Wanderlust (6 page)

Monica

I trudged back to Stephen’s apartment in the afternoon. I’d written most of the article and run a few errands, but somehow I’d never gotten around to taking the ring to the jeweler.

Stephen’s apartment wasn’t large, but it was in an expensive high-rise, and had an amazing view of Lake Michigan. It had been beautifully decorated by Stephen’s ex-boyfriend, Patrick, an interior designer. The furniture consisted mainly of sleek, black leather couches and chairs, and stainless steel tables with glass tops. The floor was a darkly gleaming hardwood, covered with plush rugs, and the walls were decorated with abstract prints in thin black frames.

It was a very sophisticated, urban atmosphere. I admired the quality of decor and the consistency of the design, but I had to admit that it wasn’t really to my taste. If I ever settled down long enough to get a place of my own, I imagined filling it with the artifacts that I’d bought on my travels and had stored in my parents’ attic—African baskets, Asian porcelain, Latin American textiles, Middle Eastern rugs—my crazy, colorful, full-of-memories collection. Someday, I thought, it might be nice to have a cozy little apartment or house to come home to … but not yet.

I’d been staying with Stephen since I’d left my parents’ house, shortly after the holidays. My first choice, honestly, hadn’t been Chicago, especially in the dead of winter. Initially, I’d planned to come back in the fall and sublet a friend’s apartment in Miami, which I was quite looking forward to. But that had fallen through, and by the time Stephen had offered me an alternative, it was either stay with him or stay on the outskirts of Minneapolis, enduring both bad weather
and
pitying looks from my family. At least in Chicago, I’d only have the weather to contend with.

Once I’d shuffled out of my winter layers, I set a bag of frozen raspberries on the counter to defrost. I’d seen a bottle of Cointreau in the cupboard, and had come across a recipe the day before for raspberry-Cointreau sorbet, which sounded delicious, if not exactly seasonal. To make up for it, I decided to make chicken potpie for dinner. It was comfort food at its finest—and if I was honest about it, I needed a little comfort.

I turned on some music and rolled out the dough, my head still full of thoughts of Jason. I hoped Stephen would come home soon. More and more I wanted to talk the situation over with someone, and Stephen was almost as good as a bestie girlfriend in a situation like this.

Stephen and I had a sort of unofficial arrangement that I’d take care of the housekeeping and cooking in return for being able to stay for several weeks. So far, I was having fun and felt like I probably had the better part of the deal. Stephen had a housekeeper come in once a week to clean anyway, so aside from washing some dishes and folding up the pull-out couch every morning, I didn’t have much housework to do. Which left cooking.

When I traveled, I usually stayed in hostels or guesthouses, and only rarely cooked for myself. But I enjoyed it, and the novelty of having a whole kitchen to myself hadn’t yet worn thin. With a kitchen like Stephen’s to play in, I doubted it would. He rarely cooked for himself, preferring to eat out if he didn’t have someone to cook for him, but his kitchen gleamed with every conceivable high-end cooking gadget. Patrick had been the cook in their relationship, and had left the cabinets well stocked with spices, specialty oils and vinegars, and unusual liqueurs. I was having fun experimenting. With the help of the internet, I was planning entire meals around appliances, like his vegetable spiralizer or the Blendtec, and the fancy ingredients I found in the cupboards.

As I chopped vegetables, I thought about the summer four years ago, when I’d met Stephen at a rooftop beer garden in Hong Kong. I was nannying for a British family, and had fallen in with a group of young executive expats. My first impression of Stephen was of a stunningly good-looking man in his late twenties. He was tall and well built, with wavy blond hair, soulful eyes and a chiseled jaw. I must have done a double take when I saw him, because the friend who had invited me whispered drily, “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s got a boyfriend.”

My romantic aspirations were dashed, but as it turned out, he was originally from the Twin Cities himself, and we quickly became good friends. After the family I worked for moved back to London, he managed to find me a temporary position at the investment firm where he was a rising star.

The expat lifestyle was seductive—plenty of money, lots of parties, fun and interesting people. But after about six months, the glitter and glamour of Hong Kong began to get old, and I started to feel the lure of the open road again. When I told Stephen I was going to quit, he sighed.

“You could have a good career here. Everyone likes you, you’re doing a good job—I’m sure we could find you something permanent, if you wanted.”

I smiled. “You’ve done so much for me, and I really appreciate it. But I’m ready to move on. I’m thinking about Tibet,” I added.

He looked at me askance. “I hear it’s cold, and all they eat is yak butter.”

I laughed at him. “For a native of St. Paul, you’re a real wimp.” Stephen’s idea of travel was five star, first class, and almost always tropical. I didn’t have anything against that, but I didn’t mind a little discomfort, either, if it meant new places and experiences.

“How are you going to support yourself?” he asked.

“Thanks to you and this job, I’ve been able to save quite a bit. And I just got paid a thousand dollars for an article I wrote for a travel magazine,” I said proudly.

I’d been expecting a hearty congratulations, or at least a high five, but Stephen just looked at me in dismay. “You can’t support yourself on
that
!”

I laughed. A thousand dollars was riches to a backpacker. “I’ll be fine,” I promised him.

He pouted. “You’re crazy, but you’re cute and interesting, so I suppose I’ll have to forgive you,” he sighed. “But you’d better stay in touch!”

And I had. He’d been transferred back to Chicago two years later and now worked for an investment firm in the Loop. When I’d emailed him to say I’d be back in the Midwest for a couple of months, he’d invited me to stay with him, and I’d jumped at the chance. Stephen didn’t quite get my fascination with travel, especially the less glamorous aspects of it, but he enjoyed my stories and was very supportive of my career ambitions.

Dinner was baking in the oven and the sorbet was setting in the freezer when Stephen came home, looking glum.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, as he hung up his heavy overcoat.

“Patrick called me at work.”

I sighed. Patrick and Stephen had broken up a few months earlier. In fact, it was Patrick’s absence that had prompted Stephen to invite me. He hated living alone. I was happy to have such a nice place to stay, even if it was just on the couch. But I was sorry for the circumstances.

“What did he say?” I asked suspiciously. Patrick, in my opinion, played games. He didn’t want to date Stephen anymore, but he apparently didn’t want Stephen to move on, either. He’d ignore him until Stephen started to get over him, and then, as if he could read his mind, would call or text out of the blue “just to say hi.” Then some heart-wrenching conversation would ensue in which Stephen fell for Patrick all over again, and nothing got resolved.

“Oh, the usual. He misses me, but he just doesn’t know if we’re right for each other, blah, blah, blah.” His handsome face was creased in a frown, and he sighed. “How about you, roomie? Got any good stories to distract me with? Smells fantastic in here, by the way. What are we having?”

“Chicken potpie. My mother’s recipe. It’s the best kind of comfort food, and it’ll cheer you up.” I was trying to be patient, but I really wanted to tell him about meeting Jason and get his take on it. “And I
do
have a good story for you. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Better make it a single malt,” he sighed, and sank into one of the leather armchairs. “Ah, Minnesota comfort food. If you were a guy, I’d marry you.”

“And if it were the 1950s, I’d marry
you
.” I smiled. Playing house—especially in high style—was kind of fun, but I couldn’t see myself making a lifetime of it. I found a bottle of Macallan in Stephen’s liquor cabinet and quickly poured him a glass. I decided to make myself a vodka tonic for good measure.

He lifted his glass in a quick toast and took a sip. “So don’t keep me in suspense, girlfriend,” he said. “What’s your story?”

I took a deep breath and began.

Jason

I trudged four snowy blocks to my apartment building, a shabby but affordable leftover from the 1920s. It still had some period charm to it, but the wooden floors were scratched and worn, and the exterior was marred by an ugly chain link fence. My hands were frozen again by the time I got to the building, and I had trouble getting the key in the lock. I finally managed to open the door and kicked off my boots, trying not to track snow into the apartment.

“Matt, you home?” I called, though the place seemed deserted.

I turned up the heat and turned on a few lights. My roommate, a grad student at Northwestern, wasn’t home much, apparently preferring the university’s library to my company. I couldn’t really blame him—Chicago had not brought out the best in me. He’d been looking for a roommate when I’d moved to Chicago, and I’d found his ad in the
Reader
. When he wasn’t studying, he was with his girlfriend. He was a nice enough guy, but even after living with him for the better part of a year, I still didn’t know him all that well.

I was hanging up my coat in the hall closet when the door to Matt’s room opened. “Hey,” he said.

I jumped. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how angry I sounded and grinned to show that I wasn’t serious. “I didn’t think anyone was home.”

“Sorry about that,” he smiled back. “I’ve been holed up in my room all afternoon studying.” He shook his head. “No idea it was so late.”

“Yeah, well, with it getting dark so early …” I finished hanging up my coat and put my boots in the closet. Matt hovered behind me as if he had something to say, but didn’t want to say it.

“What’ve you been working so hard on?” I asked, trying to break up the awkward silence.

Before he could answer, the door to his room opened again and his girlfriend Kim came out, wearing Matt’s bathrobe and looking a bit sleepy. “Oh, hi, Jason. I didn’t realize you were home.” She blushed. “Good to see you.” She slipped quickly into the bathroom.

I raised my eyebrows. “Studying, huh?”

Matt shrugged sheepishly. “Well, we
were
studying.” He paused for a moment. “Hey, listen. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah, what’s up? Can we talk while I get some dinner going?”

“Sure, sure.” He followed me into the kitchen, where I opened the door to the fridge. “Here’s the thing. Umm, Kim and I just got engaged.”

I shut the fridge. “Hey, congratulations! That’s awesome, man! Really happy for you guys.” I sounded hopelessly insincere to myself. Matt didn’t seem notice.

He grinned. “Thanks. We’re pretty excited.” He paused. I tried not to roll my eyes in exasperation. I didn’t have a lot of patience left, but it wasn’t Matt’s fault, and I didn’t want to take it out on him. “The thing is, Kim’s lease is up in a few weeks, and we want to move in together.”

So, clearly something about the lease; either he wanted out or he wanted me out. I nodded encouragingly, hoping he’d just spit it out.

“And I don’t want just kick you out or anything, but you’ve been talking about heading back to the east coast, so we were wondering if that was still your plan.”

Okay, so he wanted me out.

I took a deep breath. “Ah, yeah. Yeah, I’m still planning on leaving. I, uh, just am not sure exactly when. I’m still trying to tie a few things up here.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say I was still hoping that I’d be fired—and therefore eligible to collect unemployment benefits, or maybe even a halfway decent severance package. I paused, not ready to commit myself to anything. “When’s Kim’s lease up?”

“February 28
th
.”

About six weeks.

“I don’t want to rush you, man.” Matt clearly felt guilty. I was on the lease until June, so I wasn’t under any obligation to move out.

But maybe this was the kick in the pants that I needed. After all, one of the reasons I’d been hanging on in hopes of a severance package was to cover the last few months of rent if Matt couldn’t find a new roommate. So in a sense, this was really a stroke of luck. But it meant making some big decisions very quickly.

“Yeah, I could be out of here by then.”

“You sure? I mean, if you need more time, Kim could just move in and you could keep staying here as long as you needed to.”

The thought of being stuck in a small apartment with a couple of newly engaged lovebirds was almost as unappealing as moving back in with my dad. “Thanks, but I need to get my ass in gear and get out of here anyway. This is a good incentive.” I nodded, trying to reassure both of us.

Matt was clearly relieved. “That’s great, man. Sounds like it’ll work out for everybody. Thanks for understanding.” He turned back toward his bedroom.

“Hey, you and Kim want to join me for a beer?” I asked, opening the refrigerator door again.

“Thanks, man, but I’m going to get a shower. We’re going to go out. You know, celebrate.”

“Of course. You totally should.”

I waved him off and scanned the contents of the fridge briefly. I immediately regretted not having picked up some take-out from the Chinese place down the street. Cooking was not my forte. I scrounged through the fridge and found some leftover pasta and a jar of marinara sauce. I dumped them into a bowl and put it in the microwave. I opened a beer and called my dad.

I got voicemail. “Hey, Dad.” I hesitated. He’d been asking for weeks if I wanted the job or not. This was my chance to commit. After all, I had to go somewhere; it might as well be home. But I couldn’t quite do it. “Hope everything’s okay. Just give me a call whenever. Love you.”

I flipped open my laptop and slurped my pasta while I studied the Silver Basin Spa’s website and began thinking of ways to structure a marketing proposal. Matt and Kim waved at me on their way out, looking all glowy and in love. After they were gone, I remembered that I should have shown some enthusiasm, asked to see the ring and all that bullshit. But the last thing I wanted right now was to have to look at another engagement ring.

I opened another beer and began looking over the Silver Basin Spa’s website. I took a few notes on things they could do to bring in more customers, and began outlining an initial email to the owner.

On my cold and miserable journey home, I had made up my mind not to get in touch with Monica again. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her again—I actually did. But Chip was right: it wouldn’t take much to fall for her all over again.

Partly, I felt awkward. I still owed her some kind of explanation for Amber—not that I could explain, because I couldn’t actually remember why I’d thought it would be a remotely good idea.

But also, a part of me felt inadequate. If that rock on her finger was anything to go by, her fiancé must be doing pretty well for himself. I felt like a loser in comparison. I didn’t think Monica would care whether I was a success or not, but I did.

Initially, when I’d graduated, I’d taken off like a rocket. I’d networked, landed great offers, brought in great accounts, risen fast. And then—disaster. The man who’d founded the hot, hip marketing company I’d worked for in San Francisco had been killed in a car accident, after which the company foundered and eventually folded. I’d pulled out all the stops trying to find another job, and eventually landed what seemed like a golden opportunity in Chicago.

But it had been a fiasco.

There’d been the whole Meghan thing, of course, which hadn’t helped, but it went well beyond that. I hated Chicago, with its miserably hot summer and even more miserably cold winter. I hated my job. Even with its long hours, it might have been bearable, but the woman who had originally hired me left soon after I came on board, and my new boss was a jackass. He hated me, and I pretty much felt the same about him. Management paid lip service to the idea of teamwork and service to clients, but in truth, the company culture was paranoid, backbiting, and ruthlessly competitive. Rumor had it that the company was having financial problems and would be pink-slipping people soon. I actually prayed I’d be one of them.

I thought about Monica. The irony of the Meghan situation was not lost on me. I pictured myself explaining the whole story to Monica:
I left for a great opportunity, and she was an unsupportive bitch. Now I know how you felt. Sorry.

Of course, my great opportunity had been a flop. I wondered how her year in Paris had turned out. I’d never had the chance to talk to her about it. I couldn’t even remember what she’d written on the single postcard she’d sent. Nothing deep, I was sure. A
Having a good time, wish you were here
sort of thing.

Which, come to think of it, might have been a lot deeper than I’d realized.

I’d actually liked to have talked to her, if for no other reason than to learn more about her business. Learning about other people’s businesses was my passion, after all. It was pretty cool that she’d turned out to be an entrepreneur. And of course, now that she was at the top of my mind, I was remembering our time together and feeling nostalgic. So although I had decided not to actually contact her, I couldn’t help opening Facebook to have a look at the Adventuress Travel page.

And as soon as I did, I saw the message.

I have your gloves.