The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

The sight of my name in his handwriting made me tremble. Only twenty-four hours ago, I thought there wasn’t a point in continuing our relationship, that we weren’t going anywhere and never would. Now I realized we had already arrived.

  When I finally peeled my eyes away from the page, Carson was aiming his blue spotlights on me, warming me with his gaze.

  “This is all I need,” he said. “I can sketch in Hong Kong, in Australia, in New York. I can find an adventure wherever I am. The only constant I need in my life is you. So wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

  “But what about San Francisco? What about all the things you had going on there before you left?”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing there for me except a half-empty storage unit, filled with stuff I don’t need anymore.” His voice was deep, rough, tinged with sadness and a shade of regret. He cupped my chin, ran the tip of his thumb against my bottom lip. “I told you, San Francisco never felt like home to me. You’re the closest thing I’ve felt to home in a long, long time.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I already let you get away once, Sophie. I’m not making that mistake again.”

  I folded his five-year plan and placed it on my nightstand, then straddled his hips and gently raked my fingers up the sides of his scalp. With my hands full of his soft, dense hair, I leaned forward and kissed his lips, wrapping my legs around his body and pressing myself against him. As his fingertips traveled up the small of my back and over my stomach, I thought, This is too good to be true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At 6:30 the next morning, the alarm on my phone emitted its shrill, continuous beep right on cue. Some people preferred to wake up to a gentle, melodious tune. A sound resembling the chirping of crickets or the strumming of an acoustic guitar. Something so soothing would never get me out of bed on a workday anymore, though. I needed to be jolted into action, provoked into opening my eyes.

  I snatched the phone from my bedside table and automatically pressed the snooze button. The thought of heading into the office for another miserable day was too much to bear at the moment. Didn’t I only just close my eyes and go to sleep?

  “Just five more minutes,” I muttered in my hazy half-asleep state.

  “Don’t get up on my account. I’ve got a perfect view right here.”

  Carson. How could I have forgotten he was right next to me? When I cracked my eyes and saw him sitting there, naked, his sketchbook open on the disheveled sheets, I remembered why I felt so fatigued. We didn’t really sleep much last night. My grimace turned into a smile. “Hi.”

  “Don’t move. I just need to finish this one little detail on your collarbone.”

  I obeyed his command. With his gaze transfixed on my naked body, I felt like the Venus to his Botticelli, the Mona Lisa to his da Vinci. His eyes explored every last detail of my body, and his fingers immortalized them in the pages of his notebook. A notebook I knew he would keep forever.

  And while I reveled in being the sole object of his adulation, I also felt a vague sense of foreboding. It was one thing to be Carson’s source of creative inspiration, a muse for his artwork, but it was quite another to be the only line item on his five-year plan. How could he have no other aspirations in life aside from tagging along behind me? Despite all the discouragement he’d encountered over the years, I knew the old Carson—the ambitious teenager, the president of his high school art club—must still be trapped somewhere inside of him, yearning to be set free.

  He snapped his book shut. “Okay, you can move now.”

  Stretching my arms above my head, I shook the worry out of my brain and slinked closer to him, feeling the warmth of his bare hip against my own. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Jet lag,” he said. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you awake before eleven, though.”

  “I have to be at work in an hour.” I leaned over, brushed my lips against his neck. Goddamn, he smells good.

  He tossed his notebook on the floor and pressed up next to me. “Then you’ve got plenty of time before you’ve gotta get out of bed.”

  I knew I should be marching into the bathroom and turning on the faucet, letting the shower heat up while I put on a pot of coffee. And of course, I needed to figure out an outfit to wear. I hadn’t had a chance to iron my clothes last night as I’d planned, with everything else going on. If I didn’t get my act together right away, I was going to show up at the office looking like a rumpled mess.

  “I can’t be late.” I threw back the duvet and leapt to my feet.

  In the bathroom, I yanked open the shower curtain and reached for the faucet, only to be pulled backward before I could turn on the water. Carson’s strong arm encircled my waist, his palm sliding across my stomach. “Why don’t you call in sick today?” he whispered into my curls.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Say it’s a fever. You’re burning up. You can barely get out of bed.” The tip of his tongue trailed along the edge of my earlobe and my knees turned to jelly.

  Every sensible cell in my body told me to get in the shower. Go to work, they said. You’ve got a task list a mile long waiting for you on your desk. Yet somehow, I ignored them and let Carson prop me up on the bathroom sink. My head fell back against the medicine chest, and a groan of ecstasy escaped from deep within my chest.

  At 7:42, I typed a hasty e-mail to Elizabeth telling her I’d been up all night, I wasn’t feeling like myself, I couldn’t possibly come into the office today. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a lie, was it? Maybe it’d make me come off as indifferent about my work, an unenthusiastic contributor. But frankly, with the way things were going—Elizabeth’s unrealistic expectations, Seth’s nasty attitude—I didn’t care what they thought about me anymore. All I cared about was having a good time. Seizing the day. Being happy.

  By ten o’clock, we finally made it into the shower without getting distracted.

  “Show me New York today,” Carson said as he soaped up my chest.

  “Gladly.” Though his slippery fingers sliding all over my body threatened to distract me all over again. “What do you want to see?”

  “What’s good?”

  “It’s New York. Everything’s good.” I squirted a dollop of raspberry-scented shampoo in my hand and worked my hair into a lather. “But you know, it’s been a long time since I’ve been a tourist in my own town. It could be fun to play one.”

  “I don’t want to be a tourist. I want to know what the real New York is like.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Indulge me for a day. Let’s take one of those red double-decker tour buses. There’s one that takes off from Times Square every hour.”

  “That sounds so cheesy.”

  “Look, think of it as a way to orient yourself in Manhattan. You’ll get a quick bird’s-eye view of the whole island.”

  “Of all the tourist traps, you mean.”

  “Yes, all the overpriced, overcrowded tourist traps that you hate.” Suds dripped down my back and I ran my soapy hands over his chest. “Please. Do it for me.”

  He squeezed my shoulders and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “Okay. But only because I love you.”

  I suppressed a squee over his profession of love. Instead, I played it cool, tipped my head back into the shower spray, and rinsed the shampoo out of my hair. “You won’t regret it.”

  * * *

  An hour later, I was eating my words. By the look on Carson’s face, he was very much regretting it. Not that I could blame him. The bus tour was turning out to be a bit of a dud.

  And that was putting it mildly.

  When we first boarded, things seemed promising. The afternoon was bright and clear, and the bus was half empty, which was actually pretty surprising, since New York is one of those rare tourist destinations that never experiences a slow season. This meant there were plenty of free spaces on the second story, so we were able to enjoy our tour from on high, basking in the sunshine of the open top. The guide sat on
the first floor, in a bucket seat next to the driver, talking into a microphone that piped into speakers beside each of our seats. As we passed by historic landmarks and buildings, he described each one and discussed its history.

  At least, that’s what we assumed he was talking about. Really, we couldn’t understand a single word the guy said. He spoke in an uninspired monotone, and his voice came through muffled and fuzzy, like the wires in the sound system had been chewed through by city rats. Even though the content of his speech was completely indiscernible, no one bothered to report the problem. Not a single person went downstairs to complain. Nobody even silently huffed in annoyance. They just sat there, staring at all these amazing New York attractions passing us by, without the slightest bit of context or background to go with it. Did those retirees in the corner even know they were looking at the flagship Macy’s department store? Did the family of six over there realize that under Madison Square Garden lurked a train station that served over half a million passengers per day? I’d dragged Carson aboard this big red hunk of metal under the guise of giving him an overview of the city, and now this useless excuse for a tour guide was ruining it.

  After we’d passed by the heart of Broadway without a coherent narration, Carson’s eyes were glazing over. I’d had enough.

  “See up there? Straight ahead?” I said to Carson. “That’s Columbus Circle.”

  “What’s Columbus Circle, and why should I care?”

  “Well, Smartypants, aside from it being home to the iconic Time Warner Center, there is a statue in the middle of the roundabout that was built in 1892, commemorating the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s arrival in America. And, you’ll be interested to know, that statue is the point from which all official distances to New York City from around the world are measured.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. So, when we say Hong Kong is 8,048 miles away from New York City, we really mean it’s 8,048 miles away from that statue, right there.”

  “Wow.”

  Carson raised his eyebrows and nodded. I’d taught him something new and interesting. Perhaps I could salvage this failure of a bus tour after all.

  I stood up, leaning against the bench in front of us for balance as the bus swerved and sped through city traffic. Affecting my best tour guide stance and smile, I pointed over the side of the bus. “We’re now heading northwest on Broadway, where up ahead and to the left you’ll see the famous Lincoln Center.”

  “And what, pray tell, makes Lincoln Center so famous?” Carson smiled. At this point, he was just trying to bust my chops.

  “I’m glad you asked, sir. Lincoln Center is a sixteen-acre complex of buildings, including thirty indoor and outdoor performance facilities. Most notably, it houses the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet, and the Juilliard School.”

  “That’s where Juilliard is?” A redheaded teenage girl in the back of the bus piped up. “Mom, look!”

  My cheeks burned. I hadn’t realized anyone else was listening to me. But when I looked at the dozen or so passengers scattered throughout the second floor of the bus, I noticed they were all staring at me with rapt attention, waiting for my next juicy bit of tourist information. Lucky for them, I had a lot of that to go around.

  “As you can see,” I said, projecting my voice, “we’ve now turned right and are heading straight toward Central Park, an oasis of green in the middle of the concrete jungle. Can anyone guess how many acres Central Park sits on?”

  “Two hundred,” yelled out one man.

  “Higher,” I said.

  “A thousand,” yelled a little boy.

  “Lower.” This game was fun.

  “Eight hundred,” said Carson.

  “Very close, sir! The correct answer is eight hundred forty-three acres. It’s home to a lake, a pond, and a reservoir, as well as a zoo, an ice-skating rink, and even a small castle.”

  “There’s a castle in there?” The little boy was really into my spiel.

  “Yes, Belvedere Castle. But no one’s ever lived there. It was constructed primarily for decoration, but it also hosts weddings and houses the official weather station of Central Park.”

  I continued my performance as we passed by Strawberry Fields, the Museum of Natural History, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. People asked me questions, and I knew every answer, or at least knew enough to keep the crowd entertained and informed. Two hours flew by in a flash, and when we pulled back into our final stop at Times Square, the second floor gave me a standing ovation. Even Carson was on his feet, clapping his hands. My heart swelled. I felt like I’d accomplished more in that one little tour of Manhattan than I had in four years of undergraduate work and three years of hard white-collar labor.

  The other passengers picked up their belongings and began to file out. I sat down in my seat, catching my breath. “What did I just do?”

  “You put on an amazing show,” he said, sitting back down. “I never thought I’d enjoy a sightseeing tour on a double-decker bus, but you had me captivated.”

  “Excuse me, miss?” The retired couple stood above me, the woman placing a gentle, wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “We’ve been saving our money for a trip to New York for close to fifteen years, and we finally made it here last night. I have to say, you’ve made our introduction to the city very memorable.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s so nice of you to say.”

  “Well, it’s true.” The man held out a folded up ten-dollar bill. “For your hard work.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t accept that.”

  “Take it.” He pressed the money into my palm. “You’re good at your job and you deserve some tips.”

  “Keep at it,” she said. “You’re gonna run this tour company one day.”

  They disappeared down the stairs and left me sitting there with my mouth hanging open and the money dangling between my fingers.

  “Can you believe that?” I laughed.

  “Yes.” Carson stood and took my hand. “You’ve really got a natural talent for this tour guide thing. How many New York City guidebooks have you read?”

  “Not sure. Maybe about a dozen? When I was a teenager in New Jersey, I used to come into New York all the time and go sightseeing. Even though I couldn’t really travel anywhere, I still liked to play tourist. I collected guidebooks the way other little girls collected Barbie dolls.”

  “Sounds like you were born to do this.”

  “I know.”

  “So do it.”

  “What, be a tour guide?” I snorted. “I already told you. They make, like, nothing. I can’t do that.”

  Carson shrugged. “If it’s something you’re really passionate about, you’ll find a way to make it work.”

  He moved toward the stairs and I trailed behind him. Carson didn’t get it. Maybe he’d been okay with scraping by and couch-surfing before that trust fund fell in his lap, but I wanted a home to call my own. And there was no way I could make that happen in New York City on the salary of a double-decker-bus tour guide.

  But this was the man who had hit the jackpot on a casino game he didn’t even understand how to play. A man who got on an airplane and came to see me on a whim—me, a woman he’d known for barely two weeks—just because he missed me. He followed his gut, even when all signs pointed in the opposite direction. Somehow it worked out for him. Life fell into place because he had the courage to keep taking risks.

  I stepped down from the bus and set foot on the cracked city pavement. Carson laced his fingers through mine, and as we walked down the street, his words echoed in my head.

  Find a way to make it work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Playing tour guide had given me a buzz. When it was all over, I was jonesing for more. So I grabbed Carson’s hand and led him south on Eighth Avenue, determined to maintain my high.

  “Broadway theaters are right around the corner here,” I said. “Let me show you a couple of my favorites.”

  “That sounds
awesome,” he said. “I definitely want to see them. But it’s almost two and I’m starving. Can we stop off for lunch first?”

  “Sure. Why don’t we go to Sardi’s?”

  “What’s Sardi’s?”

  “A restaurant that’s been around since the early 1920s. Broadway stars and executives used to hang out there. Now it’s more of a tourist trap—as you would put it—than celebrity hangout. But it’s a vital part of New York City history. And you’ll dig this: The walls are lined with celebrity caricatures.”

  “What do they have on the menu?”

  “Oh, you know, typical restaurant fare. Steaks, sandwiches, salads. That kind of thing.” I squeezed his hand and sped down the street. “It’s just a couple blocks ahead and to the left. On the way we’ll have to pass by the St. James Theatre, which, incidentally, is where Sardi’s was originally located.”

  “I hope they’ve got burgers.”

  Sardi’s did have burgers. Unfortunately, they had no open tables. In my hasty, impulsive decision to go there for lunch, I hadn’t even considered the fact that a popular tourist attraction would require reservations made a week in advance, even at two o’clock.

  “Not to fear.” I was so hopped up on the idea of finding a hot spot for lunch that my voice was jittery. “Carmine’s is right around here. That was built in—”

  “Sophie?”

  “Yes?”

  Carson took both my hands in his and looked me in the eye. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” I smiled.

  “But I can’t handle another historical fact until I have food in my stomach.”

  Without a word, I hustled us over to Famous Original Ray’s Pizza, where Carson gobbled up two slices of pepperoni and a sausage calzone, while I savored a steaming rice ball parmigiana. When we finished, my belly was full and I was feeling sluggish. The post-tour high had crashed down around me.

  “Where to now?” he asked, tossing a wadded up napkin onto his empty paper plate. “What other hidden New York City landmarks are you going to uncover for me?”