Wanderlust (12 page)

Jason

I thought she was about to say something else, but she didn’t. The mood had shifted quickly, from formally polite to sexy to nostalgic, and then suddenly serious and sort of sad. In the silence, I knew that now was the time. I took a deep breath and started gathering my thoughts, ready to tell her about Amber, to tell her what happened after she left, to ask her forgiveness for the whole stupid affair.

But she cut me off. “You know, I’d better get going. You know, see how Stephen’s doing.”

Relief and disappointment flooded me in equal measures. “Oh, yeah, of course. You should. I need to get up early myself,” I nodded vigorously as I spoke, trying to convince myself.

We got up and put our coats on and walked quietly outside. I helped her flag down a cab and held the door open for her.

She paused just before she got in. I tried to think of something to say, but all I could think of was
What a weird night, huh?
and that didn’t seem very productive, so I simply said, “Great to see you again. Goodnight.”

Suddenly, she leaned forward, took my face in her leather-gloved hands and kissed me on the mouth. It lasted only a moment, but it brought memories flooding back; the scent of her, the taste of her. She pulled back.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I’m sorry about everything,” she said, then she was in the cab and gone before I had a chance to ask her what on earth she could have to be sorry for.

I stood on the icy sidewalk, oblivious to the cold. I tried to sift through the various emotions that were churning through me. Nostalgia, jealously, longing and loss seemed to dominate, but there was one emotion, something small but persistent, that kept floating to the surface, despite everything else.

Hope.

I was worried about Monica, of course. Things had seemed a little off with her engagement from the beginning, and now, after meeting Stephen, who was so charming one minute, so petulant and childish the next, I had even more misgivings about her giving up her amazing career for him. I wasn’t sure what her kiss had meant, but I felt like it had given me a sudden insight into her life.

Ever since Meghan had dumped me, I’d felt as if I’d been waiting for something to happen, for me to lose my job, or for some cataclysmic event to give my life some direction. Until then, I was just coasting, unwilling to take action myself. And suddenly I knew, just
knew
, that Monica was waiting for something as well, something big that was suddenly going to give form and meaning to her life.

Maybe she thought it was Stephen.

I knew it wasn’t.

And I knew it wasn’t me, either. We both needed the kind of change that could only come from within. One of these days, Monica was going to realize that settling down with Stephen wasn’t the change she was looking for, and when that happened, she was going to need a friend. A friend who cared about her, who wasn’t trying to change her or tie her down. A friend who had his own act together.

I jingled my car keys in my pocket, turned around and walked decisively down the block to where my car was parked. It was time to make some changes.

Monica

I was dimly aware of Stephen tiptoeing down the hallway, and the front door opening and closing, but it was still dark out, and I was much too comfy to get out from under my nice cozy blankets. Another bonus to staying with Stephen: he totally understood bed linens. Down comforters and 600-threadcount sheets were mine to enjoy.

Stephen went to the gym several mornings a week before work, so he wasn’t necessarily avoiding me, but knowing Stephen, he was still annoyed from the night before. I blinked a few times, not really wanting to wake up, but already the memories of last night were jostling me awake.

I’d kissed Jason.

What had I been thinking? I groaned. Maybe I’d had one glass of wine too many. And he’d mentioned the frogstrangler, which had brought back all the wrong memories in just the right way. I sighed, overcome with a sudden rush of pure lust. It had been a long time since I’d so much as kissed a guy, and there was Jason, the best sex I’d ever had, just out of reach.

I sat up and reached for my phone. It was a quarter to six. It would be dark for a couple more hours. I got up and slipped into my robe. I was still tired, but I knew that sleep was out of the question now. I might as well put Stephen’s expensive espresso maker to use.

I could tell that Jason felt the same way about me. There was a warmth to him, subtle gestures of thoughtfulness and attraction that I couldn’t ignore. A passionate affair was mine for the asking.

And then what? Valentine’s Day was just more than two weeks away now. Ten days of meeting him after work, plus two weekends. Less, actually, because I’d be spending the last few days at my parents’ house and flying out of Minneapolis. And then I’d be gone. Could I ask him to wait for me until I got back? I’d be home for a month for Lauren’s wedding in the summer—and then I’d probably be gone again.

I spooned some coffee into the little espresso basket, shoved it into place in the machine harder than necessary, and flipped the switch. I poured some milk into a little metal pitcher and began steaming it.

Before I’d gone to Paris, I’d never drunk coffee. Despite working for two years at the campus coffee shop, I’d never developed a taste for it. Sometimes, with just the right amount of sugar and cream, I’d been able to glimpse the appeal, but I’d never really taken to it. But in Paris, my girlfriends and I made a ritual of going to the cafe to order croissants with cappuccino or café au lait. It had felt so glamorous, so foreign, so
French
, and I’d fallen in love with the romance of the whole thing. Even now, I associated good cappuccino with feeling as if I was on the verge of something incredibly exciting and romantic, as if my life were finally about to begin.

When it was done, I turned the lights back off. I took my hot, foamy coffee back to the living room and sat in the bed, pulling the covers up around me. With the lights off, I was able to barely see the outline of the city against the still-dark sky, the lights of the city twinkling as if someone had thrown handfuls of jewels onto a piece of black velvet.

I looked at my left hand. I held it up against the window, turning it until the ring caught some of the dim light. I thought of my grandmother. I’d been close to her growing up, and I still missed her. I wondered what she would have thought about the situation I’d gotten myself into. I could picture her frowning at me and telling me in her no-nonsense voice that no good ever came from telling tales, and the best thing to do would be to own up and make amends.

I couldn’t argue with that.

The farthest she ever traveled was to Niagara Falls on her honeymoon. Beyond that, she’d spent her entire life in the Midwest, the monotony of Minnesota broken up by the occasional trip to Chicago or Kansas City, where she had cousins.

She’d enjoyed hearing about my travels, and she’d saved all the postcards and letters that I’d sent her. We found them, along with copies of many of the articles I’d written, in a scrapbook after she died. She’d always been my biggest fan. She’d encouraged me in all my adventures, listened eagerly to all my stories, and even told me to ignore my parents when they were overly protective.

But I never had the sense that she was living vicariously through me. She was as thoroughly content with her life as anyone I’d ever met. She’d been married to my grandfather for over fifty years, and even after all that time, she still referred to him as her best friend, and “the sexiest guy” she’d ever met. They’d raised children together. She’d helped him run his business, and he had always gallantly attributed their success to her.

I stared at the twinkling lights below me and thought about other cities I’d seen: Jaislamere under a full moon, looking like an illustration from the Arabian Nights; glittering, glamorous Hong Kong seen from the rooftop bar the night I’d met Stephen; San Cristobal, with its live marimba music in the square, and cafes that spilled out into the streets and stayed busy most of the night—and so many others.

I didn’t regret that I’d spent my twenties seeing the world, and wouldn’t have traded my experiences for anything. But now I was at a crossroads. Even before Jason had reappeared in my life, I’d begun to feel like I was missing out on something, and the feeling had only grown stronger the more time I spent with him.

I wasn’t under any obligation to spend the full six months in Asia. If I focused on finishing my assignment, I might be able to cut it short by two or even three months. I could continue to work on Adventuress Travels from Chicago. I could still travel; I’d just go abroad for shorter amounts of time, like I’d told Jason I’d do after I got married.

Maybe I could learn to be content staying in one place, at least most of the time. Maybe that would give me the chance to see what developed with Jason. Maybe I could have it all—just not all at the same time.

I decided to take the day off. I was more than caught up with my writing assignments, and I’d been steadily implementing Jason’s marketing suggestions. When you run your own business, there’s always more you could do, but then again, there’s no point in being your own boss if you can’t enjoy some time to yourself once in a while.

I needed to get away from both Jason and my job. Besides, it was ridiculous to be staying—for free in luxury, no less—in one of the world’s major cities and not take the time to do a little exploring.

All right, Chicago, show me what you’ve got.

*****

By ten-thirty, I was on the steps of the Chicago Art Institute, and one of the first people in when it opened. I had been there only once before, during a family trip while I was in high school. Today, I appreciated the quiet, calm atmosphere of the place, the beautiful art, the light, the spacious rooms. Not surprisingly for a wintery Thursday, the museum was almost deserted, and I was able to wander and sit and stare without interruption or distraction. It was a chance to get away from the thoughts that had been swirling around in my head for the past week and a half since Jason had reappeared in my life.

With my head somewhat clearer, and feeling more relaxed, I took myself out to lunch at Terzo Piano, the Museum’s pricey, elegant restaurant. I
almost
felt guilty for not being more adventurous and seeking out something hipper in a funky neighborhood, but the weather was bitterly cold, the sky was overcast, and I felt like treating myself.

As I nibbled at my porcini-dusted trout, I considered my options. Chicago was not a cheap place to live, but compared to other major cities in the US, it wasn’t all that bad. It was close enough to Minneapolis that it wouldn’t be too arduous to visit my family once in a while, but far enough that my parents wouldn’t expect to see me every weekend.

The weather was crazy—that was a drawback. And I couldn’t stay with Stephen forever. Some of the glamour would surely wear off once I had a smaller, shabbier apartment of my own. Most importantly, I’d have to bump up my income. I could live well in the developing world on what I made, but in Chicago, I’d have to watch my pennies. But I wouldn’t starve, and there was every likelihood that I’d be able to make more money, not less, in the future.

It could be done,
I thought.
It could work.

I could stay.

After lunch, I decided to treat myself to a cab back to Stephen’s apartment on the Near North Side, but I got out a couple of blocks early to walk around some of the shops. My intention had been to aim for a coffee shop and just read for a while, but I enjoyed the window shopping I was doing, and managed to while away a couple of hours in stores like Anthropologie and Nordstrom Rack.

And it was at Nordstrom Rack that I found them. I almost laughed when I picked them up and realized what they were.

Manolo Blahniks. The last pair. Pink suede pumps, four-inch heels, size eight and a half. I kicked off my damp boots and slipped them on. They fit like a dream.

I studied myself in the mirror. Suddenly, I looked less like a college kid and more like a socialite, the pumps giving new and sophisticated life to my skinny jeans and unzipped parka. I reminded myself of one of those candid shots you see in magazines of actresses or models walking down the street or getting off a plane, somehow looking unbelievably elegant in just jeans and a t-shirt.

I glanced at the price and shuddered. Even at 65% markdown, they were $299. In some countries, I could live decently for several weeks on three hundred dollars. And where on earth would I wear them? Even in Chicago, I couldn’t wear them unless the weather was warm and dry. And abroad? They’d be laughable, completely pointless. Shoes like this belonged on jet setters, not backpackers.

And yet, they were beautiful. I felt I was glimpsing a different, elegant version of myself, one I might have been if things had gone differently. I remembered Jason jokingly promising me a closet full and smiled.

It wasn’t as if I couldn’t afford them. An extravagance, sure, but I had enough money saved that I could indulge in the odd luxury. I’d have an occasion to wear them someday. Lauren’s wedding maybe.

I stood in front of the mirror for ages, looking at the shoes, looking at the other me, and wondering if I was ready for either.