We Were Never Here, page 4
I stared at her for a moment. Angie’s verdict—something I’d known for weeks—still burned, the secret everyone at school had been keeping from me practically since freshman orientation. Everyone but Kristen.
At home the next week, my scalp prickled with wonder as neither my mom nor my stepdad mentioned Ben on day one, day two, day three. The topic of my long-term boyfriend grew shy and conspicuously quiet in my mind, like an empty cemetery. Kristen and I spent the next two Christmases on our own in warm places: Fort Lauderdale, then Puerto Rico. The trips were Kristen’s brilliant idea, sun-splashed jaunts that cemented her spot on my personal family tree, the one that matters: the Family You Choose. Your folks don’t give a crap about your feelings, she’d pointed out. Why do you owe them your time?
Kristen selected a Chilean lager and sent the server on his way. She folded her hands. “Think about it, Emily. You said yourself that all your friends there are married and having kids.”
But I want that. Tears pricked at my eyes, several strands of frustration fusing into one: annoyance with myself for pathetically wanting a boyfriend; shame that I couldn’t be all carefree like Kristen, couldn’t drop it all for six months of wanderlust.
“Oh my God, don’t cry!” Kristen’s hand flew down to mine, threaded through my fingers. “I’m sorry—I’m saying this all wrong. I just mean…so many people would kill to have your freedom. All our college friends are lugging around diaper bags and burp cloths now, right?” We both chuckled. “I just thought…hey, we’re turning thirty. Isn’t now the perfect time to try something new? And I got excited thinking what our lives could be like on the road. Like it used to be, only better, because we’re grown-ass women now.” She sat up straighter, still clutching my hand. “You know I love our trips. But seeing you once, maybe twice a year isn’t enough. I miss you like crazy.” She looked down at the placemat. “And…and last year, when you were having a tough time, I felt awful that I couldn’t be there for you in person. You’re the most important person to me, you know?”
This time last year. My stomach flipped, picturing last spring, post-Cambodia: how I’d floated through work in a stupor…on the days I managed to make it in. How I swung between deep, spastic sobs and wild, thrashing panic, a single thought like a subtitle: I’m going to die.
“It’s not just that, though,” she went on. “I miss watching Netflix on the bed when we’re too lazy to go out. I miss discussing a single topic over the course of days or weeks and not, like, mentally organizing a life update with bullet points for one of our three-hour calls. I dunno. Just me?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Yeah, no, me too. It’s just—it never crossed my mind. It’s not something I ever imagined doing.” I sat back, took a sip of wine. “Kristen Czarnecki. You crazy bitch.”
She laughed. She had the nicest laugh—full and musical. “We can totally do this. Why not? Other people do it all the time. Hell, we meet them on our trips, and I’m always jealous. We could be the people everyone else is jealous of!”
She stared at me then, smile broad, her eyes pleading—the same look she gave me whenever she was trying to convince me to go on an adventure with her. Climb into this abandoned cave with me; follow these strangers to a speakeasy in another neighborhood. Her cajoling always paid off, always led to the most magical and memorable pieces of a trip, so I never regretted following her fearless lead.
Look how things had turned out the one time I’d tried spontaneity on for size.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I wouldn’t think of that now. I met Kristen’s gaze over our empty plates, bits of avocado and quinoa speckling the surfaces. All that was behind us. This week—this proposition, which flipped and frothed inside me—proved it.
“Please tell me you’ll consider it,” she said.
“I’ll think about it.” She squealed and clapped and I felt myself blush. Okay, another delay in telling her about Aaron—I wasn’t going to ruin the moment now. I’d see how I felt in the morning.
Back at our inn, we followed a twisty stone staircase to a plateau, where an oval pool winked up at the sky. We lolled on its lounge chairs, batting leaking from their seams, and counted shooting stars. I saw five; Kristen, six.
* * *
—
Our last day had that misty, prematurely nostalgic air, bittersweet as we sucked in each sight and experience hungrily, willed it to last. I woke up early to visit the town’s pretty church, with its cerulean ceiling and simple stained glass, its outside the friendly white of a chipped diner mug. Kristen—once a devoted Protestant, now vehemently opposed to organized religion in any form—didn’t want to hear about it, and instead greeted me in the hotel lobby with the just-right shade of milky coffee and a proposed plan for the day.
We rented bikes from a kiosk and tottered over the winding road, stopping to gaze at the mountains in silence, as if saying goodbye. We pulled on bathing suits and plunged our toes into the hotel’s frigid pool, then reclined in the filtered autumn sun, sharing a bottle of Chardonnay and reading our books in amicable silence. The hotel’s whistling custodian clambered up to a shed and gave us a wave before digging a rake from a tangle of tools inside, and Kristen jumped up and asked him to take a photo of us with my camera. I got us both massages at a tiny, green-walled spa, where we lay on musty massage tables while thick-limbed women rubbed our backs with more speed than precision. It was a perfect last day. Kristen didn’t mention the backpacking pitch, but I could feel it between us, the possible future hovering like a shared memory.
I was torn. Though she was still right next to me, I already missed Kristen. I’d sunk back into the salve of her devil-may-care sense of humor, her constant championing of me—she saw me as strong and smart and competent, and she always had a pep talk at the ready. As other friends in Milwaukee paired off and married and had kids and drifted further, farther away from me, ripples in a pond, Kristen remained more loyal than a sister, more loving than a doting mom.
But…part of what made our time together special was that it was limited. And stuff was maybe, finally happening in Milwaukee—there was Aaron, the thought of whom set off small fireworks in my chest. Plus the possible promotion at work, the job I genuinely liked.
I broached the topic while we paused for an afternoon coffee. I loved this part of a travel day, the predinner ahh. We were on a bench in front of a shipping-container-turned-café that sold coffee and Chilean pop (Bilz and Pap and other excellently named soft drinks) from a sawtooth window.
“So, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About traveling for the rest of the year.”
“Oh yeah?” She slid back her sunglasses and beamed at me. She’d asked for her coffee over ice, café sobre hielo, to which the server frowned in confusion and scooped some cubes into her steaming cup.
“I’m truly honored that you asked me.” My rib cage tightened—I hated conflict, hated letting someone down. “You know you’re my number-one travel buddy. My ride-or-die.”
“But?”
I sighed. “It’s not a good time for me to leave for six months. Things are happening at work and—and I’m interested in someone, which I’ll tell you all about…” I paused to giggle at Kristen’s delighted gasp. “I just want to give it a chance. You know? But I still really like this idea, and there’s no one I’d rather do it with than you. Can we maybe try to make it happen next year?”
She was quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee.
“Kristen?”
She licked her lip. “I’m taking it in. A part of me really wants to try to convince you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I just…wow, I really thought you’d say yes.” She nodded, slowly at first and then with fervor. “I’m bummed, obviously, but I’ll deal with it. Hey, tell me about this guy! There’s a guy?!”
Her smile was big and brave and try-hard, and it snapped at my heart like a rubber band. Still, I smiled back, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “His name is Aaron,” I began, “and we’ve only been out a few times.”
“And you didn’t mention him all week? Is there something wrong with him?” she joked, smacking me playfully.
“I mean, who knows if it’s even anything. And dating is, like, the least interesting thing we talk about.” I snickered. “I didn’t want to be the girl who can’t shut up about a guy she barely knows.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve always had issues around self-esteem with dudes.” Her eyes widened, like someone else had said it. “Oh my God, that came out wrong.”
It stung, but I shook my head. “No, it’s true. You know how hard it is for me to be vulnerable with someone I like. And how even liking someone happens sooo rarely.”
“Totally. Well, and you have this nasty habit of picking guys who are one one-millionth as awesome as you and don’t treat you like the queen you are.” She grinned. “So tell me about him! Does he kiss the ground you walk on, like he damn well should?”
I laughed and felt my shoulders loosen. “Not yet, but I think he might actually be a good one?” And so I told her about him, glancing away whenever my smile felt too big for my face. What a relief, feeling this secret I’d been carrying soften and dissolve. Kristen listened, eyes sparkling, pressing her palms together and occasionally punctuating my patter with quick, happy claps. So supportive was she, so encouraging and excited, that I forgot to make a point I’d vowed earlier to state outright: I’m not choosing him over you.
* * *
—
It was a Saturday, and restaurants that’d been dark the night before were flicking on lights, sweeping off decks. We selected a cozy café with bean stews and hearty corn casseroles. Kristen’s guidebook was right: Our waiter confirmed that cheap buses rolled in from Santiago and Valparaiso and the Atacama Desert weekly, and we watched as new visitors streamed past. Two shiny-haired, bird-boned women sat in the corner with their enormous backpacks next to them, like canvas stand-ins for dinner dates. There was a bustle now, movement, energy matching our own. Kristen was still acting normal—bouncy and ebullient—and I felt dizzy with relief. The thought of disappointing her filled me with a fireball of anxiety and guilt.
Out on the street, she clutched my arm and pointed at the sky: stars as bright as fireworks, layers and layers of them, like someone had cleaned off the glass separating us from the heavens. I gasped and gave her a side hug.
“That’s us.” She pointed just above the horizon. “See those two little stars? You can tell.”
It was goofy but somehow perfect; they were equal in size, close together, and just a smidge above the mountaintop. “Which one is you and which one is me?”
We both squinted and then I spoke again: “You’re the one on the left, the pinkish one.”
“I was going to say the same thing! You’re totally the greenish one.”
“I think it’s bluish.”
“That’s so green-star of you to say.” We watched them giddily, these two bright-burning peas in a pod light-years away. Warm and together, just like us.
“Let’s go get a drink,” Kristen suggested, and off we went.
A whole new swath of places were open tonight: dark lots transformed into leafy patios where string lights clung to latticework and vines. We ordered bottle after bottle of cheap Chilean wine, Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay. We danced to pop tunes, both American and regional, and ate endless bowls of spicy corn nuts, licking our fingers when we finished each refill.
I went off to the bathroom and got waylaid for a while—first to hunt down toilet paper from a harried-looking employee, then to find someone to hold the stall door closed for me, then to carry on an enthusiastic conversation with the helpful stranger, who wasn’t a complete stranger, it turned out: She was one of the two tiny black-haired backpackers I’d spotted at the restaurant, and she was from London, and we liked each other ever so much.
I made my way back outside and stared in confusion: There was someone at my table. But was I looking at the wrong table…? No, there was Kristen across from him, nodding with her chin in her hand. He had a five o’clock shadow and dark hair pulled into a small ponytail, and skin so tan it glowed amber in the dim light. Like embers in a campfire.
I crossed the patio and stood over them, and suddenly everything was wrong. I could feel it instantly, on her face, her posture, the stiff line of her back. My chest froze over, icicles on the inside.
“Oh, this is Paolo.” She cut him off midsentence. “He’s from Spain. He was just telling me how he’s spending a year backpacking across South America.”
He smirked and flicked his chin toward me. “I thought maybe your friend Nicole was doing the same thing, traveling around by herself.” He shrugged. “But for women, it’s much safer with a friend.”
Not icicles—something sharper, like a head-freeze to my entire body.
“This is Joan,” Kristen said. She swept her palm my way, never took her eyes from my face. “She’s the best friend a girl could have.”
CHAPTER 5
I breathed hard and chastised myself for feeling upset: Kristen was allowed to flirt with a cute backpacker. Not just allowed—I owed it to her, after all she’d done for me in Cambodia. And after I’d dropped the bomb of Aaron’s existence? Of course she was seeking a little romantic validation. As long as she didn’t ditch me for him, it was fine. It was a selfish thought, but one I hoped she’d pick up on: I didn’t want to be left alone in an unfamiliar city after…
I watched the two of them banter and rearranged my face into an attentive smile. I’d just wait it out, and at some point he’d step away to buy more drinks or she’d head toward the bathroom and I could tell her, make sure she understood I needed her company.
But an hour passed, then two. There was another code Kristen and I had used throughout our twenties: a finger point, plus, “Doesn’t he remind you of [a random male friend, real or imagined]?” Inevitably, the man would tell us he had “one of those faces” and got that all the time, but we knew what the comment really meant: I’m done talking to this guy; an escape hatch, please.
She didn’t invoke it, her get-out-of-jail-free card, so after a while I interrupted and said it myself: “Kristen, doesn’t Paolo look like my friend Dennis?”
Kristen’s brow pursed in friendly confusion. “You think? I don’t see it at all.” Then she turned back to him and smiled conspiratorially. “You’re much more handsome.”
So it was on. I steeled myself, moved around the patio, made more chitchat with the British girls, breathed deep to slow my racing heart. It’s just an hour. She’s been having terrible dating luck. Don’t be such a chicken, not to mention a cock-block.
“Nicole” announced she wanted to show Paolo the crystals she’d picked out at the market, and I gave her one more out: “You’re sure? You know we have that flight tomorrow?” She brushed me off, so I recited my lines: They should go, I wanted to finish my drink, but I was sleepy so (yaaawn, streeeetch) I’d probably be back in forty-five minutes. Paolo lifted his gigantic backpack, and Kristen touched her palm to my cheek gratefully as they slipped past.
I hoisted myself onto a stool at the bar and pulled out my book. I strung my purse over the back of my chair and tried to read, tried not to think about what was happening in our suite a few blocks away. I envy her, I realized suddenly. Sex had been stripped from my list of acceptable activities for a full year now, to the point where it was wearing my new love interest’s patience thin. And here she was having a spontaneous vacation hookup. As if nothing bad had happened the last time one of us gave that a go.
But there was more to it than that, and I sat quietly, waiting for my thoughts to snap into place. Aha: I envied him, as well. A week with Kristen had reminded me how I felt braver around her: more capable and resourceful, more cavalier and fun. Chosen. Kristen could do that, her attention like a tractor beam, now trained squarely on Paolo. On our last night, no less.
But that was just my own insecurity—I was happy for her, her and this handsome Spaniard. I had Aaron waiting for me at home, and more travels with Kristen to look forward to. Maybe we really could pull off that backpacking stint next year, when things were more settled with Aaron and Kibble and my life in Milwaukee. The thought cheered me, and I ordered a beer.
Thirty minutes later, I swallowed the last of it, then asked for a bottle of water. Thirty minutes when I was blissfully unaware that panic was about to go off like a grenade. Alone in a leafy bar with cigarette smoke and the barks of desperate dogs wafting past, I noticed nothing. I reached for my purse and half registered that it was unzipped. Stuck my hand inside, felt around, slowly at first and then with mounting alarm. I slid from the stool and searched the floor around my feet. Patted my hips, as if my sundress had suddenly grown pockets, then tore through my bag again.
“Someone took my wallet,” I gasped at the bartender. I forgot every Spanish word I’d ever learned.
“Mil,” he repeated, then pointed at the bottle of water. “One thousand pesos.”
I shook my head and opened my purse wide, as if to show him. “I don’t have any money. Someone took it.” My voice cracked and he made a sympathetic face, then whipped the bottle back behind the bar. I hugged my bag against me, unsure what to do next.
When had someone taken it? I picked back over my minutes alone at the bar like this was a puzzle I could solve, rooting around for the instant my subconscious had picked up on something wrong. The way some faraway part of your brain snags while you’re leaving your scarf on a bus: a momentary something’s not right.
Nerves popped along my neck. Someone had watched me from across the bar, noticing my bag hanging limply as I curled over my book. Plunged their fingers inside just inches from my hip and strolled away with fifty bucks in local currency, my driver’s license, and a few credit cards. I loved this wallet—green leather, a relic from a flea market date with another ex, Colin. Stupid. I’d let my guard down in a foreign country—and I’d been violated.
