The Wonder of Us

by Kim Culbertson

  Like Will is used to being asked how tall he is, this is one of the questions I get asked the most. Maybe it’s a strange sort of hobby, loving the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, if you’re not a seventy-year-old archaeologist or something. Of course, people always forget that the seventy-year-old archaeologist first fell in love with the ancient world at some point in her life and it was probably as a kid. “It’s strange, I know,” I say, matching his steady steps along the sidewalk. “But my dad and I saw this show about them on the History Channel when I was seven and they just captured me. I love the imagination it must have taken to create them, the vision, but also there was all this human suffering that went into building them; that contrast has always intrigued me. And I love the myths and legends that blur the historical parts, you know?”

  “Quite.” He grins sideways at me, his bag rolling along behind him. “It’s an absorbing hobby, I’m sure. Probably leads to other intriguing parts of history.”

  “It does.” His acceptance of it sends a shot of warmth through me. Most people don’t get it, are usually quick to tell me why it’s not worth my time.

  When we reach Will’s building, we climb the narrow steps to his parents’ third-floor flat. He opens the door, revealing an airy, open room with smooth hardwood floors. Will motions at a futon-style mattress against the far wall spread with a dark maroon duvet. “For you girls.” Then he points to a narrow, modern couch and tells Neel, “And for you.” Neel will have to fold himself in half to actually sleep on it.

  “Are your parents here?” I ask Will.

  “They are traveling with my sister in the States. In New York.”

  “I’ve never been to New York,” I admit.

  “You should visit. It’s a wonderful city.”

  “Oh, I looove New York,” Riya gushes. I know for a fact that Riya has been to New York once, when she was nine.

  Neel leans into me, whispering, “He could recommend the fourth circle in Dante’s Inferno and she’d start Googling available Airbnbs.”

  A traitorous giggle slips out. When Riya frowns in my direction, I hurry across the room, dumping my bags on the futon.

  Riya peers at her phone again. “We should be there. Look for a white awning on the Bahnhofstrasse.”

  “You just like saying Bahnhofstrasse.” I scan the pale stone buildings that look like all the other pale stone buildings. Switzerland is nothing if not uniform. “Maybe that one?” I point across and down the street to a building with gold-swirl writing on its windows.

  “Yes! That’s it. Confiserie Sprüngli!” The sweets in the window grow into sharper focus as we near the shop. Giggling, we pull open the door, hit with the sugar-sharp smell of chocolate. Inside, we gawk at the massive rows of elaborately displayed truffles and cakes and pastries. “Oh, wow—chocolate has a heaven.”

  Riya nods in agreement and tugs my arm. “Let’s go upstairs and find a table.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting at a round marble table near the tall second-story windows, watching the bustle of the street below. A waiter sets two cups of steaming hot chocolate in front of us, bits of shaved chocolate melting into a swirl of foam. I’m almost giddy at the thought of the first sip.

  Riya raises her cup and waits for me to do the same. “One-two-three!” We both sip at the same time, simultaneously uttering our own versions of “Mmm.” This is true hot chocolate, not just water mixed with powdered cocoa. We breathe it in before setting our cups down with a clink.

  “Verdict?” I ask, studying her reaction.

  Riya wipes some foam from her lip, announcing, “Winner! Best one ever. It even tops the Brandon Special.”

  For me, nothing will ever top the Brandon Special.

  After a full day of skiing a few years ago, Riya and I had settled into cozy seats at the Squaw Valley High Camp restaurant. Outside, snow drifted across the wide windows, frosting the landscape. Our muscles aching, we waved down the bartender. “Hot chocolate?” he asked, coming to our table. “It’s the best in the world.”

  “It’s not,” Riya told him flatly. “We’ve had it here before.” He smiled slyly, assuring us he could make us the best hot chocolate we’d ever tasted. Skeptical, we waited for this miraculous hot chocolate to arrive. When it did, we took our first sips. It was delicious—smooth, rich chocolate with just the right amount of fresh whipped cream and a dusting of cocoa powder. The bartender laughed at our surprised looks. “That’s the Brandon Special. Just remember to ask for it.” But the next time we went to Squaw, Brandon didn’t work there anymore, moving on to snowier pastures, and we never had hot chocolate like it again.

  Until (almost) now.

  Riya fiddles with one of the small spoons that came with our drinks. “You don’t think it’s a winner?”

  I take another sip. “This is incredible. But it’s a definite second place.”

  We drink in silence, knowing a hot chocolate is always best in the first few minutes.

  “I think,” Riya says finally, setting down her cup, “that you have romanticized the Brandon Special and no hot chocolate will ever possibly live up to it.”

  The air shifts between us. “Are you picking a fight with me?” I try to joke, but there is an edge underneath her statement and my question.

  “Maybe.”

  I set down my cup. “Why?”

  She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes on her half-finished hot chocolate. “Do you realize that since you got to Florence, you haven’t once asked me about Berlin?”

  I stare out at the Swiss flag, bright red and white, fluttering from a building across the way. Perfect that Riya waited until Switzerland to bring this up. Neutral ground and all that. “You haven’t asked about Yuba Ridge.” I shrug. “Maybe we’re just doing a good job of enjoying the moment.”

  Riya narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s what we’re doing.”

  All year, a dark pool has collected in my belly when I think of her living in Berlin. I’ve tried to be the better person, to be the good friend, but mostly I get caught in the eddy of that feeling. It’s why I haven’t asked her about Berlin, about her life there. So I try to sound upbeat. “What’s new in Berlin these days?” But it comes out sarcastic.

  “Forget it.” She doesn’t look at me, instead fishes around inside her bag until she pulls out a silky cobalt-blue scarf and winds it around her neck. Add it to the list of ways Berlin has changed her. A chic new haircut, double espressos, and now she’s also the girl who knows to have a glamorous scarf in her bag just in case.

  I stop trying for cheery and shoot for honest instead. “You’ve changed.”

  “Only for the better.” She signals our waiter for the check.

  “Maybe. But nothing was wrong with the Yuba Ridge version of Riya.”

  Her dark eyes settle on me, something serious waiting there. “What is the saying, we have to move forward or we’re stuck?”

  Her words echo her eyes, so I lean in, try to prepare to hear what’s behind them. “Okay, tell me, then. About Berlin.”

  She eyes me for a moment. “Berlin was a thousand amazing, intense, complicated things. And I feel like you don’t know about almost any of them—”

  “Well, I don’t live in Berlin—”

  “I know! Because you never let me forget that part. The part where you’re pissed that I moved there. You shut me out because of it. All year.”

  “I shut you out?” My voice is louder than I mean it to be and two old women at the next table raise their eyebrows. I lower it, leaning in so she can hear me. “I think it was the other way around, Riya. I’m not the one who acts like Yuba Ridge doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Riya inhales sharply and holds her breath in, just for a moment, but I see it, and know it means tears. She blinks quickly, and the whole display would be funny in its familiarity if I didn’t feel like crying myself. “I don’t act like that.”

  My heart races. I hate this, hate the out-of-control electric surge in my l
imbs. “Can we walk or something? Before this becomes the worst cup of hot chocolate we’ve ever had?”

  We find a path along the river that leads to Lake Zurich, the water growing wide and metallic in front of us. The air turns chilly against my bare arms and clouds flex across the sky, dotting our faces with a sprinkle of rain. I pull my scarf closer, Abby’s words thrumming in my ears. Her implied preference for the version of me I left in Yuba Ridge. The one I left there on purpose.

  After a minute or two of walking in silence, we duck into a grove of trees near the water. “It’s cold.” Abby shivers. “Not like Florence. I might need a sweater.” It’s warmer here under the trees, though, and she doesn’t make a move to head back toward Will’s flat. She stands staring at the lake, her face blank.

  I watch the blue chop of the water. “We can go back,” I say. “To Will’s.” I add this last bit hastily, realizing the first part of that statement said aloud sounds too much like a promise. And not one I’m willing to keep.

  She doesn’t make a move to leave. I think Abby’s love of history, of all things ancient and past, has built up a barrier between her and whatever is happening right now. No matter how hard something is or how emotional or intense, she has always been able to pull down the blinds on it, retreat into her mind. I’ve never been able to build that sort of wall against the world. Sometimes, I’m jealous of her for it.

  “Actually,” she says, turning to me, “tell me about Berlin.” No wall. Just her wide river-green eyes.

  The leaves rustle above us in the wind coming off the water, and they sound like whispering, like people talking before a play starts. I avoid her gaze. “Okay, big news here.” She looks at me expectantly, and I tell her something for the first time out loud that I’ve imagined saying to her a dozen times in my head. “This year I realized I want to be an actress.”

  She blinks. “You want to be an actress.” It’s not a question.

  “I do.”

  “Meaning, you like acting as a hobby or you want to become a professional actress?” This one is a question for sure. Typical Abby, gathering research.

  “As a career.”

  “Hm.” She chews her lip, and I can tell she’s considering what to say to me, cycling through her options. Finally, she asks, “And you just realized this? How? You’re always telling me about looking for signs. Is that what happened? You were walking along the street and a bolt of lightning hit you. Flash: Be an actress! Out of nowhere?”

  “No lightning bolt. It didn’t just happen. I took some classes.”

  “Oh, right—classes.” She twirls a strand of loose hair around her finger. “And you didn’t tell me.” Again, not a question. Just a murky underscore of hurt. Even Abby’s armor has cracks in it.

  “I wanted to tell you in person.”

  Her eyes drop from mine. “Right.” She checks her buzzing phone, then holds it out to me. “Neel.”

  His text reads: Sorry to bother you, Abby, but my dear cousin isn’t checking her phone. Grateful if you’d give her the following message: START WALKING BACK NOW!!!

  “How nice that he switches to all caps for his dear cousin.”

  “I guess we’d better get back.” She turns and heads at a fast clip in the direction of the flat, and I hurry to catch her, our unfinished conversation left floating in the cool lake air behind me.

  To make matters worse, we get lost trying to find Will’s place, and eventually end up back at Confiserie Sprüngli, standing in front of the glossy window of treats.

  We pause, the silence between us thickening. Then, with a shrug, Abby reaches for the door. “I’m thinking this is one of those signs you’re so into. Hot chocolate do-over?” She attempts a smile.

  My heart lifts. “The universe can be very persuasive.” I follow her inside.

  We’re taking our first sips when Neel texts me: Where are you? Did Abby get my text? We have plans in a half hour.

  I pick up my phone. lost in zurich, send helicopter, I text back, showing Abby, who grins and scoots her chair over to see his response. Neel must be writing a novel because it takes him almost a minute to write:

  Getting lost in Zurich is like getting lost in Disneyland. There is no excuse for it. It is the easiest city in the world. Read the signs.

  I write back: like the sign that says, ausfahrt!

  Neel: Grow up.

  Me: awww, don’t be like that. it’s a funny word.

  Neel: Where are you? We’ll come to you.

  Me: sprüngli.

  Neel: Of course you are.

  Me: ich liebe dich, neel.

  Abby’s eyes widen. “What did you just call him?”

  “Nothing. Ich liebe dich means I love you. I’m being a dear cousin.”

  “Sure you are.” Abby leans back into her seat, her hands curled around her cup. “Mmmm, okay. I’ll give it to you. This is officially the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.” I glance up from my phone, and she’s watching me with apologetic eyes.

  Before I can respond, Neel buzzes back, and I burst out laughing at his text. “Now it is.” I show Abby.

  She gapes at the angry emoji making a vulgar gesture that probably means the same thing in every language. “Wow, that’s a side of Neel I haven’t seen before.”

  I flag down the waiter for our check. “Oh, I’ve seen it.”

  Will pulls his silver BMW into a parking spot in the lot for a lakeside restaurant. “Hopefully they didn’t cancel our reservation,” Neel grumbles, closing his door and following Will around the side of the building, where people sit at weathered picnic tables along a wide graveled eating area. The lake stretches out to the hills beyond, which are dotted with houses. I strategically move up alongside Will into the perfect position to sit next to him when we get to our picnic table. “Great place.”

  He nods down at me. “One of my favorites.”

  A waitress leads us to our table, chatting with Will in soft Swiss German. I can’t follow much of it—it’s so different from the German I’ve been learning—but I think I hear something about rain and something about … a horse? That can’t be right. “Water’s on the table.” She motions to a glass carafe filled with water and cucumber slices.

  “Thanks, Alina.” Will smiles at her in an affectionate, familiar way, and I try to ignore a childish pang of jealousy by burying my face in the menu. I scan the items, aware I’m already crushing way too hard on this guy. I try to distract myself with food. Okay, much of this I can actually read. Abby fiddles with the silverware wrapped in an orange cloth napkin. I realize she probably can’t read the menu at all.

  I lean across the table, pointing. “These are mostly small plates that we can share.” I pause at an item. “That’s fish, so you won’t want it.”

  She glances at Neel and Will. “Oh, I’m good with anything,” she says airily. “I like fish.”

  That’s not true. “You’ve hated fish since you were six and obsessed with Finding Nemo.”

  “My dad and I actually eat a lot of fish now. My mom’s the one who hates fish.”

  At the edge in her voice, Will hurries to ask, “Shall we just order some meat and cheeses and salad?”

  I squeeze his arm. “Great idea!” But it comes out like a cheerleader after five energy drinks. Taking it down a notch, I add, “And I’d love to get some of that bread.” I point to a basket at another table.

  “Yes, of course.” Will flags Alina over. She smiles down at him, her hand resting on his shoulder, and I instantly regret the bread decision. It wasn’t supposed to come with a pretty waitress attached. They chat back and forth, laughing, and she motions to an empty wooden stage nearby, fiddling with the tie of her apron. Kind of a long conversation to get some bread. I look out at the lake, at the moored sailboats bobbing in the darkening waters, until she leaves.

  Neel pours cucumber water into each of our waiting glass tumblers.

  “Would you also like wine?” Will asks us.

  “Not for these two,” Neel tells him. />
  Will nods. “Ah, yes—sorry. Americans.” He says Americans with a sort of pitying head tilt, the way someone might say abandoned puppies. It helps me like him slightly less. For about five seconds.

  Because then he says, “This is a nice scarf,” and tugs lightly on one of the silky blue ends. Letting go, he adds, “It’s no problem. No wine tonight.”

  Abby wrinkles her nose. “I think wine tastes like window cleaner.”

  “You make a habit of drinking window cleaner, do you?” Neel teases her, leaning his elbows on the table.

  Abby flashes him a sly sideways look. “Have you tried it? It was all the rage last year in California. We’re very cutting-edge.”

  Wait, what is happening across the table? Is Abby flirting with Neel? Gross.

  “You’ll have to suggest a vintage,” he flirts back.

  Stop it!

  “Are you feeling okay, Riya?” Abby squints at me. “You’re making a weird face.”

  “I’m just hungry.”

  Neel sips his water. “Yes, well, contrary to popular belief, hot chocolate does not constitute a full meal.”

  I stare darkly at the table. I’m not sure what is bothering me more: Abby and Neel flirting, or what happened earlier with Abby—the dark edge of her voice when she told me I’ve changed, her subdued response to my news.

  During dinner, I attempt to join in on the pepper of conversation around me, nodding along to the stories, trying to add something here and there, but I feel lost in memory, in the dark, rain-washed streets of Berlin, in the way it grabbed me and shook me. Abby thinks I’ve changed and she’s right. Only she can’t seem to see that the changes are for the better.

  You haven’t asked about Yuba Ridge.

  She’s right about that, too. I haven’t.

  I know Abby thinks Berlin changed me, that Berlin forced me to, in her words, forget Yuba Ridge, but what she doesn’t understand is that Yuba Ridge began feeling like part of my past long before I moved. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always felt lucky in my life, and for so many years, I loved my small world by the river. But something started shifting in Yuba Ridge for me years ago. Something that made me need to leave it behind if I was ever going to feel hopeful or grateful or that completely overused and simplified word, happy.