Fury (12 page)

              “Okay,” he said softly.

              “Just let me grab my boots.”

He nodded his head.

              I ran to my room and threw my boots on then met him in the living room. He held the door open for me and I ducked under the frame and onto the creaky wraparound porch. We walked silently to his truck, and I got in the passenger side. It’d been several months since we’d ridden in a car together. It felt like years. I buckled myself in and lazily lifted a foot, resting my ankle on the knee of the opposite leg. When Dad got in, he glanced down at my feet, shaking his head.

              “Why don’t you wear real boots?” he asked me, starting the truck.

              I looked down at my brown leather combats. The top of the tongue was worn and flopped out a little. I didn’t lace them to the top of the boot because they felt too constricting so I stopped the laces at the ankles. I usually tucked my worn jeans into the top of the boot because it felt practical working in the fields. I smiled to myself. I’d seen a few commercials that showed men in New York were doing the same thing, but I doubt their motivations were the same.

              “Cowboy boots feel ridiculous on the foot to me. Besides, I’m a bit more rock’n’roll than country,” I admitted, staring out the passenger window.

He shook his head but smirked.

              We got on the road and I rolled my window down. The ride to Skyes was quiet. I used the time to think about what I could do about Finley. She wouldn’t call me and although I’d considered calling her, I’d quickly decided that would offend her. She didn’t like me stepping on her independence. I got that. I didn’t want to
force
her to come home, necessarily, I just didn’t want her in danger, and since I was used to demanding things from the people I cared for, I didn’t think it an unreasonable a request. I thought her outright refusal an overreaction.
Wasn’t it?

              Something dawned on me.

              I looked at my father. “Dad?”

              He glanced at me then back on the road. “Yeah?”

              “Do you think I’m a control freak?”

              “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

              The swiftness in his answer stung. I wrapped my arms around myself. “Seriously?”

              He nodded and I thought that would be the only response I’d get, but he spoke again. “You’ve been like that since… Well, since your mama passed, son.”

              That wasn’t what I had expected him to say. I figured he’d come back with some smart-ass answer. Delving into my psyche was not only
not
welcome, it was about to get shot right the hell out of the dang cab. I’d immediately regretted bringing it up and wished I’d kept my distance that morning instead of encouraging the little walk down memory lane. No doubt bringing Sykes up stirred up all kinds of retrospection...on both sides.

              I sank into myself a little, wondering if Dad had wanted to talk about Mom. Frankly, I didn’t want to do it. I wasn’t ready. I knew I’d never be ready, ever. My chest throbbed, even my skin seemed to retreat into itself. The mere idea of my mother made me shudder. I missed her with a violence I couldn’t quite voice. I yearned for her with a frightening ferociousness.

              I bit down hard, my jaw clenching, refusing to acknowledge the excruciating torment that was the absence of my mother.

              But my father had different ideas. “I’m sorry for you,” he said quietly.

              “I can’t talk about it yet, Dad.”

He looked at me with pity.

              I stared at him hard. “No! Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do that!” His eyes softened, turning almost glassy. I turned toward the window. “Don’t, Dad. Just don’t.”

              I heard him swallow. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, Ethan, it means I’ve done you quite an injustice.”

              Light tears leaked from my eyes despite my best efforts. “No,” I insisted. “Stop.”

              “I didn’t know how to handle your grief because I was blinded by my own. I failed you and-and I’m sorry for that.”

              “Stop,” I begged. I sighed, trying to keep myself in check. I dragged my palms down my face then back up again, tugging at my hair to distract myself.

              My dad shook his head and focused on the road. “Poor boy,” I barely registered, sending the pain spiraling deep into my belly.

              I let anger rise and take over. I clenched my jaw, steeling myself. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I demanded, my fists balling. “I’m not one to pity, old man.”

              He looked at me and his eyes told me he disagreed. He nodded his concession, but it did nothing to settle my unease. I was a control freak with mommy issues. I was pathetic, yes, but I didn’t want anyone’s pity, not even Dad’s. I was going to tow my grief alone because it was what I was comfortable with. To me, nothing beat familiarity, even if the familiar was agony.

CHAPTER TWELVE

              We sat in silence at Sykes, Delia buzzing about behind the counter. She eyed us warily, probably reading our body language. Correction,
my
body language. I was tense because my dad kept looking at me like he wanted to hug me, and I wanted to run the other direction. I loved my dad more than I loved myself but I couldn’t wrap my head around this newfound revelation of his. I was accustomed to the quiet, minimal conversationalist dad. Not that he’d been talking my ear off or anything, it was just more than I was used to hearing.

              Delia approached us cautiously. “Can I get you boys anything else?” she asked.

We both shook our heads and she walked off.

              “Have you talked to the Dyer girl?” he asked out of nowhere.

              “Not really,” I admitted.

              He took a sip of his coffee. “Why?”

              I sighed. “Because she’s pissed at me.”

              My dad winced. “Why the language, Ethan?” he asked before continuing. “What did you do to her anyway?”

              I stared at my plate, pushing eggs around with my fork. “I sort of demanded she come home.”

His cup clinked on its saucer, startling me, and I looked at him.

              “Why would you do that?” he asked.

              “I found out the place she’s volunteering at is dangerous. Like,
she could die
kind of dangerous.”

              He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why would she take a risk like that?”

              “Because it’s incredibly important to her. It means something to her.”

              Understanding dawned on him and he shook his head. “That poor girl.”

              I found myself feeling defensive. “You don’t have to feel sorry for Finley, Dad. She’s literally the strongest person I know. She helped me out of the dark hole I’d dug for myself and that was a feat, let me tell you.”

              He nodded. “I’ll be grateful to her forever for that. I tried so hard to help you, Ethan. I’d wished every day I could have fixed it for you.”

              “No one could fix it for me but myself, old man. She just made me see what I’d been so blinded by. She’s an enlightener. I don’t think anyone else could have done it.”

              He looked at me, his lips pursed in a thin line, his brows furrowed. “You should contact her then and apologize.”

              I shook my head. “I don’t think so. She was peeved I’d found out where she was. If I called, I think she’d flip. If she wanted to talk to me, she’d have called already.”

              He sat up in his stool, folding one arm under the other and using his free hand to roll the broken paper binding that had bound his utensils together.

              “How dangerous is it? This thing she’s doing?”

              I looked at him square in the eye. “The organization’s leader is being hunted by his opposition and the government there isn’t really doing anything to help him.”

              He squeezed his eyes together and shook his head. “You should go there. Protect her.”

              I looked at my dad like he was crazy. “
What?
”

              “Ethan,” he spoke steadily. “She needs to do what she’s doing. You obviously care for her. You’re very
capable
, son,” he said, emphasizing the word
capable
, implying something else unspoken. “You also don’t have anything going on right now. Take your savings, buy a one-way ticket and get gone, boy.”

              I stared at my father, realizing for the first time that although he was a steadfast, quiet man, he was no fool. He observed with a keen eye. He memorized and analyzed. He would have been quite an asset, I believed, to the FBI or CIA.

              And he was right. I was very
capable
. I knew if I went to her, I could most definitely guard Finley. I could help her fulfill this insane desire of hers.

              I let out a deep, even breath. “You’re right.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

              I’d sat at the airport in Seattle for seven hours, desperate to board my plane to Seoul. I couldn’t believe I was flying to Vietnam. Once I’d decided to do it, I didn’t hesitate. I knew if I hadn’t bought the tickets, I’d have convinced myself I was overstepping, so I just purchased them without thinking. I tried calling Finley but she didn’t answer and the place she was working at, Slánaigh, didn’t have a direct line that I could find. It was almost completely unheard of, I’d discovered. I assumed that was because they didn’t want information about where they were, etc., getting out to the ones they opposed.

              I’d just nodded off in my plastic, uncomfortable bench airport chair, when I heard them call for my flight. My nerves immediately shot off like a rocket, adrenaline waking every single fiber of my body. I stood in line, jittery and, frankly, from the expressions a few people around me, I’m pretty sure they thought I was up to something. When I made it to the front, I handed the woman my ticket, she scanned it and gestured with a swift flick of her hand for me to move forward.

              The flight over the Pacific, was uneventful, though long as hell. When I landed in Korea, I realized what a douche I must have seemed to Finley when she’d called me. I was dead tired and irritable and couldn’t believe I only had a two-hour layover before I’d needed to be on yet another plane to Hanoi. That flight, thank God, would only be four and a half hours, a bit more tolerable than the eleven-hour flight to Seoul.

              Once I’d de-planed, I passed by a row of pay phones, recognizing them as the ones Finley must have rang me from. When I passed the last phone, I had a vision of a tall, earthy, beautiful Finley leaning against the platform the phone sat on, twirling her hair around her index finger as she so often did, talking to me. I smiled to myself.
Fantasizing about her
? I shook it off.
Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

              I boarded the plane to Hanoi with little to no plan on how I was going to find Slánaigh once I got to
Hạ Long City. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to find her the morning I landed. I knew the locals would either have no idea what I was talking about or, as I more strongly suspected, would act like they didn’t know. Because of this, I prepared myself to stay the night in a nearby hotel if I had to.

              My first impressions of Hanoi was that their airport didn’t differ all that much from any you’d find back home. It was clean and architecturally similar and they were also kind enough to have an English translation on all their signs, which helped with how nervous I was already feeling. I could not believe I was in Vietnam.
Finley’s gonna kill you, dude. Like, kill you dead.

I stood by my baggage claim area hoping to see my bag as quickly as possible. It helped that I was a foot taller than those around me. It didn’t help the anxiety coursing through my veins that all those eyes were on me, though.
Yes, yes
, I wanted to say.
I’m a behemoth
.

Thankfully, my bag was the second out on the conveyor and when I excused myself, the other travelers parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

“Great, I’m a novelty,” I said to no one.

Three preteen girls gasped then giggled, their hands glued to their mouths, when I smiled at them in a friendly gesture. They began speaking a mile a minute in continuous tittering, eyeing me like they’d never seen anything like me before. I retreated into myself as I grabbed both my bags and swung them onto the floor below. I turned to make my escape but there was nowhere to turn. Bodies filled every square inch around the revolving carousel.

“Jeez,” I said, unsure of what to do, but with that one word everyone around me scattered. “What is going on?”

“They’re afraid of you,” a chuckling man with a thick accent beside me answered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Have you seen you?” he answered, his eyes popping open in mock surprise.

“I’m tall, but that’s not
that
unusual.”

“It’s not just your height,” he explained, eyeing the revolving bags for his own. “It’s your size.”

I looked down at myself desperate to see what they saw. I looked around me. No one was taller than five foot five or so, but they were also very lean, thin.
Ah, I get it
. I was the proverbial American male to them. Broad shoulders from working the fields for years and all that comes with it. I’m sure my hair didn’t help either.

I threw my bags over my shoulder to the delight of the group of preteen girls which made my eyes roll and headed toward a sign that signaled exchange services. I converted a hundred American dollars into, I shit you not, two million one hundred twenty-one thousand five hundred Vietnamese dong.

The exchange agent spoke English, so I took advantage. “Excuse me, do you know the best way for me to reach Hạ Long Bay?”

“There are many options,” she explained, rummaging through a pile of pamphlets on her desk and pulling out one what looked like a schedule. It was in Vietnamese, though. “There’s a minibus that leaves here in half an hour that goes to Hạ Long City. You can also rent a taxi or motorbike.”

“How far away is it?” I asked, considering the taxi route.

“About one hundred forty-five kilometers. By taxi, it would take about two and half hours. The minibus is less expensive but an hour is added onto your trip.”

“How much for the taxi do you think?”

“Around eighty-five American dollars.”

I inwardly sighed. The idea of getting on yet another contraption full of strangers for hours made me cringe, but I didn’t have the cash for the taxi. I spent most of my savings on the plane ticket and the rest I had saved to support myself the months I would be there with Fin.

“Where’s the minibus at?” I asked.

She pointed me in the direction of the little station. I needed to find the bus that read Hạ Long City and I could pay the driver, she had explained. I dragged my canvas luggage onto my shoulders and huffed it to the bus terminal as quickly as possible. I apparently had less than fifteen minutes to get to the bus or I risked waiting another two hours to catch the next one. And the terminal was ten minutes away. That fact panicked me. I’d had enough of traveling.

When I reached the minibus, I was thoroughly out of breath but I got there in less than five minutes carrying two fairly heavy canvas duffels. There was a line of people so I joined in, dumping my bags at my feet.

I read the fare was two-hundred twenty thousand dong. I did a quick calculation in my head and realized it was only about ten dollars, which relieved me. Nervous butterflies took residence in my stomach at the thought of seeing Finley. I couldn’t decide if it was because it was just the thought of seeing her or if I was afraid of how
she’d
react to seeing
me
. A little of both, I finally reasoned.

I paid the fare and boarded the bus, catching a window seat in the very back. As we left the airport, the lulling chatter of the passengers around me subdued my unease and I took in the country that was Vietnam.

Right off the bat, I thought it a magnificent place. The people were beautiful and stylish and the land seemed to match them. I got a kick out of the fact that their street workers wore those conical leaf hats. Later, I would find out they were called
nón lá. There were motorbikes
everywhere
. I winced when I saw a very pregnant woman on one but I supposed that was normal for their people.

Entering the highway was beyond scary. Instead of the entrance ramps I was accustomed to, it was a free-for-all from what I could tell. I’d noticed incessant honking since we’d left the airport and it seemed even more outrageous in the cluster of vehicles trying to maneuver past one another. I sat up, white-knuckling the seat bar in front of me. When we got through, I looked around me and almost burst out laughing at all the slack Westerner jaws with their wide eyes.

To me, the highways and regular city streets weren’t at all different. The speed limits seemed the same to me but then again, I couldn’t read the signs indicating the rate. Though we did share the Roman numeral system, it was hard to guess what meant what.

We had reached the city proper in under an hour and the driver had explained in broken English that we would be stopping for a half hour break so they could refuel and we could eat something or shop. When I left the bus, I was
amazed
at the bustling life all around me. It was intimidating to say the least. Strangely, they carted around massive amounts of cargo on the back racks of their motorbikes. What looked like a giant sphere worth of wicker baskets came barreling through everyone, surprising me, and making me laugh. The woman driving the small motorbike looked on a mission. Cars, motorbikes, and bicycles alike shared the streets in a chaotic battle to further their efforts. Horns bombarded my ears like buzzing bees. Every inch of the Old Quarter seemed to hum, actually. Small alleyways were packed with people and street vendors.

The street food alone, I could tell, was enough to warrant a visit to Vietnam. Each peddler seemed to specialize in their particular fare. Later I would discover just how in love with the food I would become. From the obvious but wonderful Phở bò with chili sauce to the Cơm tấm or broken rice to the Xôi or sticky rice. The popular Bánh mì or baguette and the gỏi bò which is a papaya salad you would die for. Vietnam is a type of food heaven.

I jutted down a popular alleyway where I happened upon a drive-in ice cream parlor. People sat perched on their motorbikes or scattered around talking and eating. I was enthralled by it all.

I passed a long stall full of eaters and came upon some sort of fresh food market. Loud voices carried through and around me as I sort of turned about and absorbed my surroundings. I hadn’t any clue how incredible the culture of Vietnam was, and I was mesmerized.

I left the alleyway I was in and followed a main street past incredibly narrow shops chock full to the brim, even spilling onto the sidewalks, with merchandise to purchase. Many of the shops were so compact, I couldn’t even stand upright in them. It was a claustrophobic’s nightmare but also entertaining.

Amid the shops sat small sections of tables and stools between street vendor setups that sat so low to the ground I thought they were there for children until I saw full-grown adults perched on the stools, chopsticks in hand, laughing and eating.

I paid a dollar and a half for a bowl of Phở that came with a fried spring roll that practically melted in my mouth. I stood beside the street vendor, holding my bowl and chopsticks, smiling like an imbecile unsure of where I was supposed to go or do once I’d received my food. She laughed at me and signaled toward a girl who looked like her daughter. The girl marched over to me, forcefully sat me in a shallow stool made for a four-year-old very near the curb and barked Vietnamese at me but smiled, so I assumed it wasn’t a death threat. Motorbikes zipped past me. It was scary and not relaxing in the least, but I wasn’t about to argue with the girl because I could tell everything I was experiencing was Vietnam.

The girl left then returned with a bottle of chili sauce and a small bowl of cut limes. She took my chopsticks from me and I watched as she ran the limes up the length of each chopstick, handed them back to me, then ran off again.

If you had told me a week before that I’d be sitting on the side of the road in Vietnam with a bowl of Phở on a stool made for a baby, I’d have had you committed. I wasn’t well versed with a pair of chopsticks but knew that practice made perfect, so I laughed at myself and dug in. I noticed that the locals didn’t let their mouths touch the sticks, which truly boggled my mind. I attempted it but was not that successful.
I was a fumbling idiot at first but by the end of the meal, I had them down pretty well.

Refreshed by the food and the people-watching, I headed back to the minibus right about the time everyone else was arriving. Once I stepped back on that bus, though, the tension began to build.
Two hours until I see Finley
.

The drive to
Hạ Long City was nothing short of surreal. The vegetation was so different from what I was accustomed to and it drew my eye.
It was probably one of the greenest parts of the earth I had ever seen with tall, plush trees and grasses tucked against buildings and roads. It was as if life found every nook and cranny and shoved themselves inside.