Wanderlust

“Trainers,” I tell her.

“Sneakers,” she insists. “Say it once with me. Sneakers.”

I do as she asks because it makes her laugh, and that’s a sound I want to bottle and keep with me.

Then her laughter ceases, and she cups my cheeks. “Be safe. Be good. Have so much fun. And drink lots of water during your marathon.”

“I will.”

“I’ll check online to see how you did. So, no dropping out,” she says, wagging her finger.

“I can email you and let you know, too,” I say, a note of hope rising up as I offer once more to stay in touch. Somehow. Some way.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. Soon maybe.”

“I know,” I say softly and pull her close. We agreed to go silent for a few weeks. She said it would help her make her decision, and I have to respect that. She has to do this her way.

“I love you,” I murmur into her hair.

“I love you,” she says, kissing my neck, my jaw, my ear.

I cover her mouth with mine, kissing her hard one last time. I’m so glad I took a chance that terrified me when I kissed her the first time. I will never regret that. It gave me this fierce love.

When at last we separate, she brushes her hands over the neck of my shirt as if she’s straightening it out. “Now, go.” Her voice hitches. “Or I won’t be able to say good-bye.”

Don’t. Don’t say good-bye, then.

“I’m going. I’m going.”

She runs her hand down my shirt. “I’ll miss you, but you know that.”

Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay and I will. I have no more willpower with you. If you ask me to stay, I won’t go. “I’ll miss you more than you can know.”

She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “Go. You’ll tempt me to steal you.”

Steal me. I’ll steal you, too.

“But I know you need to go. You need to do this. Do it. Then, come find me.” She offers a faint smile on those last words, and I want to hold on to them for as long as I can.

“I will.” I kiss her one more time, and then before either one of us can stop this, I walk away.

I don’t know if I will find her. I don’t know if she’ll want me to, or if she’ll have moved on to her new life in Texas with some cowboy or oil tycoon.

But I can’t linger on that. I have a promise to keep. A promise that I won’t hold her back.

An hour later, I board my flight, and as the jetliner rises in the sky, I close the shade, shut my eyes, and try in vain to blot out the regret.

31

Joy

It would be a bald-faced, big-ass lie if I looked in the mirror and said my eyes looked great. Today, they most decidedly do not. But that’s what makeup is for. To cover the tears I shed on my rooftop last night. Of course I cried. Fat, salty tears. Of course I’m sad. Like someone punched a hole in my heart.

Of course I need Jackie O sunglasses today.

And yet, I’m not miserable.

I’m not devastated. I’ve had enough time to cry.

I’ve been processing the end of us since we began. We fell in love while we were breaking apart. We were simultaneously coming and going. Maybe, when you live through a bittersweet love, it makes the ending easier.

As Elise would say, some relationships only last for the blink of an eye, but that doesn’t make them any less worthwhile.

It was worth it. Every moment was worth it.

And now it’s Sunday evening, and I’m hungry.

I leave, and once I reach the street I ask my friend a question. “Google, where is the nearest brasserie with excellent salads?”

“The nearest brasserie with excellent salads is on Rue Jacob.”

“Thank you,” I say to my phone after we finish conversing in this country’s native tongue.

I changed the settings recently. I no longer speak to Google in English. I talk to her in French, and she answers me in that language. It’s our little bond, like a shrink-patient privilege.

I turn down the block, following her directions, and find she’s taking me to one of the passages, a covered arcade. Mosaic tiles line the floor. The archways high above span two or three stories, and as I turn down the hall, I pass a shop peddling old-fashioned wooden toys, a bookstore with arty titles, and a shop selling maps.

I’m a digital woman. I don’t want a map to pin to my wall, or a globe to spin. But as I gaze at a blue orb in the window, staring at the distance between Paris and Bali, I’m keenly aware of how big our world is.

And how very small, too.

The world is a massive place that can swallow you whole.

Or you can embrace its vastness, right along with little provincial joys. Like dinner at a fine café.

As I take a seat at the table, glancing at the empty chair across from me, I wait for the tears to lock up my throat. I steel myself for the vise in my chest, squeezing my heart.

But when the waiter arrives and asks me what I want to drink, I’ve no time to mourn. I have to order, and I no longer have a safety net.

I ask what the specials are. He tells me. I ask how the chicken is prepared. I’m informed. And then I order a wine and a salad with sliced chicken. When the wine arrives, I thank him, and take a drink. I watch as couples stroll along the tiled floor, as mothers hold hands with daughters, as groups of friends scurry in search of a drink.

Once my food arrives, I take a photo and post it to my feed. #Dinnerinthecityoflights #bonappétit. I want to remember this night. I want to look at this photo and recall how I feel right now, the sadness that lingers along with the happiness I was lucky enough to experience before I said good-bye to him.

And even though I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely. Not as I eat, not as I walk down the street to my flat later that night, and not as I head into work the next day, saying hello to my colleagues and, for the most part, managing to talk to them in their language.

It’s not perfect.

I’m not fluent.

But I’m good enough to get by now.

After work, I stop by the market to pick up some fruit, and as I head down the stalls, a gray-haired woman asks if I dropped a scarf. She points to a sky-blue silky scrap on the ground.

“That’s mine. Thank you so much.” I pick it up, and toss it around my neck, even though it’s not cold. But it is fashionable, and for that reason alone, I adore this accessory.

I head to the Metro, navigating seamlessly. Later, after I climb the steps to my terrace, I drink in the city at my feet.

I know. I’ve always known.

I miss him fiercely. I miss him wildly. And I know what my heart wants—to have it all.

I call Elise and ask for her help.

32

Griffin

Sweat slicks down my chest.

The sun fires bullets of heat.

No relief is in sight.

I long to tear away from the group of runners and dive into the endless blue sea temptingly nearby. In the first ten days on the Indonesian island of Bali, I’ve already gone scuba diving, seen the waterfalls, and hiked up a mountain at dawn to view the sunrise. Each was enjoyable in its own way, and each was a little bit empty, too.

Because I did them alone.

But every day I’ve run, and now, when it counts, I hit the twenty-mile mark. My feet are screaming at me, shouting that they’ll never permit this crap again. But even so, my heart is pounding strong, and I never let up. I run through the sand, I run through the town, and I run while the sun bakes my shoulders. Another mile, another one more, and I’m nearly there.