Girls Who Travel (16 page)

33

W
HEN
I
RETURNED
from the bathroom, Thomas was gone. I wished he had stayed; I needed insurance that something like that wouldn't happen again.
I would be my own insurance
, I vowed. I was obviously just a little buzzed and caught off guard before. It wasn't longing I had tasted—it was just loneliness. And three beers.

Aston smiled at me. “Sorry about Thomas.”

“No, no, it's fine. I understand that you have an obligation to your fans,” I joked, trying my best to be natural and keep the conversation light.

“You really should do this. Make this your career,” I said, pushing my stool away from Aston's. “You're good enough, you know. And everyone adores you.”

“Everyone?” he asked.

I hummed along with the music and cursed myself for giving him that opening.

Aston rested his elbows on the bar. “Everyone's mad. But I would like to do this for the rest of my life. At least write music, if not perform it. Everyone expects me to take over the company one day. There's no rush—it's all run by a board of directors these days, thank goodness.”

“You wouldn't want to be the boss?”

He shook his head. “No. Nor do I believe that my parents would have minded. They just wanted me to make my own choices. Even when I got into Oxford they didn't demand, ‘You must go there because we went there' or insist I get top marks. They merely wanted to know if it was what I truly wanted.”

“Was it?” I was grateful for the rerouting of the conversation. This was a safe, unromantic topic.

“It was. I went for musical theory, though, not business. But still, it is as if everyone's sort of waiting about for me to change my mind. But it's not likely to happen.”

“I get it. I think people always hope for the best for you, but they have trouble seeing that the best isn't always the most obvious choice.”

From under his pint, he ripped at the coaster, soggy and malleable with condensation. “You're speaking like someone with firsthand experience.”

“The au pair gig is great, but it's not exactly my long-term dream,” I admitted.

We were sitting side by side, so Aston swiveled his barstool to face me. He swung his legs open around mine so that my pressed-together knees were in between his splayed legs; the positioning felt both personal and protective.

“And so the plot thickens,” he mused. “At the risk of sounding like an American, tell me,
poodle
, what is it that you want out of life?”

I released a sputtering sound while spinning my barstool away in the guise of crossing my legs. I couldn't just let my legs rest in the middle of his like that. It felt too familiar, too intimate.

“What do I want? Well, that's an easy one. I want to travel.”

“Respectable,” Aston said. “And I can well believe it, you being here and all.”

“But before you say it: I know that traveling isn't a job. So I have this idea.” I told him about Gypsies & Boxcars. I felt encouraged by his genuine interest, warm as an open fire, and I felt myself shedding layers.

Midsentence, my phone beeped, and I snuck a glimpse at it to see it was Lochlon texting me, but I left the message unread to be polite to Aston.

I concluded my pitch. “Anyway, I really think I could make it work.” I was short of breath, and my cheeks flushed ardently.

“Too right,” Aston said, breaking the trance. “You appear to have it all figured out. Not keen on traveling myself, though. Not my favorite thing.”

I inadvertently jerked my neck back in response.

“I suppose I'm a bit of a homebody,” he continued, undeterred by my reaction. “And I'm mad on London.”

I resisted the urge to make a face. “Well, London
is
a great city,” I said diplomatically. “But have you ever done any traveling?” I asked.

“A bit, with my mates at uni, and with my family growing up. But I never took a gap year or did any of that shite. Just didn't see the need.”

The need.
That was how I described my appetite for travel: an animalistic need, as primal and one-dimensional as hunger or lust. I couldn't keep the disappointment from spreading over my face like a stain.

“It's just such a hassle. And in this modern age, you can get plenty of experiences from the comfort of your own city,” he said.

I held on to the barstool to stop myself from leaping down his throat in contradiction. I immediately thought of Lochlon, and I was reminded why I had been holding out for him this whole time:
This
was why.

Not everyone was like us. Lochlon and I were made of the same unrestricted spirit; we were the same train-hopping, impulsive travelers to the end.

As Aston blathered on about some amazing Chinese restaurant in Soho that was just like Shanghai, I chanted traveler-truths to myself. Lochlon and I had the same well-decorated passports, dust-choked mountain backpacks, and wandering, persistent, beauty-seeking souls.

We wanted to see the same second-string cities because we liked to spend our time seeing things others might skip over or miss. We were not scared of the road less traveled, but then again, we weren't too cool to take the path well-worn. Above all, we weren't afraid to get lost, to be without a plan, to be without the things that everyone else thought they needed. Our lives weren't something to be slogged across, but marveled through.

Aston paled against the distinct articulation of what Lochlon and I had.

But here I was, out with him on a Saturday night, drinking English lager and talking about my dreams. I lowered my eyelashes thinking about the near-kiss.

“You're judging me, aren't you? You think it's dreadful. Look at you—you can barely stand it,” Aston said with a curious lilt. He looked tickled by my reaction.

“No! I . . .” I wasn't expecting him to call me out. But then I shrugged. “I guess I am judging you a little.” In the moment of honesty, I let it all out: “It's just that I don't really understand people like . . . you.”

When I said that aloud, I heard how outlandish and condescending it sounded. He was his own person; he could do whatever he wanted. He wasn't my problem. I had Lochlon. And it was easy to love someone who loved the same thing as you.

In the meantime, I tried to be civil. “I guess it
is
silly for me to judge you. Lots of people don't travel. I mean, isn't there some statistic that says most Americans don't have passports?”

Aston shoved out a bark of laughter at my audacity. “Oh, is that supposed to be a consolation?”

My mind refused to come up with anything better, but I didn't care anymore.

“I do like skiing in Zermatt, but it's the skiing I like, not the traveling bit,” Aston added.

The gap between us was obvious now, and I knew there'd be no coming back from it. But that was okay, because on my side, on my team, was Lochlon. The rosy validation of my feelings for him swelled inside me like a deep secret. No one could touch what we had.

34

L
EAVING
THE
CAB
,
the night air enveloped me, and I suddenly didn't feel tired even though it was 2
A.M.
Aston dug out his wallet and waved me away when I tried to pay. I gave in easily.

“I really had a good time,” I said, looking down at my purse.

“So did I. Really.” Aston took one step closer. I felt as if he was trying to bait my gaze upward. I stayed firm and studied the ground.

He came in closer, moving tacitly and confidently.

I didn't move away, but I wanted to. Now that he was close, too close, he leaned toward me and bent down a bit, invading my space. But I still didn't take a step back. He was so close to me that his heated, exhaled breath mingled with mine. I held my breath so it wouldn't happen again.

Step away
, I commanded myself.

He flicked his eyes over my lips.

I clenched my teeth.
Oh my God, he's going to kiss me. Move away, Kika.
But there it was; the same desire from earlier in the night cracked through me and surfaced again:
I want him to kiss me.

“Aston,” I whispered very softly in protest. Before he leaned in further, I took a step backward—finally. I drew the line and then placed myself determinedly behind it. “I can't, Aston.”

“Why can't you?” He protruded his chin toward me without faltering. He wasn't at all uncomfortable or deterred, but he seemed very aware of the imaginary line I drew. I knew he'd never cross it without my permission.

The night wind breathed between us, inhabiting that physical space that I had just carved out. I fished my fingers into my pockets and took out the shiny keys.

“Is it because I don't like traveling?”

Despite myself, I produced a bold laugh that pinballed off the ancient houses. I was thankful that he broke the tension.

“No. It isn't. Although that is distressing,” I admitted. “It's Lochlon. Sort of, anyway.”

“That one who's visiting you? He's your boyfriend, then? I apologize, I didn't realize.” Aston took another step backward now and put more chilly space between us that the night rushed to occupy.

“No, it's my fault. I should have said.” I rattled the keys. “It's just that, truthfully, he's not my boyfriend. I don't know what he is, but I have to see. I owe it to him—I owe it to what we had—to see.”

I heard the tinge of regret in my tone, and I tasted my own oily guilt. It wasn't that I
regretted
that Lochlon was coming—
God, no—I was
excited
, but I felt disloyal for not making this clear before.

Aston nodded. He kept looking at me unabashedly. He looked distractingly handsome in this lamplight. And it destroyed me to notice it.

“It was good of you to hear me play tonight.” He took his hands out of his pockets.

“It was great. You were—” I started, but I stopped myself. My words were coming off as cheap.

“Good night, then, Kika.” He turned around and climbed his steps.

At the door, he turned. “Go on inside. I couldn't leave you here on the footpath. It's quite late to be out here alone.”

I parted my lips to speak, but I stopped when I saw Aston's face, which seemed to say, “Just don't.” So I turned and walked to my door, deep matte navy like a passport. I felt him watching me.

He didn't leave the steps until he saw the light go on in my bedroom window above. I waved to him before pulling the curtains, but he didn't wave back. I left the curtains half open.

Before getting into bed, I remembered to check my phone. The text from Lochlon from hours ago sat there like a forgotten present: “Was just thinking about you. Wanted to let you know.”

I didn't respond right away.

“Just one week! X” I eventually texted him back. He didn't respond, having long been asleep.