Wanderlust

by Thea Dawson

  As I chopped vegetables, I thought about the summer four years ago, when I’d met Stephen at a rooftop beer garden in Hong Kong. I was nannying for a British family, and had fallen in with a group of young executive expats. My first impression of Stephen was of a stunningly good-looking man in his late twenties. He was tall and well built, with wavy blond hair, soulful eyes and a chiseled jaw. I must have done a double take when I saw him, because the friend who had invited me whispered drily, “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s got a boyfriend.”

  My romantic aspirations were dashed, but as it turned out, he was originally from the Twin Cities himself, and we quickly became good friends. After the family I worked for moved back to London, he managed to find me a temporary position at the investment firm where he was a rising star.

  The expat lifestyle was seductive—plenty of money, lots of parties, fun and interesting people. But after about six months, the glitter and glamour of Hong Kong began to get old, and I started to feel the lure of the open road again. When I told Stephen I was going to quit, he sighed.

  “You could have a good career here. Everyone likes you, you’re doing a good job—I’m sure we could find you something permanent, if you wanted.”

  I smiled. “You’ve done so much for me, and I really appreciate it. But I’m ready to move on. I’m thinking about Tibet,” I added.

  He looked at me askance. “I hear it’s cold, and all they eat is yak butter.”

  I laughed at him. “For a native of St. Paul, you’re a real wimp.” Stephen’s idea of travel was five star, first class, and almost always tropical. I didn’t have anything against that, but I didn’t mind a little discomfort, either, if it meant new places and experiences.

  “How are you going to support yourself?” he asked.

  “Thanks to you and this job, I’ve been able to save quite a bit. And I just got paid a thousand dollars for an article I wrote for a travel magazine,” I said proudly.

  I’d been expecting a hearty congratulations, or at least a high five, but Stephen just looked at me in dismay. “You can’t support yourself on that!”

  I laughed. A thousand dollars was riches to a backpacker. “I’ll be fine,” I promised him.

  He pouted. “You’re crazy, but you’re cute and interesting, so I suppose I’ll have to forgive you,” he sighed. “But you’d better stay in touch!”

  And I had. He’d been transferred back to Chicago two years later and now worked for an investment firm in the Loop. When I’d emailed him to say I’d be back in the Midwest for a couple of months, he’d invited me to stay with him, and I’d jumped at the chance. Stephen didn’t quite get my fascination with travel, especially the less glamorous aspects of it, but he enjoyed my stories and was very supportive of my career ambitions.

  Dinner was baking in the oven and the sorbet was setting in the freezer when Stephen came home, looking glum.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, as he hung up his heavy overcoat.

  “Patrick called me at work.”

  I sighed. Patrick and Stephen had broken up a few months earlier. In fact, it was Patrick’s absence that had prompted Stephen to invite me. He hated living alone. I was happy to have such a nice place to stay, even if it was just on the couch. But I was sorry for the circumstances.

  “What did he say?” I asked suspiciously. Patrick, in my opinion, played games. He didn’t want to date Stephen anymore, but he apparently didn’t want Stephen to move on, either. He’d ignore him until Stephen started to get over him, and then, as if he could read his mind, would call or text out of the blue “just to say hi.” Then some heart-wrenching conversation would ensue in which Stephen fell for Patrick all over again, and nothing got resolved.

  “Oh, the usual. He misses me, but he just doesn’t know if we’re right for each other, blah, blah, blah.” His handsome face was creased in a frown, and he sighed. “How about you, roomie? Got any good stories to distract me with? Smells fantastic in here, by the way. What are we having?”

  “Chicken potpie. My mother’s recipe. It’s the best kind of comfort food, and it’ll cheer you up.” I was trying to be patient, but I really wanted to tell him about meeting Jason and get his take on it. “And I do have a good story for you. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

  “Better make it a single malt,” he sighed, and sank into one of the leather armchairs. “Ah, Minnesota comfort food. If you were a guy, I’d marry you.”

  “And if it were the 1950s, I’d marry you.” I smiled. Playing house—especially in high style—was kind of fun, but I couldn’t see myself making a lifetime of it. I found a bottle of Macallan in Stephen’s liquor cabinet and quickly poured him a glass. I decided to make myself a vodka tonic for good measure.

  He lifted his glass in a quick toast and took a sip. “So don’t keep me in suspense, girlfriend,” he said. “What’s your story?”

  I took a deep breath and began.

  Chapter 7

  Jason

  I trudged four snowy blocks to my apartment building, a shabby but affordable leftover from the 1920s. It still had some period charm to it, but the wooden floors were scratched and worn, and the exterior was marred by an ugly chain link fence. My hands were frozen again by the time I got to the building, and I had trouble getting the key in the lock. I finally managed to open the door and kicked off my boots, trying not to track snow into the apartment.

  “Matt, you home?” I called, though the place seemed deserted.

  I turned up the heat and turned on a few lights. My roommate, a grad student at Northwestern, wasn’t home much, apparently preferring the university’s library to my company. I couldn’t really blame him—Chicago had not brought out the best in me. He’d been looking for a roommate when I’d moved to Chicago, and I’d found his ad in the Reader. When he wasn’t studying, he was with his girlfriend. He was a nice enough guy, but even after living with him for the better part of a year, I still didn’t know him all that well.

  I was hanging up my coat in the hall closet when the door to Matt’s room opened. “Hey,” he said.

  I jumped. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how angry I sounded and grinned to show that I wasn’t serious. “I didn’t think anyone was home.”

  “Sorry about that,” he smiled back. “I’ve been holed up in my room all afternoon studying.” He shook his head. “No idea it was so late.”

  “Yeah, well, with it getting dark so early …” I finished hanging up my coat and put my boots in the closet. Matt hovered behind me as if he had something to say, but didn’t want to say it.

  “What’ve you been working so hard on?” I asked, trying to break up the awkward silence.

  Before he could answer, the door to his room opened again and his girlfriend Kim came out, wearing Matt’s bathrobe and looking a bit sleepy. “Oh, hi, Jason. I didn’t realize you were home.” She blushed. “Good to see you.” She slipped quickly into the bathroom.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Studying, huh?”

  Matt shrugged sheepishly. “Well, we were studying.” He paused for a moment. “Hey, listen. I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Yeah, what’s up? Can we talk while I get some dinner going?”

  “Sure, sure.” He followed me into the kitchen, where I opened the door to the fridge. “Here’s the thing. Umm, Kim and I just got engaged.”

  I shut the fridge. “Hey, congratulations! That’s awesome, man! Really happy for you guys.” I sounded hopelessly insincere to myself. Matt didn’t seem notice.

  He grinned. “Thanks. We’re pretty excited.” He paused. I tried not to roll my eyes in exasperation. I didn’t have a lot of patience left, but it wasn’t Matt’s fault, and I didn’t want to take it out on him. “The thing is, Kim’s lease is up in a few weeks, and we want to move in together.”

  So, clearly something about the lease; either he wanted out or he wanted me out. I nodded encouragingly, hoping he’d just spit it out.

/>   “And I don’t want just kick you out or anything, but you’ve been talking about heading back to the east coast, so we were wondering if that was still your plan.”

  Okay, so he wanted me out.

  I took a deep breath. “Ah, yeah. Yeah, I’m still planning on leaving. I, uh, just am not sure exactly when. I’m still trying to tie a few things up here.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say I was still hoping that I’d be fired—and therefore eligible to collect unemployment benefits, or maybe even a halfway decent severance package. I paused, not ready to commit myself to anything. “When’s Kim’s lease up?”

  “February 28th.”

  About six weeks.

  “I don’t want to rush you, man.” Matt clearly felt guilty. I was on the lease until June, so I wasn’t under any obligation to move out.

  But maybe this was the kick in the pants that I needed. After all, one of the reasons I’d been hanging on in hopes of a severance package was to cover the last few months of rent if Matt couldn’t find a new roommate. So in a sense, this was really a stroke of luck. But it meant making some big decisions very quickly.

  “Yeah, I could be out of here by then.”

  “You sure? I mean, if you need more time, Kim could just move in and you could keep staying here as long as you needed to.”

  The thought of being stuck in a small apartment with a couple of newly engaged lovebirds was almost as unappealing as moving back in with my dad. “Thanks, but I need to get my ass in gear and get out of here anyway. This is a good incentive.” I nodded, trying to reassure both of us.

  Matt was clearly relieved. “That’s great, man. Sounds like it’ll work out for everybody. Thanks for understanding.” He turned back toward his bedroom.

  “Hey, you and Kim want to join me for a beer?” I asked, opening the refrigerator door again.

  “Thanks, man, but I’m going to get a shower. We’re going to go out. You know, celebrate.”

  “Of course. You totally should.”

  I waved him off and scanned the contents of the fridge briefly. I immediately regretted not having picked up some take-out from the Chinese place down the street. Cooking was not my forte. I scrounged through the fridge and found some leftover pasta and a jar of marinara sauce. I dumped them into a bowl and put it in the microwave. I opened a beer and called my dad.

  I got voicemail. “Hey, Dad.” I hesitated. He’d been asking for weeks if I wanted the job or not. This was my chance to commit. After all, I had to go somewhere; it might as well be home. But I couldn’t quite do it. “Hope everything’s okay. Just give me a call whenever. Love you.”

  I flipped open my laptop and slurped my pasta while I studied the Silver Basin Spa’s website and began thinking of ways to structure a marketing proposal. Matt and Kim waved at me on their way out, looking all glowy and in love. After they were gone, I remembered that I should have shown some enthusiasm, asked to see the ring and all that bullshit. But the last thing I wanted right now was to have to look at another engagement ring.

  I opened another beer and began looking over the Silver Basin Spa’s website. I took a few notes on things they could do to bring in more customers, and began outlining an initial email to the owner.

  On my cold and miserable journey home, I had made up my mind not to get in touch with Monica again. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her again—I actually did. But Chip was right: it wouldn’t take much to fall for her all over again.

  Partly, I felt awkward. I still owed her some kind of explanation for Amber—not that I could explain, because I couldn’t actually remember why I’d thought it would be a remotely good idea.

  But also, a part of me felt inadequate. If that rock on her finger was anything to go by, her fiancé must be doing pretty well for himself. I felt like a loser in comparison. I didn’t think Monica would care whether I was a success or not, but I did.

  Initially, when I’d graduated, I’d taken off like a rocket. I’d networked, landed great offers, brought in great accounts, risen fast. And then—disaster. The man who’d founded the hot, hip marketing company I’d worked for in San Francisco had been killed in a car accident, after which the company foundered and eventually folded. I’d pulled out all the stops trying to find another job, and eventually landed what seemed like a golden opportunity in Chicago.

  But it had been a fiasco.

  There’d been the whole Meghan thing, of course, which hadn’t helped, but it went well beyond that. I hated Chicago, with its miserably hot summer and even more miserably cold winter. I hated my job. Even with its long hours, it might have been bearable, but the woman who had originally hired me left soon after I came on board, and my new boss was a jackass. He hated me, and I pretty much felt the same about him. Management paid lip service to the idea of teamwork and service to clients, but in truth, the company culture was paranoid, backbiting, and ruthlessly competitive. Rumor had it that the company was having financial problems and would be pink-slipping people soon. I actually prayed I’d be one of them.

  I thought about Monica. The irony of the Meghan situation was not lost on me. I pictured myself explaining the whole story to Monica: I left for a great opportunity, and she was an unsupportive bitch. Now I know how you felt. Sorry.

  Of course, my great opportunity had been a flop. I wondered how her year in Paris had turned out. I’d never had the chance to talk to her about it. I couldn’t even remember what she’d written on the single postcard she’d sent. Nothing deep, I was sure. A Having a good time, wish you were here sort of thing.

  Which, come to think of it, might have been a lot deeper than I’d realized.

  I’d actually liked to have talked to her, if for no other reason than to learn more about her business. Learning about other people’s businesses was my passion, after all. It was pretty cool that she’d turned out to be an entrepreneur. And of course, now that she was at the top of my mind, I was remembering our time together and feeling nostalgic. So although I had decided not to actually contact her, I couldn’t help opening Facebook to have a look at the Adventuress Travel page.

  And as soon as I did, I saw the message.

  I have your gloves.

  Chapter 8

  Monica

  I finished mixing my drink and sat down on the couch across from Stephen and told him about meeting Jason at the coffee shop. The emotional impact of the encounter couldn’t be conveyed without digging into the distant past, and before I knew it, I’d spilled it all—first love, first sex, first heartbreak, the absurd disappointment on finding out that he was engaged, the strange feeling of restlessness and longing that had resurfaced on seeing him again after all this time.

  Stephen kept interrupting with questions and comments. He loved getting into completely irrelevant details—like what I was wearing the first time I met Jason—and the whole story ended up taking us through dinner and into the sorbet.

  Finally Stephen sat back and let out a deep breath. “This is the most romantic story I’ve ever heard,” he said. “And a darn good dinner. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” I put my napkin on the table. I’d hoped that talking to Stephen would make me feel better, but I still felt unsettled and edgy. “I guess parts of it are romantic. Parts of it are just weird.”

  “No, the whole thing is romantic! This is, like, destiny! You and this Jason guy are meant to be together.”

  “Yeah, but he’s engaged. For all I know, he’s married by now.”

  “Meh. He thinks you’re engaged,” Stephen waved his hand dismissively.

  I raised my eyebrows skeptically. “You think that engagement notice was just some silly misunderstanding?”

  “Who knows? People move on, breakup. Maybe it’ll be like that scene in The Graduate, where you run into the church at the last minute—”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Okay, maybe not. But seriously, are you going to see him again?”

  I shrugged, trying to look like I didn’t much care o
ne way or the other. “He said he’d call.”

  “He won’t,” Stephen said.

  “You just said this was destiny!” I objected. I’d said the same thing to Sarah, but it bothered me to hear someone else say it.

  “Gotcha! You’re dying for him to call, aren’t you?” He looked triumphant.

  I glared.

  “Look, he’s a guy. Trust me. A gay guy knows men like women never will. He’s engaged or married or whatever, he thinks you’re getting married, which to the primitive, masculine, lizard brain basically means you’re some other guy’s property, and the situation’s just too awkward for him to wrap his mind around. If you want to see him again, you’ll have to make the first move here.”

  “Huh. Okay,” I said.

  Stephen gave me a hard stare. “So do you want to see him again or not?”

  “I’d kind of like to see him again. You know, just to catch up.” I tried to sound casual.

  “Uh huh.” He shot me a quick, skeptical glance, then resumed tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’d start with a friend request on Facebook, since you know he’s on there. You don’t want to ask about his fiancée because then he’ll know you were stalking him. Let’s keep it simple. Just ask if he’s free for coffee, and say you’d like to catch up. Then when you meet him, you tell him about the ring—ha, ha! Hilarious misunderstanding! Bat those gorgeous brown eyes at him a few times and see how engaged he really is.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Be serious for just a minute, okay? I don’t actually want to break up a serious relationship,” I said. “And anyway, I’m going back to Bangkok in a few weeks, so it’s not like this could really go anywhere anyway.”

  “So what’s your motivation for wanting to see him again?”