Wanderlust (5 page)

Monica

I stared at the screen a little longer, trying to make sense of the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, before I shut down the browser and went back to the article I was writing.

The funny thing was that after years of not thinking about him, Jason had been on my mind a lot recently. I’d come back to the States a couple of months ago because my passport was on the verge of expiring. That, of course, had reminded me why I’d gotten it in the first place: to spend my junior year in France.

And that had made me think of Jason, who, in an unwitting, unwilling, impossibly strange way, was the reason for the life I led.

The life I loved.

The life I was beginning to have ever-so-slight doubts about.

My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Just calling to check in with you, sweetheart,” my mother said in her cheery voice. “How are things going?”

“Oh, fine,” I said, wondering if I should tell her about Jason. Of the boyfriends my parents had met, he’d been far and away their favorite. I’d never told them the whole story, of course, but I could tell they thought the breakup had been my fault, and that I’d been a fool to let him go. I decided to keep my run-in to myself.

“Business going well?” I could detect a hint of concern in her voice. “Freelance travel writer” made sense to them, even if they were still waiting for it to turn into something more stable. “Entrepreneur who advises wealthy widows and divorcees on expanding their horizons through travel” didn’t quite fit with their concept of Careers That Make Sense.

“It’s good, Mom,” I replied. “I just had coffee with a client, and signed up a new one a couple of days ago.”

“Everything still on track with that publisher you’re working for?” she asked.

“Yep, nothing new. They’ve paid for my flight, and I should be getting a travel stipend in a few days.”

“And you promise you’ll be back in August for Lauren’s wedding?” she asked, sounding tentative.

“Yes, of course I’ll be back.” I tried not to sound impatient. We’d been through this a dozen times over Christmas. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I added as gently as I could.

“It’s just going to make fittings for the bridesmaid dresses so difficult,” she grumbled.

I rolled my eyes. I knew this was really my mother’s way of saying,
Come home. We miss you
, but her focus on trivialities could be exasperating.

“We can deal with that, Mom. I can send you my measurements, or you can send me the fabric and I can have it made up over there. And I’ll be home at least two weeks before the wedding, so there’ll be plenty of time to get things adjusted. Really, it’s not that big a deal.”

“I suppose not.” She sighed, then her voice turned cheerful again. “Charlotte and Joel found out the sex of the baby yesterday.”

“Really? What is it?” I was genuinely excited now. My mother might have written me off as the spinster aunt, but I saw myself more as Auntie Mame, bringing home exotic presents and maybe even whisking my niece or nephew off to exciting places when he/she was older.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure Charlotte would like to tell you herself. You should give her a call.”

I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. My mother’s natural tendency to gossip had been curbed, probably for the better, by her Minnesota Lutheranism, but it couldn’t be tamed entirely. It revealed itself in hints, suggestions, and accidental over-sharing. “I’ll call her, I promise.”

“Oh, and you got a postcard about some alumni event in Chicago. I wonder how they knew you were in Chicago?”

“I think it’s just the closest alumni chapter to Minneapolis,” I said with a smile.

“Oh, of course. Well, anyway, it’s on the 31
st
at a bar. I’ll forward on the postcard. You should go, you might meet someone.”

And again with the hints that it might be time to meet a nice guy, settle down—as if I could just make up my mind and it would all fall into place. With my younger sister beating me to the altar, I could tell my mother was getting anxious on my behalf. “Hmm, I’ll think about it,” I answered as neutrally as possible.

After we hung up, I stared at the dregs of my mocha, wondering if I should buy something else to justify my continued presence in the cafe. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the grumpy barista staring at me suspiciously. I didn’t feel too bad; there were only a few other people in the coffee shop, so it wasn’t as if I was taking up a needed table, but it didn’t feel right to sit there all morning with any empty cup in front of me.

I reluctantly ordered a wilted-looking chocolate croissant. I didn’t really want it—Paris had spoiled me for pastries, and I didn’t have much faith that the confections in this coffee shop would be worth either the money or the calories—but the brief encounter with Jason, the hour I’d spent in Sarah’s warm and engaging company, the news of Jason’s engagement, and even the short chat with my mother had made a day alone back in Stephen’s apartment seem too lonely. I wanted a reason to stay here in a place where there were people around.

I opened the page to my website, Adventuress Travels, and immediately felt more grounded. My life as a traveler was no less rewarding for wanting more on top of it. After all, travel, I thought—and taught my clients—was the ultimate cure for heartbreak, boredom, and loneliness.

It had worked for me.

I’d been a heartbroken, mopey mess when I’d first arrived in France almost ten years ago, confused, resentful, and angry, but Paris had worked its magic on me. Gradually, the pain of losing Jason had eased, and I’d fallen in love with Paris, with France—and with travel. I didn’t forget Jason, of course, but the new sights, experiences and people had crowded out the constant thoughts of him that had consumed me in Minnesota the summer before I left. Every day in Paris I faced the challenges of navigating a strange city in a different language and had the opportunity to see in real life the sights that I’d only seen in books and movies. I was too busy and too excited to waste time.

But it was the people I met who really changed me. Not just the French people, though I met many wonderful ones. It was the backpackers and hitchhikers, people my own age, who opened up a new world for me. I met them in the touristy parts of Paris, on trains to other cities, and on weekend trips to other countries. They came from all over the world—I met Germans, Japanese, South Africans, Brazilians, and many, many others. We struck up easy friendships in youth hostels and cheap restaurants, we traded horror stories and comic adventures, and told each other where to go next, what hostels to avoid, which sites could be skipped and which just couldn’t be missed. They opened my eyes to a world beyond sorority parties, designer shoes and immature boyfriends.

It took only a few weeks back in Minnesota the next summer for me to realize that I was addicted. Initially, I’d supported myself by saving up as much as I could from temp jobs in the States, and sometimes working under the table abroad. Later, I’d begun writing articles for travel magazines and books. I’d started Adventuress Travels about a year ago, and although I wasn’t getting wealthy, I was encouraged by the amount of work I’d gotten so far. I was location independent, and I gravitated toward less expensive countries, where I could live well on a few hundred dollars a month and still save for the future.

And in a funny way, I owed it to Jason. If he had come with me to Paris, I didn’t doubt that I would have simply stayed wrapped up in him, had a nice year, and gone home again. If he’d been the supportive boyfriend who waited for me, I might have spent the year pining for him, and rushed back to him as soon as I could.

So, really, I should have been grateful to him.

But something gnawed at me. Seeing him, seeing that pretty girl in the engagement announcement, had awakened something in me. A sense that everything wasn’t quite as right as I wanted it to be.

I poked at my croissant and wondered what I wanted. Resolution, maybe. We’d gone our separate ways after something less formal than a breakup, but more drastic than simply drifting apart.

Or maybe what I wanted was more basic and less complicated.

Maybe it was just that he was hot.

I couldn’t deny that I still found Jason incredibly attractive. He seemed taller than I’d remembered, and his hair was shorter and more neatly cut than it had been in college. His arms had felt strong around me when we’d hugged, and I’d caught a whiff of pricey cologne. But more importantly, he had an air of confidence, of seeming more at ease in his own skin than he had been when I had fallen in love with him at the age of eighteen. He wasn’t just a college kid anymore, he was all grown up. A man. There’d been something undeniably sexy in the way he’d so graciously, but firmly taken charge of our brief meeting, paying for my coffee, asking after my parents, complimenting my ring.

The ring.

Of course he thought I was engaged. Oh, the irony. I pictured telling him the truth. It would be a funny story, the kind that would have had him cracking up in college.

But it didn’t feel all that funny. He’d found someone. A pretty, smiling someone who looked like she was a lot of fun, who had a normal job in a normal place. If we met up again, I’d have to confess that I hadn’t found anyone and, given my wandering lifestyle, wasn’t likely to anytime soon.

I stared at the ring, winking under the recessed lighting of the coffee shop, wishing that, when and if I saw him again, I’d be able to brag about finding my own Mr. Right.

And that’s when The Plan started to take shape.

Jason

It was past seven by the time I left work. I stopped by the coffee shop on the way back to the train, but it was a different barista, who just shrugged when I asked about my gloves.

If there’d been a department store on the way home, I would have stopped to buy another pair, but I would have had to go well out of my way, and I decided to just head home. I was pretty sure I had another pair somewhere in my apartment. I was bummed about the ones I’d left at the coffee shop, though; they’d been a Christmas present from my step-mother, and represented a truce that we’d reached after many years of not getting along well. They’d been expensive—and above all, warm.

I resigned myself to their loss, and promised myself I’d buy another pair as soon as I could. I thought of my ten-thousand dollar nest egg, and how much better I’d feel if it were bigger, but winter in Chicago is not the time to skimp on outerwear. I kept my hands deep in my pockets, taking them out only once in a while to breathe on them, and made it to the L station before frostbite had a chance to set in. Fortunately for me, a train was waiting, and I jumped right in. Rush hour was just about over, and I was able to find a seat. Huddled on the hard plastic seat, I checked my phone.

My dad had called, no doubt to ask again if I was going to take the job he’d offered me. I sighed. Chip was right: it was time for action, any action. I just couldn’t quite convince myself that moving home was the right course, though.

Slightly better was an email from Chip:

To: Jason Moretti

From: Chip Brewer

Re: That lead I mentioned

Jason,

Katie sometimes goes to the Silver Basin Spa in Evanston—manicures, facials, etc. She LOVES it, all her friends love it. Awesome service, great atmosphere, etc. But their rent is going up, and the owner told Katie that she’s probably going to have to find a new spot, which would be too bad because they’re in a great location now—and it’s just across the street from Katie’s office, so you’d be doing us a favor if you could help them stay in place :)

Anyway, they need more revenue if they’re going to stay where they are, and I bet they could use a good marketer like you to help them out! The owner’s name is Jenny. Give her a call.

I clicked through to the Silver Basin’s website and shook my head in disbelief. Not optimized for mobile, first mistake. I put the phone in my pocket; I’d look into it more when I got home.

In the meantime, I could sit and think more about my run-in with Monica that morning.

In the back of my mind, I’d always thought of Monica as my One That Got Away. Even after things went so disastrously south with Meghan—something that had hurt like hell just a few months ago, but now felt more embarrassing than painful—it was Monica I thought of when I thought of real loss.

I still felt guilty about what I’d tried to get her to do with Amber. I found myself squirming uncomfortably in my seat, thinking of the hurt in those big brown eyes that night. I wondered if it was too late to apologize and beg her forgiveness.

I’d sometimes wondered, actually, if our relationship had really been as great as I remembered. It had been more than ten years ago that I’d met her, so maybe I was just remembering her through a haze of nostalgia. Every so often I’d try to imagine what would happen if we met each other again—would it be love at first sight all over again? Or would we wonder what we’d ever seen in each other?

And now we had met again, and I wasn’t sure what I felt.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that she was engaged, of course. She was gorgeous, smart, sweet—it was a wonder she hadn’t gotten married years ago.

Yet somehow I
was
surprised that she was engaged. Illogically, irrationally, indefensibly surprised. When I’d fantasized about running into her again, it had never occurred to me that there might be another guy in the picture. Maybe it was some primitive, politically incorrect part of me that just couldn’t accept that she belonged to someone else now. Or maybe it was a more civilized, sentimental side that had always unconsciously assumed that someday, somehow, we’d get back together.

Whatever it was, it left me feeling grouchy and annoyed at the world. I sat in the cold, damp, train car, angry at Chicago, the weather, my job, my boss, websites that weren’t optimized for mobile, this asshole Monica was engaged to, and most of all with myself. Pretty much everyone and everything.

Except Monica.

I stared into space for the rest of the ride, and was jerked back into reality only when the train pulled into my stop, and I had to hustle off quickly before the doors closed.