Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  I’m the one who wanted to run a marathon. He’d already completed one.

  I’m the one who longed to live in Paris, and he made sure I did it.

  He told me to travel the world because I’d led the charge in planning our adventures when we were kids.

  He knew I’d want to laugh with friends, so he put the caricature item on the list. He knew I’d want to help others, so he put that on the rules to live by, too.

  I have lived most of these ten wishes.

  But I don’t want to live all of them anymore. I’m not consumed with the same clawing need to visit all the corners of the world anymore. I no longer suffer from an incurable case of wanderlust.

  I’ve been cured. I uncovered a new dream right before my eyes.

  I have a new wish—to be with the woman I love, wherever she is.

  I wanted her to ask me to stay, but that’s not enough. I need to put my heart on the line for her. She never held me back from going, and I won’t hold myself back any longer. If she’s going to be in Texas, that’s where I’ll go.

  But there’s one more thing on the list I need to fulfill.

  I need to take a chance that terrifies me.

  I thought I’d done that. I thought that pursuing Joy counted. But even when I crossed it off, it never fit because wanting to be with Joy never terrified me.

  The true risk is letting go of this list and flying without an instruction manual. Navigating without a map. But the time has come to find my own way. I raise an imaginary glass like I did when I said good-bye to Paris, but now I’m saying good-bye to the man I was—a man motivated by a promise, driven by the past.

  It’s time to choose something entirely new. Something no one wrote down. But it’s what I want most in the world.

  Now, I need to figure out how quickly I can get to Texas.

  35

  Joy

  Lest anyone think I’m just a lush who loves the vino, let the record reflect that I do consume my morning fuel roof-side, too.

  I bring the ceramic mug to my lips, and down some of the life-sustaining beverage as I watch the city wake up. Boats glide along the water, and the morning mist burns away from the tower. I glance at my phone. I’m due at the office in an hour, and I need to make it on time. I head to the stairs, stopping briefly at the chaise. Images flash and pop of all the dirty deeds this chair has witnessed.

  “Oh, the stories you could tell,” I say in a flirty whisper, bending down to kiss the top of the pillow as I pretend the chair can talk.

  A piece of paper catches my eye.

  Tilting my head, I study the corner of a flowered card poking out from beneath the lounge. I reach underneath and find the card Griffin gave me when he invited me to Giverny for the weekend. Did I leave it here on the roof that night when he asked me to go? I suppose it’s possible.

  I pick it up and head down the steps, flicking it open when I reach the living room.

  I stumble and grab hold of the railing, gasping as I read.

  Words that shock me.

  Words that aren’t an invitation to Giverny at all.

  This is another card entirely. Maybe it fell out of his pocket? Maybe he always intended for me to discover it? Or was it never meant to be seen?

  I run my finger over the blue ink of his handwriting.

  * * *

  A part of me wants to stay with you. A part of me wants you to ask me to. If you did, I’d do it. Cancel the trip, curl up with you, and be happier than I’ve ever been before. That’s how I am with you. And another piece of me wants to steal you away with me so we can be together. It feels impossible, but it also doesn’t. Say I’m not crazy.

  * * *

  My heart hammers against my rib cage. It rattles the bars. It jumps and bangs, begging me to listen. He wanted to stay with me before he knew about my job offer. He wanted to stay even after he learned of it. As I flash back to the night after my dinner with Marisol, I recall his face perfectly, the sadness in his eyes, the thickness in his voice.

  “I don’t want to hold you back,” he’d told me.

  “How would you hold me back? You won’t even be here,” I’d said.

  When he didn’t answer, I’d pushed back. “You won’t be here, right?” I remember hoping, wishing his mind had changed.

  Had it already? Had he planned to cancel his trip but then stopped when he learned of my job offer? My heart is a cyclone of emotions. It spins and whips, and there’s only one thing to do.

  Run to the computer.

  Tell him.

  Take a chance.

  Bring him home.

  Scrambling to my laptop I flip it open, find his email, and tap out a message.

  * * *

  Re: You’re not crazy

  On the terrace, I found a card you never gave me. It made me fall a little bit more for you, if that’s even possible. But it is, and that reminds me that I don’t think we’re impossible at all. I’m still here. I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting for you.

  Joy

  He doesn’t reply. For a minute. Then another five minutes. Ten godforsaken minutes later, my inbox is still stupidly empty. It doesn’t replenish itself in the next twenty minutes with anything but offers for coupons and news of shoe sales while I finish getting ready and head to work.

  At the office, it’s radio silent.

  By noon, I’ve nearly worn out the fingerprint on my index finger from hitting refresh constantly. Still no reply. Not a word, not a peep.

  By the end of the day, my nerves are frayed thin, my emotions strung tight, and my sister is surely spent from replying to messages from me all day long, even though it’s seven hours earlier where she is.

  I grant her a reprieve from man-talk.

  * * *

  Joy: Enough about boys. When will you come visit me? The French fries here are even better.

  * * *

  Allison: French fries. Snort. I should hope so.

  * * *

  Joy: Answer the question.

  * * *

  Allison: When you invite me. :)

  * * *

  Joy: You’re invited. Catch the next plane!

  * * *

  Allison: How about next month instead?

  * * *

  Joy: Deal.

  * * *

  Allison: Also, please arrange numerous dates with hot French men for us.

  * * *

  But I won’t be riding shotgun on that request. There’s only one hot Frenchman I want, and he’s British, too.

  I set my phone down and return to my work. Charles helps me with the final formulations for Come What May. We speak in a mix of French and English, and we’ve finally figured out how to communicate without burning down the lab.

  When I leave that evening, I nearly rip my phone from my purse to check it again. Outside the building, I smack into Elise.

  “You’re stalking me?” I tease.

  “I am. Now, I want you to go home, put on a pretty dress, and wear your finest shoes, because I’m taking you out tonight to celebrate.”

  “You could have called and told me that.”

  She links her arm with mine while I steal a glance at my email. No replies. “I know. But that’s not my way. I wanted to see your face.”

  “I like your face, too.”

  “Besides, it’s my job to appear randomly to remind you why you stayed in Paris. Because you have friends here, and a rich and lovely life.”

  “You’re acting odd today.”

  “I’m never odd.”

  She strolls home with me and we chat, catching up on her work and mine, then admiring displays in windows, pointing out where we want to eat the next weekend. I ask her about Christian and whether she’s ever going to tell me if there’s something going on between them.

  She winks. “Maybe. Maybe there is.”

  But we’ve reached my home. “Do you want to come upstairs and wait?”

  She shakes her head and gives me a kiss on each cheek. “I’ll wait for
you at the café at the corner.”

  I walk upstairs, my head bent over the phone the whole time. It’s been more than eleven hours. What on earth is Griffin doing? Zip-lining with monkeys? Swimming with dolphins? Lolling on the beach with beautiful women in bikinis?

  I howl in jealousy at the thought.

  Twenty minutes later, I text Elise that I’m on my way down. It’s late June, and this peach sundress I put on is perfect for a night out with friends. Strappy sandals are on my feet, and summer is in the air when I push open the pink door.

  I stop in my tracks.

  All the breath in my body escapes me. My eyes are playing tricks on me because this only happens in the movies.

  36

  Griffin

  * * *

  I cross the street, wild excitement stirring inside me. It’s the thrill of hope. It’s the rush of a brand-new start. It’s everything I feel when I see her face—exuberance, desire, and this great and wild love.

  She stands, dazed, in front of her pink doorway, eyes wide open. My Joy, framed by the boldest of bold colors, just the way she likes it. A vision in peach and pink and all that red spilling over her shoulders.

  When I reach her, I say two simple words. “Bon soir.”

  “Bon soir.” It comes out breathy, full of wonder.

  Her lips part as if she’s trying to say more, but no words come. Instead, she raises her hand, tugs at my shirt, then flings her arms around me. I reciprocate, pulling her close.

  She melts against me, and it feels spectacular. This is a welcome home the likes of which men climb mountains for. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, but as she draws her nose down my neck, inhaling me in the way that only she can, I know I’ll take it.

  Every day.

  She lets her arms fall from me, places her hands on my chest, and looks in my eyes. Her gaze is curious, quizzical. “Did you get my email?”

  I nod. “About an hour and a half ago, when I landed. There was no Wi-Fi on the seventeen-hour flight.”

  Her brow furrows. “Wait. What? You only got my email an hour ago and you’re here?” She points to the ground, as if she needs to make sure I know where we are.

  But I know. Hell, do I ever know where I am and where I want to be.

  “I was already on my way,” I say, running a hand up her bare arm. I’m a starving man. I’ve gone too long without touching her. I need contact. Need to feel her skin. She shivers as my fingers reach her shoulder. “I thought you were in Texas. I was sure you’d taken the job there, and I was about to buy a ticket all the way from Bali to Austin.”

  “You were?” she whispers.

  “I was. I was going to find you wherever you were.”

  “In Texas?”

  “You say that like it’s the height of insanity.”

  She shakes her head as if she’s shaking off water. “I’m just surprised.”

  “Joy, if you’d gone to Mount Everest I’d have purchased a ticket there. If you were in the Arctic Circle, that’s where I’d have traveled to.”

  A grin crosses her lips and seems intent on staying there. “How’d you wind up here, then?”

  I brush my fingers back down to her wrist. “I figured it would be wiser to call a friend before I bought a ticket, so I rang Christian and he told me you’d decided to stay, so I came back.”

  “Because of me?” Her voice wobbles.

  I thread my fingers through hers, clasping tight. She squeezes back. “Yes. Because of you. It’s all because of you. You were right on the train, and I wasn’t ready to hear it then. I had to fly five thousand miles and run another twenty-six before I was whacked with the it’s-so-damn-obvious stick.”

  “Did it hurt?” she asks playfully, and that pitch-perfect dry sense of humor is part and parcel of why I’d fly five thousand miles again and again to see her.

  “It felt good. Sometimes a man needs to be whacked with the sheer obviousness of his life. It was so crystal clear, and now I have a new list. Do you want to hear it?”

  “I do.”

  I let go of her hand, take out a sheet of paper from my pocket, unfold it, and clear my throat.

  * * *

  Five things I want to do . . .

  * * *

  1. Be with you.

  2. Love you every day.

  3. Give you heaps and heaps of screaming orgasms whenever you want.

  4. Wander the world with you, or just explore Paris together. Whatever the world is to you, I want to be by your side.

  5. Drink champagne on your rooftop as we say good-bye to the crazy idea that we weren’t meant to last, because we are.

  * * *

  P.S. This list also includes the ongoing, always and forevermore invitation to visit chocolate shops, bakeries, and any market you wish whenever you wish, as well as more orgasms.

  * * *

  P.P.S. Have I mentioned orgasms?

  * * *

  She throws her arms around my neck once more. “I do believe you can have it all.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want to have your cake and eat it, too?”

  “Cake is always a good idea.”

  “So is falling in love. So is staying in love. So is staying together. What do you say we do that?”

  She quirks up her lips, and her bright green eyes twinkle with mischief. When she answers me, she’s not speaking the language she knows best. “I’d say you have yourself a deal.”

  I cup her cheeks, hold her face, and kiss her. Like that, we make the world disappear. It’s us, kissing on the street, coming back together.

  Coming home.

  She’s who I always want to return to. Every night.

  When at last we pull apart, she’s breathless and flushed. It’s a look I like seeing on her. It’s a look I want to make sure she always wears.

  She nibbles on one corner of her lips and glances at her watch. “Elise is waiting for me. I should go tell her you’re having me for dinner.”

  I laugh. “She already knows.”

  “What?”

  “I might have been impulsive in surprising you. But I’m not stupid. I called my mate, he called your friend, and they made sure you’d be home when I was arriving.”

  “You clever man,” she says appreciatively as she unlocks the pink door. “I guess she’s not waiting for me at the café on the corner.”

  “No, I don’t think she is.”

  “So, seventeen hours on a plane,” she muses as she tugs me to the staircase. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes. I want to go to sleep straight away,” I say drily, since nothing could be further from the truth. I slept soundly on the plane. “Any chance I could crash here?”

  She laughs. “Yes, feel free to crash on my couch. I’ll be quiet.”

  “You’ve never been quiet,” I say, and I smack her ass as she heads up the steps.

  “You’re the one to blame for all my noise.”

  “I’d like to always be the one to blame for that.”

  Soon, we’re up all those damn stairs. The door bangs shut, and our hands grab at each other. I can’t stop kissing her, can’t stop touching her.

  “I don’t know how I thought I could do without you,” I say.

  “Don’t then.”

  I push up her skirt, tug down her knickers, and press her hard to the wall. In seconds, my jeans are undone, and I push in as her body welcomes me. I still when I’m inside her, letting the fantastic reality of my life set in. I’m back where I belong.

  A shudder racks my body as I start to move in her. She ropes her hands around my neck and pulls my face closer, kissing me the whole time. Her red lips never stop claiming mine—rough, fierce, demanding.

  I hike up her leg and wrap it around my hip, going deeper. She moans, loud and long, noisy, like she promised she’d be. She sounds like she’s getting lost in us again. Like she did every time. Like I want her to do all the time. I want her to get lost with me so I can be the one to find her.

  S
oon, she’s trembling, and I watch as her pleasure moves through her, as she dissolves into my arms, and before I know it, I follow her there, and we come back together.

  “Thanks for the postscript,” she murmurs.

  I laugh as I tug her close. “You always get the postscript.”

  After another time, and yet another, we flop onto her couch, spent. She plays with my hair, and my stomach growls. “You must be hungry,” she says.

  I lift up her skirt. “Why, yes, let’s do it again.”

  She swats at me. “Hungry for dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re at the café around the corner, where she orders for us then sets down her menu. “So, you’re back in Paris. Did Sophie keep her place for you?”

  I shake my head. “She rented it.”

  Joy taps her chin. “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “Is that interesting?”

  “You’ve come back to Paris without a place to live. You must really like me.”

  “Hmm. I guess I do.”

  “It’s going to be hard living on the streets, isn’t it?”

  “So rough. But I’ll make do.”

  “I can toss you a blanket if you need.”

  “Oh, please, don’t put yourself out. I have a bench I plan to sleep under.”

  “That sounds fabulous.” She spreads her napkin on her lap. “But just in case that doesn’t work out . . .”

  “You have something else in mind?”

  She shrugs as she smirks. “I suppose you could live with me.”

  I reach for her hand. “I would love to climb eighty-four steps every day and every night with you.”