Page 3 of Somewhere in Seattle

I had done that only one other time in my life. I had followed my heart about a writing project when I was in high school, and my teacher had adored it. She submitted it to several local papers, but nothing ever came of it.

The urge to write that story in high school was the same feeling I had about Rita. The problem was that I couldn't find any information about her. I hadn't asked Micah about her when I had the chance. I didn't even know what her last name was. That one bit of information would have changed everything for me. It would have saved me a ton of trouble.

I emailed Micah after the show, explaining myself and stating my intentions, but I never heard back from him. I figured he never even saw my email.

I was enough of a Micah Lacey fan that I knew he grew up in Utah but that he lived in Seattle when he got noticed. I was almost certain that Seattle was where Rita lived. But it was a gigantic city that was situated across the country, and I didn't have a lot to go on without a last name.

I had seen footage from a live concert where Micah mentioned working in and living near a sandwich shop once in his life, and one of his songs mentionedliving on the ends of other people's roast beef. I figured that Miss Rita and the roast beef were connected.

"And then, finally, I called this restaurant," I said, gesturing around us and talking to the man sitting next to me at the counter. "It was a guy who answered the phone, and I asked him what I asked everyone else… does Miss Rita work here, and he said she did, but she wasn't available right then. And I just knew I had found the right place. I asked if they sold roast beef and he laughed and said that was the main thing they sold here."

The man sitting next to me chuckled and pointed to the hand-painted sign that covered one wall. It matched the one on the front of the building and the windows. All of them said Jimmy's on 2nd, and in smaller letters, across the bottom of the logo, it saidYour Favorite Roast Beef.

He was exactly the type of guy I was expecting to meet in Seattle—a fisherman type. He had a full beard and scruffy hair, and he was wearing outdoor gear. He seemed to be about fifty and had introduced himself as Brian.

"And it was just like this one time when I wrote a paper on the water tower off Baker Road—all of the pieces were falling into place," I said.

"So, you're an investigative reporter?" he asked.

"No, no I'm not a reporter. I don't have any intentions for writing the story, other than I think it's interesting. I'm not trying to get famous or anything. I don't even consider myself a writer."

"What do you consider yourself?"

"I'm a bank teller, and I work at a restaurant part-time. But I don't think of myself as either of those things, really. They're just jobs. I'm just a girl right now, I guess. I'm figuring it out. I don't really have a lot going on in Oklahoma, other than working and trying to save money."

"And you came all this way to talk to Rita?"

I laughed. "Yeah, basically spending all of the money I've been saving. I was curious to see about that room, though. I thought it was a refuge for homeless people."

"I don't know anything about that," Brian said, looking upward. "I looked at one of the apartments here one time for my son, and he couldn't afford it."

"Oh, well, I don't know. I thought it looked like a nice building, too. I might be mistaken. I just need to talk to the lady. I tried to call, but I'm finding that if you want to talk to someone, it's better to do it in person. Plus, I had barely been outside of Oklahoma, so I figured I'd follow my curiosity and come see another part of the world."

"Pretty smart choice to come here in the middle of January." The deep voice had come from the guy at the end of the counter. It wasn't the first time I had noticed him. It wasn't even the second or third. He had been talking to the guy next to him, but I saw him when he tuned into my conversation. At first, I had good thoughts about him—I thought he was handsome. My waiter was a good-looking man as well, and those two guys had made me think about how jaw-dropping west coast men were.

I wasn't even sure what he said to me, but he was scowling when I glanced at him, so I asked him. "What did you say?" I asked, smiling, assuming the best.

"I said it's a really odd time of year to come here."

He ruined it when he spoke. He was being mean to me—saying that I had chosen a bad time to travel to Seattle. And maybe he was right. Maybe that was why tickets and hotel accommodations had been half price compared to the last two months and the next several. It didn’t matter. He was being so rude. I was taken aback by him eavesdropping and commenting on my conversation, and I turned to him and spoke with syrupy sweet sarcasm.

"Oh, do you work for Travelocity?" I asked, smiling and acting completely serious and trying to be as mean and sarcastic as he was. "Because I could use recommendations on a few other restaurants."

"I suppose anywhere would be fine," he said. He swiveled on his stool and looked at me. "Anywhere but here. You should mind your own business. Nobody wants an article written about them."

"Rita might want an article if it gives her and Jim publicity," Brian said.

"Do they look like they need that?" The hulking brute on the end was impatient, staring at me with a look of contempt.

"Hey, how's everything going over here?" It was my waiter who cut in with the comment. He had been across the way, talking to someone else, but he cut in because he could tell the customer was being cross with me.

"She's trying to reach Rita," the rude guy said, explaining.

"Oh okay, just leave your information on this, and I'll have Rita contact you when she gets back. In the meantime, can I get you one of our roast beef sandwiches?"

"I'd love one," I said.

"Half or whole?"

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