Pitch Perfect(36)

Coming from Chicago, Emmy had believed she was made of stronger stuff. They didn’t call it the Windy City for nothing, and when a cold gust came in off the lake, it was like living inside a cruel science experiment.

She was starting to appreciate that San Francisco was just a different iteration of the same experiment. The fog would creep in over the mountains and slither down through the streets, and the wind would come up from the Bay. There were days she didn’t see daylight and might have preferred to wear a winter jacket instead of a summer dress.

Strange place, the City by the Bay.

Emmy strolled up to her favorite coffee place and joined in the huge queue. There wasn’t a Starbucks in sight in the Mission, and she sort of liked that. Starbucks required no guesswork to her coffee, but there was no element of happy surprise either. She couldn’t sample something new every day and determine what she did and didn’t like.

This place, Philz, was different. They had about fifty roasts on the menu, and would grind the beans and hand pour the coffee made-to-order. She’d never known how many different milks and sweeteners existed. She almost felt guilty for liking her coffee black when someone else ordered a light roast with agave syrup and almond milk. It sounded so exotic.

It was probably disgusting, but it sounded amazing.

She pulled out her phone while the line slowly advanced and flicked through her work emails. A few questions from the management staff about Chet’s injury the night before, the standard stuff she got every morning in response to her nightly reports, an interview request from a women’s magazine—more fallout from Simon’s article—and an email from her father’s girlfriend, Melody.

What was Melody doing sending her an email?

It was one line, but the few words were ones that shouldn’t have been delivered by email.

Emmy, Vin had a heart attack. Chicago General.

Her father was in the hospital and his idiot girlfriend couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone? That’s what happened when a septuagenarian dated someone younger than Emmy.

She backed out of line, stumbling into the person behind her and apologizing without even seeing them. Out in the street the fog was creeping down, turning the morning light an ashy-gray color. Emmy clutched the phone in her hand, not sure what to do next.

Her first thought was to call Simon, but it was still a little early in Chicago, and there’d been a late White Sox game the night before. For some stupid reason Emmy thought it would be rude to wake him if he’d been working into the wee hours. If she was going to fly home—of course she was going to fly home—she’d call him from the airport in Denver and have him meet her at O’Hare.

But what was she supposed to do here? She didn’t know anyone in San Francisco. She had nobody here to calm her down and tell her this was all going to be okay.

She tried calling Melody, but her father’s girlfriend didn’t pick up, either because of the time or because something terrible had happened to Vincent and Melody was afraid to answer Emmy’s call.

Emmy stared at her phone. She was standing on the sidewalk on 24th Street, and there was a BART station barely a hundred feet away. She should get on a train. She should go somewhere. Find Jasper and have him take her to the airport.

Instead she tabbed to the contact list on her phone and called Tucker Lloyd.





Twenty minutes later Tucker pulled up in front of the coffee shop. Emmy hadn’t moved except to sit down on the park bench outside and stare stupidly at the street. She’d thought once or twice about going to the train station but changed her mind when she realized she’d get lost in thought and end up God knew where.

She considered walking home since it was only five minutes away, but her feet refused to follow through on the notion. So she stayed at Philz, with no coffee, and stared at her phone, waiting for something to happen.

When Tucker pulled up, she didn’t react to the presence of his car. He parked illegally in front of the shop and climbed out, coming to crouch in front of her on the bench. She was still holding the phone in both hands, the screen showing his profile.

“Do you need anything from home?” he asked.

“No.”

“A change of clothes, some ID?”

Emmy shook her head. Because she traveled so often she had a fast-pass for security which she kept in her wallet. It might not be the most secure place, but it meant she never lost the small, laminated card. It also meant she could leave for Chicago without needing to stop at home first.

“I can buy anything I need when I get there,” she assured him. Emmy glanced back down at her phone, where the photo of Tucker smiling looked very different from the Tucker in front of her. The real Tucker seemed tired, and his brow furrowed in unmasked concern.