By this time of night, I was usually so exhausted from hours of pounding the pavement, I could do nothing more but say my good-byes before retreating up the five flights of stairs to my apartment and crawling into bed. But tonight, I didn’t feel quite so tired, and I definitely didn’t feel like being alone. Not yet anyway. So I joined the group for a nightcap, thinking a pint of Bitburger might be what I needed to take the edge off and help me sleep.
Our party was so large, Wolf had to split us up into two separate tables. I sat at the end of a long bench, next to three Argentinian guys—Emilio, Nico, and Andrés—who were backpacking around the United States. They were handsome and strapping, their faces tan and covered in thick, dark facial hair. Their accents were so hot, they could’ve melted the whole crock of butter Wolf brought out for the Brötchen.
There was a time, not long ago, when I would’ve conspired to lure one of them upstairs to my apartment. Hell, I might’ve even tried to nab all three. But now my heart was telling me something different. There was only one man I wanted to be with; I just didn’t know where to find him. So I sipped my beer and made casual small talk, trying to distract myself from the feeling that something important had been misplaced. Like my life was an intricate puzzle with a single missing piece.
“How long have you guys been touring the States?” I asked.
“Almost two months,” Emilio replied. “We started in California and worked our way east.”
“It’s all over on Monday, though,” Nico said. “That’s when we fly back to Buenos Aires.”
“Back to the real world.” They clinked glasses and exchanged solemn glances.
“Well,” I sighed, “all vacations must come to an end.”
“Not for you!”
“Yeah,” Andrés chimed in, “your whole life is one vacation. Bringing people on tours and traveling the world. What an amazing job you have.”
“I don’t travel the world. All my tours are based right here, in New York.”
“What about all those itineraries on your website?”
Emilio was referring to my blog. There was a link to it off my main site, but before now, I wasn’t sure anyone was actually reading all those dream itineraries I’d been collecting since I was a kid. A South African safari. A cruise around the Baltic Sea. A camping adventure through the Outback of Australia. Putting them up on the Internet made me feel like I was setting my wishes free into the world with the hope that one day they might come true.
“Those aren’t actual tours,” I said. “They’re only fantasies.”
“That’s too bad,” Nico said. “They seemed so real to me.”
“Yeah,” Andrés added. “When I saw your sample walking tour of Old San Juan, I almost booked a flight to Puerto Rico on the spot.”
“It just wouldn’t be feasible. I mean…I couldn’t.”
Could I?
I knew what my instincts were telling me: that the mere idea of traveling the world as an independently operating tour guide was a completely ludicrous idea. Then again, a few weeks ago, I would’ve thought that quitting my job at McKinley was outside the realm of the possible, too. So what was stopping me from taking Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours around the globe?
Like a flash of lightning, the answer popped into my head: Nothing. Nothing was stopping me. I had no obligations to fulfill, no deadlines to meet. The only roadblock between me and the realization of my dreams was myself.
The wheels in my head started spinning. Kat had told me that running a business was a never-ending process of reinvention. That if I wanted to remain relevant and successful, I’d constantly have to evolve and adapt. If I wanted to make this a reality, there were so many logistics to consider. Not the least of which was how to get the word out to potential customers.
“So, is that how you found out about my tour?” I asked. “Through my blog?”
“No, we found you through the flyers at the hostel.”
“Yeah. Some guy in the lobby dropped them off and said you were a great guide,” Emilio said.
“Hostel?” I repeated.
“Yes, the Times Square West on Forty-Sixth and Tenth.”
“Forty-Sixth and Tenth?” At this point, I knew I sounded like a parrot, but I had to repeat the words out loud to really believe them. That hostel was only two blocks north of here. Could Carson really be so close by?
Suddenly, I was on my feet. Not even my half-finished Bitburger could take the edge off now. Every cell in my body was telling me to run to this hostel, right away, as fast as my legs could carry me.
“This has been a great tour, everyone,” I said, nearly tripping over the rungs of the chair as I tried to disentangle myself from the seat. “I really have to run now, but you guys sit and stay for as long as you want and enjoy yourself. Wolf will see to anything you need.”
I turned away and sped toward the door, waving behind me at the people who were still shouting their good-byes. I realized I could be walking away from some healthy tips, but money didn’t factor in. All I could think about in that moment was finding Carson.
On my way to the front door, Kat waved me over to the bar, her brows furrowed in concern. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “You look a bit frazzled.”
“Everything’s fine. Better than fine. At least with the tour. But there’s somewhere I’ve gotta be right now.”
“Say no more,” she said. “Go. Wolf and I will take care of the tour group if anyone needs anything.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, already pushing the front door open. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then I was out on Tenth Avenue, running uptown, a hundred nervous butterflies beating their wings inside my stomach. My legs vaulted along the sidewalk, and by the time I reached the front door of the Times Square West Hostel, I was in a full sweat. I was also grinning from ear to ear, completely convinced I would find Carson there. So when the clerk behind the front desk told me there was no Carson Greene listed in their guest registry, I made him check again.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “No Greenes have been here all week.”
“Well, what about the week before?” I clenched my clammy hands into tight fists.
“Ma’am, I can’t give out that information.”
“Well, have you seen him around here? He’s about six feet tall, sandy hair, blue eyes.”
The clerk’s patience was wearing thin. “I see hundreds of people every day that fit that description.”
He turned to face his computer, finished with this conversation.
Shit.
Frantically, I looked around the lobby, hoping in vain to find some clue that might lead me to find him. All I saw was a wire rack of tourism brochures and a half-empty vending machine. I didn’t see my flyers posted anywhere. Not even on the community message board.
Perhaps it had been naïve of me to think I might track Carson down so easily. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a crushing sense of disappointment. And a growing sense of frustration. He knew how to contact me. He could come see me whenever he wanted. So why was he hiding out?
All the nervous energy I’d been running on all day drained from my body in one fell swoop. I flopped down on the threadbare tweed couch in the center of the lobby, hoping to catch a second wind before walking the two blocks back home. As I scanned the advertisements and announcements posted on the community message board, I wondered if Carson had really ever been here. Maybe those nice Argentinian guys had been mistaken as to where they saw the flyer. Maybe they’d just seen it on a telephone pole or in Penn Station. Maybe they’d received it from one of my other customers.
Hinges squealed as the front door opened. I peered over the back of the couch to see a gaggle of young women walking in, chattering away in Australian accents.
“That walking tour looked fun. Do you wanna do it tomorrow?”
“Maybe. But I’m more interested in the hot guy who delivered the flyers last night.”
“Oh, I know. Do you think he’ll turn up again tonight?”<
br />
“I hope so. God, he had the sexiest blue eyes.”
My heart raced anew as the girls plunked themselves down onto the beanbag chairs behind the couch. I sank down low into the cushions, hiding myself from view while I eavesdropped on their banter.
“Let’s wait here for a little while and see if he shows.”
“Maybe we can invite him to go out with us later.”
“Hey, I call dibs on him, sweetie.”
The sound of their giggles was muffled by the blood rushing through my ears.
Carson had been here.
Which means he’d probably be here again.
And I wasn’t leaving until I saw him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Time ticked by, each minute more painful than the last. And I’m not just referring to the torture of listening to the nonstop babble of the women on the beanbag chairs. I’m talking about physical pain, too. Like the crick I’d developed in my neck from sitting in an awkward, half-reclined position on that ratty, saggy couch. I suppose I could’ve sat up to alleviate the discomfort, but I didn’t want them to see me; I kept hoping to discreetly overhear some other snippet of conversation pertaining to Carson. So far, though, they’d only shared stories of their lives back in Melbourne, and I made a mental note to research the Yarra Valley when I got home. From their anecdotes, it seemed like it might be an interesting tourist destination.
I had no idea how long I’d been waiting there, but from the death stares being lobbed in my direction by the front desk clerk, it was safe to say I’d overstayed my welcome. My hope of meeting Carson tonight began to wither and die. Maybe tomorrow, I thought. And the ladies on the beanbag chairs agreed with me.
“Well, girls,” one of them said. “I hate to say this but I think we might want to abandon our quest for the hottie with the flyers tonight.”
“Yeah, it’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”
“Oh, let’s wait just a few more minutes!”
“This is New York, sweetie. Hot guys are a dime a dozen. Come on, let’s get ready to hit the clubs.”
The chairs rustled as they stood up, and when the clack of their footsteps faded away, I pushed myself up to a seated position. Rolling my head from side to side, I massaged my neck, kneading away the muscle spasm. When the clerk vigorously cleared his throat, I figured it was probably my cue to leave. Besides, it was getting late, and I had a full day of touring to tend to tomorrow.
With a heavy sigh, I hefted myself to my feet and turned toward the exit, just in time to hear the hinges on the door squeal once more. In walked a guy about six feet tall, with tousled hair and piercing eyes. In his arms, he held a stack of photocopies. Halfway to the community board on the opposite end of the lobby, he stopped in his tracks, staring at me.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Carson.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I think a better question would be, what are you doing here?”
I gestured to the flyers in his hand, where a brand-new caricature stared back at me. This time, I was standing in the middle of Bryant Park, with the Josephine Shaw Lowell fountain trickling off to the side, and my old office building soaring in the background. “How many of these have you made by now?” I asked. “Seven?”
“Eight.”
“And you’ve been posting them up in here?”
“Yeah. I hope that’s okay. I saw you were putting them on telephone poles and stuff. But, in my experience, you’ll really get the best exposure to tourists if you place them in touristy places. Like hotels or hostels.”
“Or Penn Station.”
“You saw them there?” he asked.
I nodded. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, seeming insecure, almost defensive, like he wasn’t aware of how significant his efforts had been. How much he had helped me, without even knowing it.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
“I love them.” I took a step closer to him. “Truly. They’re amazing. Thank you so much for doing all this.”
He let out a breath he’d been holding. “I was happy to do it. You know, when I first saw your flyer around town, I had to do a double take. Then I started seeing them everywhere and I thought, man, she’s really doing it. She’s taking the chance. I wanted to be able to support you. Even if it was only in this small way.”
“This is not a small gesture, by any means. If you’ve been in town this whole time, though, why haven’t you just come back to see me?”
“Because I wasn’t sure you wanted that. Not after the way we left things.”
I took yet another step closer, drinking in his spicy, familiar scent. “You were right, Carson. About everything. My whole life I’ve been caught between what I thought I needed to be and what really made me happy. I finally decided to give happiness a chance.”
He raised his hand and caressed my cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. I surrendered to the sensation, the blissful comfort of being here with him, of finding that last missing piece of the puzzle I needed to feel whole.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said. “For you to be happy. To live the life you’ve always dreamed of.”
I wrapped my arms around his torso, feeling his warm, solid body press against me. Our lips grazed, exchanging tender, delicate kisses. Kisses that spoke of their own accord. I love you, they said. I’ve missed you. I’ll never leave you again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his mouth.
“For what?”
“For accusing you of not following your passion. For saying you’re afraid to be a success.”
He paused a moment before he said, “Well, maybe you had a point.”
“No. I had this narrow vision of what it means to be successful, and I shouldn’t have tried to force that on you. Success doesn’t mean making a lot of money or pursuing a prestigious career. Success means being happy. As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
Carson pulled away from me slightly, heaving a weighty sigh. “If I’m being totally honest, Sophie, I’m not happy.”
His words hit me like a freight train. He was an independently wealthy artist, with the freedom to wander the world on a whim, to sketch whatever his heart desired. He answered to no one; he made his own rules. For him, every day was a different adventure. Without a doubt, he lived a life most people, including me, only dreamed about. “What do you mean you’re not happy?”
He licked his lips and tilted his head back, searching the ceiling for answers. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. How I’m just floating around, with no direction, no purpose. How I don’t set goals for myself because I’m too…” His voice faltered for a moment; then he cleared his throat and started over. “Because I’m afraid of failing. I’ve been doing that for a long time, ever since I dropped out of art school. Now I’m starting to feel like my life is sort of meaningless. What am I here for? What am I doing?”
I patted his chest, right where his tattoo was concealed beneath his shirt. “You’re seizing the day.”
“That’s the problem,” he said, placing his hand over my own. “I’m not seizing anything. I dream and I dream, but I never do. I’m stagnant, standing still, while the rest of the world passes me by. I’ve always been so scared of turning out like my parents, obsessed with this idea of living in the moment. But life’s about growing. Trying and failing and trying again. Seeing how you put yourself out there and took this chance just reminds me of all the chances I haven’t been taking.”
He lowered his gaze to meet mine, and I recognized the raw emotion in his eyes: the torment of never feeling good enough, the fear of never finding peace. Then he continued. “Remember my old roommate, Johnny, from college? After you and I talked the other day, I decided to look him up. Turns out he lives in New York. We met for a drink last week, caught up on our lives. He’s still hustling with his artwork, trying to book shows and sell his sculptures and stuff. But he’s also got a day job at a graphic d
esign firm, and he really likes it. I was thinking…something like that might be good for me.”
I widened my eyes, unable to contain my excitement for his sudden burst of ambition. “That’s a great idea, Carson. You could totally pull something like that off!”
His lips curled into a small smile. “You’re the only person who’s ever believed in me, Sophie. Who thinks I can be somebody great someday.”
“You already are somebody great.”
“But I know I can be more. I see that now.”
“I don’t need you to be more than you already are,” I said. “But if you feel like something is missing from your life, then I want to help you find it. Just like you helped me.”
“Whatever you did, you did it all by yourself. I was only ever cheering for you from the sidelines.”
Carson pulled me close again and kissed me, sending a shock through my tender, flooded nerves. I yielded to his soft, open mouth, and as he gripped my waist, the flyers slipped from his hands and spilled to the floor around our feet. A low moan escaped from the back of my throat and echoed all around us. The fear of never seeing him again had quickly been replaced with a fierce need to touch him, to taste him, to hold him and never let go. For a second, I could’ve sworn we were in Wan Chai again, standing at the edge of the waterfront promenade, with briny breezes blowing off Victoria Harbour and settling over my prickling skin.
It wasn’t until the front desk clerk emitted a phlegmy, deliberate cough that I realized we were still standing in the lobby of this grubby New York hostel. When we peeled our lips apart and glanced in his direction, he was shuffling papers and purposely averting his gaze.
“We’d better leave,” Carson whispered, bending over to gather the flyers from the floor. I straightened the front of my now-rumpled shirt and watched him as he approached the community message board to tack up an ad for Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours. As he pressed the pushpin into the cork, he glanced back at me over his shoulder. I caught a glimpse of the dimple in his stubbled cheek, and a tingle rippled through my stomach.
The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World Page 26
