Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  He moves faster, harder, and my world blurs, spiraling away from me. “Come with me,” he growls, and he says it over and over, in English this time, and I can’t miss the extra layer of meaning I want to hear.

  Come with me. Come with me. Come with me.

  I want to tell him I would. I want to tell him I’m already there.

  But then the pleasure takes over, curling and wrapping around me, and I clutch his shoulders, pulling him close, and I let go, sliding into blissful oblivion.

  I blink open my eyes, and sit up straight. It’s three in the morning. Griffin is sound asleep, peacefully snoozing. There is no more déjà vu. I know what was weighing on my mind in the garden.

  The question now is how to tell him.

  I search for the right moment on the train ride back to Paris. I’m still formulating the words in my head. The things I want to say. But it hardly feels like something that can wait. I test it out as the train rolls closer to the city.

  “I was thinking about your bucket list in the middle of the night.”

  “You were?”

  “I have a theory about it.”

  He arches a curious brow.

  I tell him my theory.

  When I’m done, he scoffs. “No. There’s no way that’s it.” He squeezes my hand and does a one-eighty. “Now, have you decided what you’re going to do when you get the job offer?”

  The conversation is over just like that.

  I put it out of my mind.

  He’s right. The job offer is amazing.

  He’s right about something else, too. Honeysuckle is the missing ingredient. I add it the next day, and work on the formulation until I can imagine it seducing me in a store when I spritz it on. I would buy this in buckets. I would buy it in droves. I would give it to everyone I know.

  I bring a tester to Elise that night, and her brown eyes light up when she tries it. “And what are we going to do with this delicious sensual cocktail now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She pats my shoulder. “That seems to be your answer lately. But I beg to differ.”

  “You do?”

  She nods. “The job offer. The perfume. You say you don’t know, but you do.”

  “Oh good. Please tell me.”

  She shakes her head, and smiles knowingly. “I’m not going to tell you. You know.” She taps my breastbone. “Right here, you know.”

  Maybe she’s right. Perhaps I do know what I want. The trouble is, it’s too hard for me to think about what I want when Griffin’s still here. I don’t want to make the same mistakes that I did before. Looking back, it was easy to think I was stuck with Richard. In reality, I let myself be pulled under. I let his madness cocoon me. I chose to be saddled with guilt and regret. Griffin was right that night when we wandered past the Eiffel Tower. We always have a choice, he said.

  I’d thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I might very well have been doing the right thing.

  But now, I can choose my path in my own way. I can make the choice that suits me. That’s what I’ve needed—not to lose myself in a man.

  When my man leaves, I’ll decide.

  30

  Griffin

  * * *

  A soft gleam from the streetlamps casts its filter over the city. The light is one more thing that makes this city unique. The gaslight makes everything glow.

  I’ll miss it.

  At the edge of the river, I raise a glass of champagne in honor of number ten.

  * * *

  10. Drink champagne along the Seine when you bid adieu. Check.

  * * *

  I clink the crystal flute to Joy’s.

  The next morning, I arrive at the airport as the blue light of dawn spreads over the sky. I check my bag, print my boarding pass, and sling my backpack on my shoulder. As travelers race by, wheeling suitcases and pushing carts, Joy asks me once more if I have my sneakers for the race.

  “Trainers,” I tell her.

  “Sneakers,” she insists. “Say it once with me. Sneakers.”

  I do as she asks because it makes her laugh, and that’s a sound I want to bottle and keep with me.

  Then her laughter ceases, and she cups my cheeks. “Be safe. Be good. Have so much fun. And drink lots of water during your marathon.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll check online to see how you did. So, no dropping out,” she says, wagging her finger.

  “I can email you and let you know, too,” I say, a note of hope rising up as I offer once more to stay in touch. Somehow. Some way.

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. Soon maybe.”

  “I know,” I say softly and pull her close. We agreed to go silent for a few weeks. She said it would help her make her decision, and I have to respect that. She has to do this her way.

  “I love you,” I murmur into her hair.

  “I love you,” she says, kissing my neck, my jaw, my ear.

  I cover her mouth with mine, kissing her hard one last time. I’m so glad I took a chance that terrified me when I kissed her the first time. I will never regret that. It gave me this fierce love.

  When at last we separate, she brushes her hands over the neck of my shirt as if she’s straightening it out. “Now, go.” Her voice hitches. “Or I won’t be able to say good-bye.”

  Don’t. Don’t say good-bye, then.

  “I’m going. I’m going.”

  She runs her hand down my shirt. “I’ll miss you, but you know that.”

  Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay and I will. I have no more willpower with you. If you ask me to stay, I won’t go. “I’ll miss you more than you can know.”

  She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “Go. You’ll tempt me to steal you.”

  Steal me. I’ll steal you, too.

  “But I know you need to go. You need to do this. Do it. Then, come find me.” She offers a faint smile on those last words, and I want to hold on to them for as long as I can.

  “I will.” I kiss her one more time, and then before either one of us can stop this, I walk away.

  I don’t know if I will find her. I don’t know if she’ll want me to, or if she’ll have moved on to her new life in Texas with some cowboy or oil tycoon.

  But I can’t linger on that. I have a promise to keep. A promise that I won’t hold her back.

  An hour later, I board my flight, and as the jetliner rises in the sky, I close the shade, shut my eyes, and try in vain to blot out the regret.

  31

  Joy

  * * *

  It would be a bald-faced, big-ass lie if I looked in the mirror and said my eyes looked great. Today, they most decidedly do not. But that’s what makeup is for. To cover the tears I shed on my rooftop last night. Of course I cried. Fat, salty tears. Of course I’m sad. Like someone punched a hole in my heart.

  Of course I need Jackie O sunglasses today.

  And yet, I’m not miserable.

  I’m not devastated. I’ve had enough time to cry.

  I’ve been processing the end of us since we began. We fell in love while we were breaking apart. We were simultaneously coming and going. Maybe, when you live through a bittersweet love, it makes the ending easier.

  As Elise would say, some relationships only last for the blink of an eye, but that doesn’t make them any less worthwhile.

  It was worth it. Every moment was worth it.

  And now it’s Sunday evening, and I’m hungry.

  I leave, and once I reach the street I ask my friend a question. “Google, where is the nearest brasserie with excellent salads?”

  “The nearest brasserie with excellent salads is on Rue Jacob.”

  “Thank you,” I say to my phone after we finish conversing in this country’s native tongue.

  I changed the settings recently. I no longer speak to Google in English. I talk to her in French, and she answers me in that language. It’s our little bond, like a shrink-patient privilege.

  I turn down the block, following
her directions, and find she’s taking me to one of the passages, a covered arcade. Mosaic tiles line the floor. The archways high above span two or three stories, and as I turn down the hall, I pass a shop peddling old-fashioned wooden toys, a bookstore with arty titles, and a shop selling maps.

  I’m a digital woman. I don’t want a map to pin to my wall, or a globe to spin. But as I gaze at a blue orb in the window, staring at the distance between Paris and Bali, I’m keenly aware of how big our world is.

  And how very small, too.

  The world is a massive place that can swallow you whole.

  Or you can embrace its vastness, right along with little provincial joys. Like dinner at a fine café.

  As I take a seat at the table, glancing at the empty chair across from me, I wait for the tears to lock up my throat. I steel myself for the vise in my chest, squeezing my heart.

  But when the waiter arrives and asks me what I want to drink, I’ve no time to mourn. I have to order, and I no longer have a safety net.

  I ask what the specials are. He tells me. I ask how the chicken is prepared. I’m informed. And then I order a wine and a salad with sliced chicken. When the wine arrives, I thank him, and take a drink. I watch as couples stroll along the tiled floor, as mothers hold hands with daughters, as groups of friends scurry in search of a drink.

  Once my food arrives, I take a photo and post it to my feed. #Dinnerinthecityoflights #oohlala #bonappetit. I want to remember this night. I want to look at this photo and recall how I feel right now, the sadness that lingers along with the happiness I was lucky enough to experience before I said good-bye to him.

  And even though I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely. Not as I eat, not as I walk down the street to my flat later that night, and not as I head into work the next day, saying hello to my colleagues and, for the most part, managing to talk to them in their language.

  It’s not perfect.

  I’m not fluent.

  But I’m good enough to get by now.

  After work, I stop by the market to pick up some fruit, and as I head down the stalls, a gray-haired woman asks if I dropped a scarf. She points to a sky-blue silky scrap on the ground.

  “That’s mine. Thank you so much.” I pick it up, and toss it around my neck, even though it’s not cold. But it is fashionable, and for that reason alone, I adore this accessory.

  I head to the Metro, navigating seamlessly. Later, after I climb the steps to my terrace, I drink in the city at my feet.

  I know. I’ve always known.

  I miss him fiercely. I miss him wildly. And I know what my heart wants—to have it all.

  I call Elise and ask for her help.

  32

  Griffin

  * * *

  Sweat slicks down my chest.

  The sun fires bullets of heat.

  No relief is in sight.

  I long to tear away from the group of runners and dive into the endless blue sea temptingly nearby. In the first ten days on the Indonesian island of Bali, I’ve already gone scuba diving, seen the waterfalls, and hiked up a mountain at dawn to view the sunrise. Each was enjoyable in its own way, and each was a little bit empty, too.

  Because I did them alone.

  But every day I’ve run, and now, when it counts, I hit the twenty-mile mark. My feet are screaming at me, shouting that they’ll never permit this crap again. But even so, my heart is pounding strong, and I never let up. I run through the sand, I run through the town, and I run while the sun bakes my shoulders. Another mile, another one more, and I’m nearly there.

  As the finish line looms into view, I expect to be clobbered with memories.

  With images of my brother.

  But those don’t come.

  Maybe this makes me selfish, but I’m grinning and muttering, “Holy crap. I’m doing it.” I’m fulfilling the dream I had when I was younger. But life got in the way, and I never got around to running a race.

  Now, I’m finishing a marathon.

  One foot in front of the other.

  Every footfall aches, and every footfall sings.

  And when at last, more than a decade after I decided to do this, I cross the finish line, I punch the air. I let out a whoop. I feel like the most selfish prick in the world, but not for long, because it’s too awesome a feeling to accomplish something I’ve always wanted to do.

  As I slow my pace, grab some water that a volunteer hands to me, and walk instead of run, my whole life comes into focus.

  Everything is bright and clear.

  The past, and the future.

  Bali is but a whisper.

  Joy was right. Everything she told me on the train ride home from Giverny is true. Goose bumps rise on my skin with the staggering realization that the list was never about my brother.

  33

  Joy

  * * *

  Christian slaps his hands together like a coach, rubbing one palm against the other. “C’mon. You can do this, kid,” he says, adopting an American accent and smacking me on the arm.

  Elise rolls her eyes from her perch on her living room couch. It’s seven thirty in the morning on a Monday, but they’re prepping me one last time. “Oh, come on now. You’re not her football coach.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You mean proper football, I trust? The world’s greatest sport, right?”

  Elise laughs. “Joy is from Texas. I mean the one you despise.” She turns to me. “From the top.”

  I take a deep, calming breath. I square my shoulders. I practice once more what I want to say to Marisol when I meet with her in two more hours.

  My words aren’t what I’d say if I had Griffin translating for me. I don’t have him to rely on. I have to go it alone. I keep it simple so I can say it myself.

  When I’m done, they both slow clap.

  “You’re ready,” Elise declares. “Now go convince her to let you have it all.”

  I show Marisol the tester bottle. “This is the perfume I made over the past three months. I want to introduce it here in France. I want to keep finding ways to bring innovation to L’Artisan. I want to introduce new products here, and to help oversee them. If you’ll have me, I want to stay. If you like this mix, I’ll do everything I can to make it a success for you.”

  Marisol blinks. “You want to stay?” She points to her desk. “Here, in Paris?”

  Nerves fly up my throat. I want to stay so desperately. I came to Paris for a new experience, and that experience has changed me. I didn’t just fall in love with Griffin. I fell in love with the city. I fell in love with a whole new language. Paris feels like home.

  “I’m not done with Paris. And I hope Paris isn’t done with me.”

  Marisol squeals. It’s the strangest sound from such a proper woman. But she actually squeaks, then rises from her chair in a flurry. She strides over to me and wraps me in an unexpected hug. “I accept the continuation of your employment.”

  When it comes to chances that don’t come around often, this is the one I’d most regret if I let it pass by —the chance to stay here.

  I don’t doubt that it would be wonderful to run a perfume lab in Austin. But here in front of me, I can keep learning a whole new language. A whole new way of living. I might not be overseeing a fleet of scents, but if I can guide one to market, it’ll be more than a dream come true.

  She dangles the glass bottle between two fingers. “By the way, do you have a name for your composition?”

  I have a name, and I have a story. It is all my bittersweet days when I wander across the cobblestone streets, damp with rain. It is the sweet floral mists from the flower market that enchant my senses. It is the chocolate notes that waft through the air at a shop that’s close to heaven. It’s the smell of the first kiss and a last kiss. It is the promise that somehow, someday we will meet again. “For now, I’m calling it Come What May.”

  She nods and smiles. “I like that. It’s both sad and happy at the same time, but it ends on a dash of hope.”

  Ye
s, that sounds like exactly what it is.

  When I leave the office that night, return to my street, open the pink door, and climb the uneven eighty-four steps, I know what the woman in the pink-checkered suit on the plane told me has come true.

  Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.

  34

  Griffin

  * * *

  Sometimes something is so obvious, you’re not sure how you missed it.

  But that’s because it was hidden in plain sight.

  Like all those damn angels that followed me around the city while I never noticed them.

  That evening, I dig my toes into the coolest sand, the ocean lapping at my feet. As I watch the stars winking in the sky, I read between the lines on the list I memorized long ago.

  Ten items and a postscript.

  A bucket list.

  A dying wish.

  But it’s not that at all, it turns out.

  Joy unlocked the code before I did. She discovered the real meaning, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. I dismissed her theory, stuffing it away. It took running twenty-six miles halfway around the world to see that it was never a bucket list I carried with me.

  It was instructions for living.

  For how to live without him.

  Ethan didn’t ask me to complete those ten items. He only gave me this list when I told him I’d do anything for him, when I begged him for it. He’d looked at me, studied my eyes, and knew what I needed. Something to live for. Reasons to be happy without him.

  “Okay. Let’s do it. One last list.”

  It was a list for me, a list of all my hopes and dreams. It was guidelines on how to live a rich and beautiful life. He wrote me a treasure map for how to make it through his death. He was so clever, even up until the end. He knew I’d need a nudge, so my dreams were veiled in the guise of his dying wishes.