Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  “That’s in my perfume.”

  “So I was right.” His smile is electric.

  “You are.” I tap his nose. “And you once said your sense of smell was wretched.”

  “Maybe it’s come back because of you. Maybe you brought it back.”

  My heart thumps a little harder. I try to tell myself it’s only the sense of smell. It’s the one deemed least important. It’s not as if he were blind or deaf and I magically returned those senses to him. But just as he’s taught me how to experience the world through new words, perhaps I’ve shown him how to savor what makes the world delicious.

  “Maybe I did. By the way, the perfume I’m wearing tonight?” My pitch rises in excitement.

  He meets my gaze, waits for me to say more.

  “It’s a little something I cooked up myself.”

  His smile widens. “You made it? You crafted your own perfume?”

  “It’s something I’m playing around with,” I say, and I can’t mask a note of pride, not after the way he responded to it. “It’s not done yet, but I’m testing out some formulations.”

  He growls sexily and kisses my neck. “My God, this has been my favorite. This can bring a man to his knees.”

  “Well, you were pretty randy tonight,” I tease.

  “I’ll be even randier in the middle of the night.”

  I laugh and place a hand on his chest. “And you’re avoiding the macarons. I want the full story of Aunt Sophie and the macarons.”

  He groans. “Sophie liked to give us things she thought we’d taken a liking to. Well, there was one time when she was babysitting us and she had her favorite lavender macarons with her, and since I have a sweet tooth, I gobbled them up. Ethan wouldn’t touch them. Too purple, he said. She had to rustle up some cheese and crackers for him. For Christmas that year, she gave me lavender macarons and he got a cheese board.”

  “And he teased you about the macarons instead of you giving him a hard time about cheese?”

  “Of course. He teased me relentlessly. Because they were girly. He thought lavender macarons was the height of having something on me.”

  “Did you even like them?”

  Dragging a hand through his hair, he laughs. “Actually, they were pretty tasty, and the cheese was quite bland. But in his mind, I was the poor sod who had to suffer through the pretty little lavender macarons. And so, he managed to take the piss out of me even on his deathbed,” Griffin says, and I tense for a second, thinking we’re heading into darker waters with that last word. But he’s smiling, and so I relax. He’s not sinking under. He’s laughing at the memory, and the sight of him like this feels like the sun warming my shoulders. He’s coming out on the other side of grief.

  He takes my hand in his. “He always made me laugh. And you’re pretty funny, too, my gorgeous American beauty, who smells like sex and flowers and candy and everything I want in the world.”

  Something inside my heart rattles loose, like a bird escaping its cage. Flying free.

  He’s everything I want in the world, too.

  I squeeze his fingers. “Hey, Archie.”

  “Hi, Judy.”

  With my free hand, I brush his hair away from his forehead. “I’m falling in love with you.”

  It’s not hard to say. It doesn’t take a lot of courage. It’s just the truth, and I want him to know, no matter what comes next.

  A smile crosses his lips, lighting him up like the night sky. “I’m madly in love with you.”

  “Yeah?” I smile dopily, and this is the bliss I want to live in. This. This feeling in my heart. The way I can’t get close enough to him.

  He nods and threads a hand in my hair. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I was pretty much gone for you the day I met you.”

  My heart is glowing now, I’m sure, shining so brightly the airplanes above can spot me. “It was the accent, wasn’t it?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Nope. It was your attitude. You were so bold, and I loved it. I still do. I love it more every day. You made it so insanely impossible not to fall in love with you.”

  My smile can’t be contained. “You really should have made yourself more irresistible because it’s pretty much the same for me.”

  But then my smile falters when I remember once more our inevitable ending. This can’t last. This crazy, giddy feeling is a splash of fireworks in the summer sky. Awesome and sparkly and then gone in a heartbeat.

  “I’m going to miss you like crazy. You know that, right?” he says, rubbing a thumb over my cheek.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  “Like crazy,” he repeats, his voice lower this time, tinged with sadness. “We only have two weeks left.”

  As if I’m not painfully aware of the days on the calendar scrolling by. “Fourteen days,” I say solemnly.

  “Let’s make them amazing. It’s all we can do, yeah?”

  A lump rises high in my throat and threatens to yank down all the waterworks from my eyes, like the rainstorm I once longed for but am now trying to avoid. I swallow them whole. “Let’s do it.”

  And because I can’t take this anymore, I can’t take the aching in my chest, I cover it up with a fierce kiss. I hold his face and claim his lips, and I pour every ounce of my sadness into his mouth.

  It’s needy and hungry, like a confirmation of what we both know. We’re in love, and we’re ending, and we’ll make the most of these last two weeks, and we’re going to be okay with all the oddities and curiosities in our love story. We’re the out-of-place elephant on the roof of the church. We’re a sundial that doesn’t work. We’re the clock that’s only right twice a day. We’re ice cream that tastes amazing, but we can’t have it for every meal. We can’t have it much longer at all.

  When we break apart, he stretches out an arm, reaches for his jeans, and grabs something from his wallet. It’s a notecard. An illustration of a bouquet of lilacs adorns the front.

  “Open it,” he tells me.

  I do as I’m told and read his words out loud. “Spend next weekend in Giverny with me. I want to go someplace with you where I’ve never been. I want to experience a place with you for the very first time. I want to take you there and see it through your eyes, too. Will you go with me?”

  My throat tightens, but I will myself to relax, speaking softly. “Obviously, the answer is yes.”

  I slip away to the bathroom, and when I return he does the same, but he rejoins me on the roof with a blanket, and he brings me close on the chaise.

  When we wake, he taps my shoulder, squinting as dawn tugs at the cool morning sky.

  “Number eight.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “I get to cross it off. Sleep under the stars.”

  “I thought ‘sleep under the stars’ was for traveling.”

  He shrugs and smiles. “I’ve decided this counts. Because it’s for when we had to and when we wanted to. And this is a ‘wanted to’ situation.”

  This should make me happy. That he’s bending. That he’s flexible. That he found a loophole of sorts and made this night under the stars count. That I count enough to be something deep and meaningful to his dreams.

  But I also know it means he’s one step closer to packing his bags.

  26

  Griffin

  The nights are intoxicating. We make love past midnight. We fall asleep together on the terrace. In the mornings, we stop at the bakery and grab croissants. We go to work together, and even at the office the moments feel deliciously stolen.

  We slip out for lunches, and sometimes those lunches take place at nearby hotels. Yes, we have nooners, and they’re fantastic. One evening, we return to Place du Tertre, and Joy finds the caricaturist.

  “I’ll commission your portrait,” she says playfully, then asks the man to draw me.

  Her French is great. She’s not fluent. But she’s learned so much so quickly that number six on my list is now crossed off. She’s not a work-in-progress anymore. She’s made it to
where she wants to go.

  She whispers something to the artist, and he laughs, then keeps sketching.

  When the charcoal cartoon is finished, the man shows it to me. “My forehead is huge, and my hair is ten feet tall,” I say with a laugh, then my eyes drift down. The man has drawn something in my hand. A lavender macaron.

  I laugh louder. “This is brilliant. Now you’re taking the piss out of me, too.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “Looks like I can get your goat, too.”

  The look of glee in her eyes cracks me up. Funny, how that’s what Ethan predicted for this item.

  * * *

  7. Have your caricature drawn in Place du Tertre. Preferably a highly amusing image that would have made me laugh.

  * * *

  He was right, and as I check it off and we leave, I can’t help but feel time speed even faster. Ruthlessly faster.

  It’s as if a bartender set a gigantic piña colada in front of me, and I’m not stopping until I finish the last sip. But that’s the problem. We’re nearing the end of the glass, and I desperately want to get drunk on another one.

  When I run past the Salvador Dali sundial on Rue Saint-Jacques a few days later, I curse it. Because it doesn’t work. It’s a cruel trick, in a way, to make you think time doesn’t matter.

  That’s a lie.

  As my feet fly along the pavement, I find myself filled with regret. Regret that I didn’t pursue something with Joy that first day I helped her with her flat. Regret that I didn’t kiss her that Sunday afternoon at Île de la Cité. Regret over all the times I wanted to tell her how I felt, but I held back.

  I’ll never retrieve those lost hours now, and I want them more than anything. Because they’d mean more time with her. I want so much more. But the days don’t stop coming just because we want to slow their pace.

  Maybe that’s why there are so many damn sundials in this city. It’s like a DaVinci Code secret, and the revelation is that time is the only thing that matters. It’s the ultimate non-renewable resource, and I’ve squandered it.

  Soon, I run past Shakespeare and Company bookshop, where I meet up with Christian. He’s been out of the country on an assignment for the last several days. He joins me for the final two miles. At last we finish, grab some waters, and down them at the river’s edge, the sun dropping low in the afternoon sky, burning off the day. Spring is ending, and summer is weaving its way to the city, bringing blue skies and sunshine.

  It doesn’t suit my mood, so it pisses me off. I look away from the sun. “The other night. Joy’s friend?” I ask, since I need to switch gears to something besides my situation. “Anything there?”

  Christian wiggles his eyebrows. “Elise is great.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing happened, to answer your real question.”

  “That’s so unlike you.”

  “I’ve been known to hold out from time to time.”

  “She seemed keen on you. She must have wretched taste.”

  “The worst,” he says, with a laugh. “And the keenness is mutual.”

  “Then why not make a go of it?”

  He pushes his palms to the ground, the sign to slow down. “Settle down, mate. All in due time.”

  But that’s rubbish. There’s no time to waste. “Good thing you can see her whenever you want,” I mutter.

  He shrugs and scratches his jaw. “You could see Joy whenever you wanted.”

  “Yes, I have a private jet at my disposal to whisk me around the world.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  I glance at my watch, ignoring the comment. “I need to go pack some more.”

  “You’re really doing this?”

  “My lease is up.”

  He scoffs. “It’s your mum’s sister’s flat.”

  “I told Sophie I was going. She’s known for a couple of months—since I bought the plane ticket. I might be her nephew, but it’s still real estate she can rent. And she’s in the process of doing so.”

  Christian arches a brow. “Ten euros says you could get it back from her.”

  I look away from him, staring at the water, wishing for an answer. Hell, I wish Ethan had left an answer. A proviso, an addendum. Hey, if you fall in love, ignore my wishes. Love, your little brother.

  “Doubtful. Besides, it is what it is.”

  He sighs and says nothing. He gazes at the water, too. A minute later, he speaks. “Listen, I’d get you a parting gift for when you go, but the best gift I can give you is this: I’ll look out for your girl and make sure she isn’t too sad.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Calm your tits. I don’t mean it like that. I’m not putting the moves on her. I mean I’ll be there if she needs anyone to lift heavy objects or read a fucking contract.”

  I laugh and clap him on the back. “I appreciate that. Especially the heavy lifting. That’s what friends are for.”

  When I head to my flat, I pack a few more boxes. I don’t have a lot of stuff. Most of my possessions I’m sending home to store at my parents’. The furniture is Sophie’s.

  As I stare at the walls, it’s looking emptier, less lived in.

  I guess item number one is truly coming to a close. Live in Paris for a year. It’s nearly done. I sink down on the couch, log onto my laptop, and check on my flight reservation. My finger hovers over the request a refund button. Today’s the last day to cancel without a fee.

  “Damn it,” I mutter. Why isn’t my brother’s postscript: if you complete six or seven items, we’ll call it good?

  I drop my head to my hand, wishing I was willing to ignore his requests. Wishing I knew how.

  Honestly, for the first time ever, I want to be a selfish prick and say I’ve done enough. I want to say I’ve done all I can. I want the permission to choose Plan B, whatever the hell that is. I don’t know what it would be, but maybe someone else does. Maybe someone who loves him as deeply as I do, and likely more. I call that person.

  “Hi. Is everything okay?”

  I smile. “Yes, Mum. Just packing and whatnot.”

  “How is it going?”

  Awful. “Fine. How are you?”

  “I’m great. Your dad and I are on our way to the movies. We’re seeing a comedy. Can you believe it?”

  I rub my ear as if there’s water in it. “Come again?”

  She laughs. “I’ve gone mad, right? We’re going to a Dwayne Johnson film on a Friday night.”

  “Yes. When did you become a fan of Dwayne Johnson? For that matter, when did you start liking mainstream movies? I thought you were Miss Art Cinema.”

  “People change,” she says, and I can hear a smile in her voice. Even from this distance I can tell it’s authentic. “I found I needed comedy more than sad films with unhappy endings. I like popcorn flicks that make me laugh now.”

  “Including those with beefy actors, evidently.”

  “Seems that way,” she says, laughing, then she clears her throat. “Griffin, love. I’m sorry to do this, but can we chat later?”

  I sit up straighter, startled a bit. I can’t remember a time when she’s ended a call first. “Sure. Call me when you’re through.”

  She takes a breath. “We’re meeting some friends after. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

  “Right. Of course. Have fun.”

  When I hang up, I’m left with the oddest feeling. I’ve been blown off by my parents, who are living their lives. My parents are heading to the cinema, going out with friends, and I’m sitting here in a nearly empty apartment, getting ready to leave the woman I love.

  I click back to the web browser with my ticket on it. The clock on the browser ticks. A few more hours. I stare at the countdown for one minute, then another. My mind wanders to earlier today. To that broken sundial that gives no clue as to when you’re supposed to be somewhere. I’d be aimless if I relied on that damn Dali.

  But this computer clock?

  This one says something, loud and cl
ear.

  It’s not too late.

  I straighten my shoulders, awareness hitting me hard and beautifully, all at once.

  These are found hours. I stand and pace across the hardwood floor, weighing my options. Because I have options.

  I have time.

  Time to change my mind. Time to change my plans.

  Time to ask Joy to go with me. Time to ask her to wait for me. Time to postpone this trip.

  My heart thumps a little harder with that realization.

  I look at my watch.

  Joy has a dinner with Marisol tonight, and I’m meeting her at her place later. I won’t squander these hours until I see her. I’ll use them to devise a Plan B.

  27

  Joy

  Marisol slices her chicken and brings a piece to her mouth. After she chews, she waves broadly behind her, indicating the small restaurant in the heart of St. Germain des Pres where we’re dining. “I’m so glad you could have dinner tonight.”

  “This place is fantastic. The salad is one of the best I’ve had so far in Paris,” I say in French, since I want to impress her.

  She raises her eyebrows in appreciation. “Well said.”

  We chat more about the company, the products I’m overseeing, and life in Paris. I tell her I’m learning more French every day, and growing more comfortable with the language and the city.

  She smiles. “I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it.”

  I flinch for a moment, noticing she used the past tense. “I am enjoying it,” I say, since I want to make sure she knows this is a present tense thing for me. Paris is where I live. Paris is what I love.

  “And I’ve enjoyed having you here.”

  My chest pinches. I set my fork down when I hear that word. I part my lips, unsure where to start, but quickly decide that this company didn’t hire me so I could beat around the bush. I choose directness. “Is there something I need to know?”

  Marisol laughs nervously. “As a matter of fact,” she says, setting down her utensil, “I wanted to have dinner with you to talk about what’s next.”