,” he says.
His voice is cautious, unsure of what to expect from me.
“That's what I figured you were doing. Will you be home soon?” I ask.
There's a slight pause.
“Are you at my house?” he asks.
“Yes. Along with an apple pie and a pot of pasta. Which you should absolutely eat in that order,” I tell him.
“I'm so glad you're there,” he sighs.
“Me, too. I'm sorry about earlier. I just… “
“It's forgotten. The magic of apple pie has done its work.”
“You haven't even tasted it,” I laugh.
“I don't have to. I know it's perfect because you made it. And apple pie is my favorite, so you've already got a lot going for you,” he tells me.
“Have any vanilla ice cream in the freezer at the bar?” I ask.
“I'll check. There's one more person waiting for a ride, and then I'll be there.”
“See you soon.”
I feel better as I hang up the phone. But as the minutes tick by and the headlights of his truck don't sweep over the wall, the good feeling starts fading. I try to push the returning worry away by getting up to boil the pasta, so it's hot and ready for him when he walks into the house. By the time it splashes into the colander, and I snag a wayward piece out of the drain, it has fully returned. Three unanswered calls turn the worry to fear.
The confrontation I witnessed between Jake and LaRoche comes back into my mind. My stomach twists into knots. Grabbing the key and my phone, I run out to my car and drive as fast as I can to Teddy's. I want to see cars and lights. People trying to convince Jake to let them in for one last drink to end the night. Jake standing outside, trying to help a drunken customer make his way to his truck so he can finally get him home.