8 Evie
8 Evie
? à L ? t, Vi ? t Nam
“Well, shit, that’s a long way down,” Evie says, a tug of trepidation in her voice. “Does it feel like they’re going really fast?”
“Normal speed,” the operator tells her, rolling his eyes ever so slightly up to the heavens. God save me from neurotic tourists , Evie imagines him thinking.
“What if they smack themselves against a tree trunk? Is it too soon to talk about Sonny Bono?”
Around her, blank stares and a thick green forest, through which the 2,400-meter alpine track winds like a silver snake. Trees
stretch on either side of the track, skinny and gray-barked. Truth be told, it’s more beautiful than menacing, but Evie isn’t
exactly a sporty human. Once, she managed to flip herself into a ditch while riding a visiting professor’s unicycle on a dare, resulting in
a very sheepish, muddy walk back to campus that no one ever let her live down. But Evie Lang has never stepped back from a
dare, which might explain why she’s standing here, watching a series of carts disappear through the forest.
She imagines herself falling off the track, plummeting into the impenetrable wilderness, though the operators assure her that
the course runs on a thoroughly tested electromagnetic system that has proved perfectly safe for thousands of rides.
She can see the announcement now: Beheaded before her first Wallace Stevens Award . As if she’d ever be in the running for that.
“Can I see the blueprints on this system?” she jokes to the straight-faced operator.
There’s a deep, taunting voice in her ear, equal parts sensual and irritating. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”
There it is again. The heat that rises along her neck. That squirmy, all-too-attentive feeling somewhere below her stomach.
It should be criminal for someone so annoying to be as attractive as he is.
“Please remove yourself and your cheesy aftershave from my immediate vicinity now,” she retorts.
Stepping back, Adam says indignantly, “This cologne was custom-made.”
“By some back-alley granny still using a vinegary old bottle of Red Door?”
The truth is, Adam smells great. A mixture of pine and laundry. Fresh, green, outdoorsy. And of course, he’s dressed perfectly
for the outing in a pair of joggers and a muscle tee, revealing his biceps and just a faint hint of pectorals. He probably has insane abs too, Evie finds herself thinking resentfully. She’s glad now for the yoga pants and workout tops that Lillian packed, though the
crop top is more revealing than she’d typically choose.
Riley gets in his cart. His hair flops boyishly over his eyes. “I’ll come back for you if anything happens. Bon courage, ma
belle.”
“Why is he speaking French?” Adam grumbles.
“Some people have culture,” Evie says.
Riley winks as he buckles himself up, and she has to admit, he’s awfully cute in a mildly dorky way. A man without ego. Refreshing.
Then it’s just her and Adam left.
The guide turns to them, visibly bored. “Together or separate?”
“Separate,” Evie splutters, while Adam just raises his eyebrow. “As far apart as we can get, actually. Maybe he can go without
a cart! His hard head will bounce him all the way down.”
“You’re sweet,” Adam says.
The operator helps her in, and she buckles herself up, steadying her feet against the interior of the cart. It’s completely open on all sides, which makes her feel a little vulnerable, though there are rails at least, farther down on the track. Before she takes off, the guide says something into his earpiece.
Then he announces, “The car behind us has broken down on the tracks.”
“Seriously?” Adam grits. “When will it be fixed?”
“Could be a few minutes. Could be an hour.” The operator shrugs.
Adam groans. “Typical Vi ? t timeline. Well—how do I get down, then?”
“Taxi? Running on the track? That hard head I heard about?”
Adam gives the operator a death glare.
The operator continues, “Or you could hop in with her , I guess.”
For a brief second, Evie considers zipping off without him. Leaving haughty Adam Quy ? n gaping in the dust. There’s a measure of undeniable satisfaction in the image. But instead, she gestures at the open seat
behind her in the coaster car.
“Hurry up, then.”
After he’s buckled in, she starts the cart at a very leisurely pace. At first, the rattling motion is unnerving, but then
she gets used to it. It feels comfortable and breezy, and if she ignores her passenger, she can imagine she’s alone in the
woods. It’s actually quite nice, she decides. Not scary at all.
But then she hears him sigh deeply. She’s basically sitting between his legs, an awfully intimate position. If she leaned
back just the littlest bit, she might feel his— Nope. She will not be thinking about that.
“You know a caterpillar just passed us?” he grumbles.
“Who cares? No one’s behind us to complain.”
“I care because I want to get to the waterfall before dark.”
“What happens after dark? You turn into a werewolf?”
“Can you just take your hand off the brake, please? The little kids riding on this track are going twice as fast as we are.
And keep the ride smooth. I don’t want to wind up stuck in a treetop because of you.”
“You don’t want to mess up your hair .”
“It’s good hair, what can I say?”
“I’m driving Mr.Diva,” she says to the treetops.
But she obliges, speeding up. The coaster slides through the trees, wind whooshing around them. Despite herself, she begins
to laugh, whooping as they gain speed. It’s like flying. When was the last time she had so much fun? Every time there’s a
slight drop, she leans back, jutting her elbows on Adam’s knees to steady herself. Is it just her, or do they tighten just
the tiniest bit? Protectively? No, just an instinct.
“Not so bad, is it?” he asks behind her. She looks back and spies a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Not the worst , I guess. It reminds me of the coasters on Kings Island, though I’ve never been much of a coaster girl.”
“Yeah, I don’t like them either. Make me queasy.”
“Adam Quy ? n, if you puke on me, I will make your sister add that to your dossier. ‘Really suave but gets carsick like a toddler.’”
“You think I’m suave? Correction: ‘really suave’?”
Evie doesn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. They near Riley’s car on the tracks, and she finally slows, coasting
them to a reasonable pace the rest of the way down to the waterfall. At one point, they’re so close to the edge of a drop
that she holds her breath. But then she feels Adam’s knee nudging her, and she relaxes. Some of the curves are abrupt, jostling
them in the car, but she’s grateful for the experience. She sends up a silent thanks to Auntie H ? o. I never would have had a chance to see this without you . Every minute she spends in Vi ? t Nam feels like a small bit of reclamation. Her dad’s heritage, hers again.
“So what’s your deal, Evie Lang?” Adam asks, interrupting her reverie. “Why are you here? And don’t try to talk your way out
of it.”
Somehow, on this quiet and scenic ride, she feels more inclined toward honesty. “It was a condition for an inheritance.”
“Let me guess: Asian relative?” She hears a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Naturally. My Auntie H ? o said I had to go on this tour before I could get the deed to her house.”
“Must be some house.”
“It is. A row house in San Francisco. The kind of real estate you’d do anything for. Three stories. Victorian architecture.
A real historic treasure in the middle of the Haight. Way too big for just me.”
“What are you going to do with this historic treasure?”
“No idea.”
But that’s a lie. She might not have a clear plan, but she has visions that she can’t chase away, despite their utter impracticality.
She thinks of long nights under a moonlit sky, music threading through the breeze, the smell of samosas and sourdough starter,
laughter rising and dying with the waning hours. She thinks of a desk near a window through which she can see the sprawl of
Buena Vista Park. She thinks of words spilling onto the page. Inspiration and joy and purpose.
But no house can give her these things, she realizes, finally sinking back to earth. Her dreams, as always, feel just out
of reach.
Adam asks brusquely, “So what, you marry some rich dude from the tour and live happily ever after in your row house?”
She wishes she could turn and look at him. “No way. Auntie H ? o wouldn’t make me do that. She never married, and she probably thinks I will never marry either. I think this is just an
experiment. Her beyond-the-grave dare. She was always challenging me. She thought I was meant for big things— love bravely , she liked to say.”
“Oh.” His voice softens. “Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Plus, I kinda got fired from my job. So I wasn’t doing anything this summer anyway.”
“That’s rough,” he says. Is she imagining it, or is that a faint hint of sympathy in his voice? “I’m sorry to hear it. Poetry
professor?”
“Generally,” she says. “I teach fiction too. Just a catch-all of literature to engage the young minds. What about you and
your Pushkin? You a poetry lover too?”
“I was reading his short stories. I’m not really a poetry person.”
“And what exactly is a ‘poetry person’?”
He answers, “I don’t know. Someone broody. Emotional—”
“Heaven forbid we show emotion.”
“And maybe a bit unhinged?”
“Un hinged ?”
She’s in the midst of spluttering when the coaster car slides into the base of the waterfall depot. Adam leaps out with the
grace of a panther and reaches over to help her out. His hands wrap her waist, and when he looks down at her, his eyes seem
to take her in, a question lingering in them.
Do you trust me?
Of course she doesn’t. He’s no Leo. But she can’t deny how good it feels to be lifted out of the cart by him. To have his
hands linger on her waist. So close she can smell the faintest hint of coffee on his breath and the light whiff of sweat off
him, a scent that does not bother her at all. It actually bothers her that she’s unbothered by the deep humanness of his body.
That she seems to lean into it, as if it were a homey fire in the midst of a Midwestern winter.
As soon as she’s on firm ground, she tears herself away and scrambles toward the rest of the group. He stands with his hands
still slightly lifted, as if in offering, staring inscrutably after her.
The rest of the guests are already at the foot of the falls, exploring and taking selfies. Evie stops short at the edge of
the water.
Datanla Falls is not the biggest waterfall in Vi ? t Nam, but it has a slow majesty, cascading through the leafy mountains into a cool sage-colored pond at its base. The surrounding
rocks are rubbed smooth by the waves, black as onyx in some spots, earthy brown in others. She can hardly hear anything over
the sound of the water. She snaps a selfie with her phone. Evidence for her aunt’s lawyers—and for herself, as a reminder
that she was once brave enough to chase this moment.
“Wow,” she says to herself, breathing it in.
Close by, Riley gives her a convivial wave. As she moves away from the base of the falls and her hearing returns, he follows
her. He’s got a loping, confident gait and a lankiness she’s always liked.
“That ride wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks.
“No,” she confesses, shaking her hair out. “Though I did have to ride with Adam.”
“Oh? How was that?”
“It was like having to chew rusty nails while listening to Chumbawamba’s greatest hits.”
Riley laughs. “A miracle you survived. So, you know the legend of this place?”
“Nope.”
“They say that there once was a man who fell so madly in love with a beautiful woman that he was willing to fight ferocious
animals for her. The fight was so intense that trees fell, forming the canyons at the base of the falls. But the cool thing
about these waterfalls is that they’re now known as a meeting place for lovers. It’s supposed to be one of the most romantic
spots in the region. There are seven waterfalls in all.”
“You went a little history professor on me, Riley.”
He smiles. “Well, I guess I have a tendency to do that. I have a huge interest in these landmarks. In fact, I was recently
featured in Publishers Weekly . They called me ‘the foremost expert in Vietnamese history.’”
“You agree with them?” Evie has to restrain the urge to roll her eyes.
But, for all her annoyance, there is a part of her that admires his unabashed display of credentials. There’s something about
the way a male academic pushes himself forward that makes her think, Why don’t I do that more? Heaven knows, Atlas on his summer London fellowship is probably handing out galleys of his book left and right.
“I don’t disagree ,” Riley says with a grin. Evie smiles back. She likes that he can make fun of himself. “You know a little about publishing
yourself, right?”
He helps her onto a rock where they can see the rest of the group. Across the way, Adam grasps Talia by her arm as she tries
to climb onto the bridge from the rocks. Evie snorts. Adam the chivalrous. Could he be any more predictable? Of course he’d be sweet and gentle to Talia, the tour’s equivalent of a Disney princess. Evie would resent Talia if she also didn’t like her so much. The woman seems completely guileless, as straightforward and authentic as her impressive dossier.
Evie says, “I published a book that did all right, but I’ve got nothing in the works now.”
“Nothing?”
“The other day, I tried to turn my grocery list into a sestet.”
“Oomph.”
“Yeah, my agent’s not happy about it. She’s actually Asian American—Korean—and she guilt-trips me the way my mother never
did. Next, she’ll start sending me pointed clips from Harvard professors and asking why I couldn’t muster that kind of dedication.”
“So your mom wasn’t a tiger mom?”
“I hate that term. No. She’s also not Asian. She’s a nice woman from the Midwest who makes amazing casseroles and hangs up
the Buckeye flag every Sunday of football season. Don’t get me wrong; she’s not thrilled with my career choice. Thinks I’m crazy for pursuing poetry for a living. She keeps saying I need to hang up my adjuncting
hat for something more stable, like nursing or teaching high school, like she did.”
“How does she feel about you being on this tour?”
Evie tries not to think of her mother’s last, disjointed email, sent a few days before she arrived in Vi ? t Nam. Grace Lang had made it very clear that she thought this trip was a colossal waste of time and resources. She slid in
a dig or two about H ? o’s emotional manipulation. Evie had responded shortly, assuring her mother that she’d be safe. Nothing since then.
Aloud, she says, “My mother has many thoughts. Voices all of them too. She’s the opposite of my father, who only strung together
a sentence every blue moon. But they were important sentences. The only ones that mattered. It’s a wonder that they found
each other.”
“How’d she meet your dad? Assuming he’s Vi ? t?”
“She’s an ESL teacher. She was teaching classes at the community college in her hometown near Fort Wayne when she met Dad.
Apparently he traded Tupperware containers of c ? m t ? m in exchange for private English lessons. His sister, my Auntie H ? o, told me that he spoke English perfectly well and that he saw her in the doorway of a classroom and just... followed
her in.”
“Wow. The long game.”
“Yeah. Despite being a poet, I didn’t really inherit much of his romantic streak.”
“Maybe you’ll find that you’re more romantic than you believe. With the right man.”
Evie has met men like Riley before: heavily credentialed, popular in their departments, and likely to flirt with students.
In fact, she’s dated men like Riley. Usually the relationship fizzles at some dive bar over too many drinks, after a few weeks
of Evie failing to give enough adoration to the man in question. They’re drawn to her because of typecasting. They think a
female poet will be chaotic, simmering with passion. The wildcard, manic pixie dream girls of academia. And, maybe Evie does
have some of those characteristics. But she’s also got a deeply laconic side that resists any kind of overly serious navel-gazing.
The trick has always been to find a man who wants to connect with every part of her, without trying to assign some sort of
trope to her personality.
Her eye is drawn across the way, where Adam stands on the bridge next to the falls. He stares out into the water with a straight
back, his hands clenched on the rails. When he glances back at her, she looks away quickly, which makes her stumble into Riley.
As she disentangles herself, she senses Adam’s hot stare beaming onto her. She’s afraid to admit to herself how much she likes
the feeling.