Page 33 of The Amazing Date

“We have about ten minutes until we land. I’ve never been to Seattle and am going to enjoy this view as we come in for a landing. You only get one first time. Will you relish in the moment? Or let it slip away buried in a book that will be tossed in the garbage tomorrow? Don’t throw away opportunities when they appear. You never know if or when you’d get a second chance.”

I turn to face the window, my eyes glazing over as my words ricochet back to me, and I must face the hidden truth buried in my words.

Chapter 21

Rylee

“Let’s go,” I bark as the train approaches Pioneer Square. I spotted Ronnie and Thelma at the far end of the train when we boarded. Thankfully, the train is packed, and Roberto didn’t see them; otherwise, he’d be over there joking and trading stories about how I have a stick up my ass and need to relax.

The engaged couple, Trey and Brooke, are nowhere to be found, and we assume they took a cab. With any luck, they are stuck behind a three-car pile-up. Wow, that was harsh. Maybe Roberto is onto something.

We’re the first ones off the train, Roberto finally cooperating and remaining silent and following. I wish I could clone this version of him for the rest of the race. We dodge around the tourists and make short work of the run to the address. We’ve built up a nice lead on team old people.

Roberto points to the It Take Two clue box against a building that advertises Bill Speidel’s Underground Tour. I pull out a clue from the box, counting the remaining envelopes. “We’re in second place,” I state and step away from the box, not wanting to tip off the other teams of the location of the box. “That means only the blondies are ahead of us.”

We stop in front of Doc Maynard’s Public House next door and rip open the clue. “Welcome to Seattle. After the great fire of 1889, Seattle rebuilt on top of the old city now known as the Underground, a series of subterranean storefronts and sidewalks from the original cities. With Pioneer Square as the birthplace of Seattle, we have placed ten world-famous Seattle natives scattered throughout the tunnels. Mixed among the crowd are tourists, workers, and decoys. You must enter the underground and locate three famous natives of Seattle—living or dead. All you can ask is for them to follow you. Once you have retrieved them, lead them to the Starbucks at the following address for your next clue.”

“Only three?” Roberto asks, gazing across at the entrance to the Underground. I nod, and we head to the entrance. “I’ll purchase the tickets,” he says, looking at the board.

I scan the city guide again; I had dog-eared several of the pages, including one listing famous people from Seattle. I refresh my memory; the names Bill Gates, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Rainn Wilson, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain leap out. There are a few other sports stars and older Hollywood names that ring with familiarity, but I have no clue what they look like. Hopefully, Hollywood-adjacent-living Roberto can spot the stars.

The attendant rips our tickets, and we enter, climbing down the narrow steps. The base of the steps opens to a cavernous concrete room that has black-and-white framed charcoal drawings of the old city. Horse-drawn carriages, trolleys, and storefronts of what the old city looked like prior to the fire. I recognize the style of the drawings, the same style in which Roberto specializes. I brace for his reaction.

“Wow,” Roberto utters and steps to one of the drawings. I catch his gaze of awe but notice him squeezing his right hand down by his hip. Open, close, open, close, and twist of his wrist. My heart breaks. I know he must be envisioning drawing right now. The injury to his hand has shredded his confidence. The injury that was all my fault.

Gabby explained to me some of his early struggles but then stopped sharing once Roberto took the job painting portraits. It’s a job the Roberto I used to know would have never taken. I can still hear the contempt dripping from his mouth years ago when talking about the factory-assembled portraits. Too pedestrian, too rote, something a true artist would never do. And by the silence and look in Gabby’s eyes whenever the subject has been broached, I know it’s a sore point.

Guilt lies like a weighted blanket on my shoulders. I’m the one responsible for Roberto’s choices. The injury to his hand caused him to do things he would never have before. My remorseful feet slow, afraid to pull Roberto away from the charcoal sketches too quickly. I stop just behind him and peek over his shoulder.

While I’m drawn in by the city life, I’m sure he’s mesmerized by the artist’s rendition and talent. He once attempted to explain to me brushstrokes, blending, bleeding, and a dozen other technical terms which flew over my head. I know he could write a dissertation on each element of drawing, but we don’t have time.

I tap him on the elbow. “This way.” He stares for an additional moment before following me through the narrow doorway.

The next room is a wood-plank-covered corridor. On both sides are dirt-covered floors, the walls old, faded pink bricks with cutouts for what must’ve been doorways and windows to the storefronts. The cool, damp air blows across my exposed legs. A tingle raises up the hair on my arm, and I feel the ghost of past residents. It smells of dampness and mildew, and I wonder if there is an underground river located nearby.

Exposed Edison lights hang from the ceiling, providing barely adequate lighting as we follow the planked walkway. The corner of the room is dimly lit, reminding me of a shadowy carnival exhibition where creepy clowns hop out. Roberto ducks when we enter a passageway to one of the storefronts. I can’t believe this entire cityscape exists directly under modern-day Seattle. It’s astonishing that something so wonderful and beautiful has been a few feet away all this time.

The next room looks like a main dining hall of a saloon. The preserved counter bar dominates the room, and several people mill about off the planked walkway. These must be the characters to our challenge. My eyes scan the room, and I snort out a laugh.

“What?” Roberto asks, and I point to the black man behind the bar with the large black fedora. Gold chains adorn his neck, and his beard is trimmed into a goatee.

“Sir Mix-a-Lot,” I whisper.

Roberto’s hand smacks softly against my backside. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your tight running shorts and the magnificent ass.” I freeze, shocked at his brazen move but more shocked at myself for enjoying it. I bend my knees and wiggle my rear in his direction, hoping for another tap. His hands wrap around my hips, and he pulls me close to him, his lips next to my ear, another part of him poking me. “Keep it up and I’ll pull you into one of these dark corners and have you give me a proper lap dance.”

“I don’t think you can handle all of this.” I press back into him, and the growl on his lips is probably the best sound I’ve heard all week.

He takes a step back, taking with him his heat. “Babe, you have no clue what I can handle. Not a road you should travel unless you are prepared to pay the toll.”

I step toward Sir Mix-a-Lot but whisper back toward Roberto, “And all this time I thought I owned an E-Z Pass on your personal expressway.”

“Trust me, you and the word ‘easy’ don’t go together.” His words form clouds in my head. Confusion follows as I fail to decipher the meaning. “Will you follow me?”

“Always,” I whisper without thinking.

His snicker alerts me to my mistake. He is speaking to Sir Mix-a-Lot. “Not you, doll, but good to know. Let’s move.”

The three of us make our way through to the next storefront. Off to the side are original exposed plumbing, a metal bathtub, and a porcelain commode. Several people populate this room, one near a wood-burning stove. A painfully thin, young, white man with thick glasses and stringy hair stands in a corner staring at a wall while his fingers play with a slide ruler that looks as if it belongs in a museum.

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