Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  Touch me again.

  “Okay. I’ll walk you home.”

  We head past the tower. The park in front of it is teeming with lovers. So many lips are locked together right now.

  “We need a picture in front of the Eiffel Tower,” he says, in French.

  “We do.”

  When I stand next to him, he wraps his arm around my shoulder, and everything about the way he holds me possessively makes so much more sense than it should. His fingers curl over my shoulder, clasping me tight to his side. Our hips touch. I could turn my head and bury my nose in the crook of his neck. Inhale his aftershave and learn if it lingers on his skin this late into the evening. Taste him.

  My body is a drum, beating loud and hot.

  I grip my phone harder, trying to channel all my physical energy into the simple act of lifting it. On the screen, I catch a quick glimpse of a man and woman who look like all the other lovers here tonight. Grinning, touching, needing. But we’re not like these real couples. I snap a selfie and show it to him quickly.

  “Good one. I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  That’s the problem. I like it too much. I drop the phone into my purse, relief flooding me since, somehow, I managed to take that picture without tossing the phone to the ground, yanking him against me, and saying screw everything.

  Including me.

  “Hashtag it: anightinparis.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Send it to me later, yeah?”

  “Of course.”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear and turns me to face him. “Joy?” My name comes out importantly. I meet his eyes. They’re vulnerable again. “Maybe it’s good, in some terribly selfish way, that you stayed with him as long as you did, since that means you’re here now.”

  Tingles spread all over me, and my heart is full of starlight. I’m dangerously close to melting, but somehow I manage to whisper a merci before we leave the park.

  Later, when I’m home, I run my finger over the shot of us looking like Friday-night lovers. Looking like we want to kiss, to touch, to spend the rest of the evening together. I don’t post it to Instagram. It feels private, this #anightinparis. I send it only to him, then I turn off my phone before he can reply.

  16

  Griffin

  * * *

  Eight miles.

  I round the edge of Parc de Bagatelle, one of the biggest green spaces in the city. The pale pink light of dawn burns off as the sun rises in the morning sky.

  My heart pounds against my chest as my feet hit the hard-packed earth, and my playlist blasts a random mix of new indie bands in my ears. When I first buckled down for the marathon prep, I tried to listen to my Duo Lingo app during my training runs, but I found, at the end, I remembered close to nothing of Portuguese. When I run, I get so lost in the movement I can’t focus on words, only rhythm, so I let this eclectic mix power me through.

  As I leave the park, racing past a museum dedicated to the works of Monet, I have the fleeting thought that Joy would probably like that museum. I bet she likes Monet. I bet she’d gaze at the prettiest paintings in the same way she stares longingly at a piece of chocolate, a pink door, or a window box bursting with flowers. The woman loves beauty in all its forms. She devours it with her senses and feasts on it.

  I try to shake away the thoughts. If I keep thinking about Joy this much, I’ll want to spend every second with her.

  Oh wait. I already do.

  For now, I refocus my brain on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, in moving one step closer to completing an all-important item on Ethan’s list—running the marathon in Indonesia. I picture checking it off the list, another accomplishment. Originally, I planned to explore the islands and train at the same time. But I’ve flipped that order around, training here now.

  As I switch over to a quieter street to cut across the city, I flash back to the dream I had when I was younger. Running a marathon. It was so crystal clear, and it came out of the blue, inserting itself into my brain unexpectedly.

  At the time, a marathon seemed so easy.

  Something I could pull off in a cinch.

  It’s not easy.

  And yet, I don’t mind that it’s hard. I don’t mind that it hurts. I rather like the burn in my legs and in my lungs. I keep up the punishing pace as I near the nine-mile mark, cruising past apartment buildings, then a Monoprix and a nearly deserted Starbucks. Even at eight a.m. on a Saturday, the coffee shop is nearly empty.

  We are not a country of early risers, I think with a smirk.

  Then I blink. What a strange notion. They’re not early risers, I mean. I’m not from here, so I don’t know why I included myself in that sweeping statement about the French. I’m just a visitor, really, making a prolonged pit stop on my itinerant journey around the globe.

  By the time I hit nine and a half miles, a fresh burst of energy surges inside me, and I feel as if I’m flying, even as my muscles are wrung out. A new song starts, a fast, soaring number that’s like a burst of adrenaline.

  Another minute, another block, another stretch of the city.

  Soon, soon, I cross the ten-mile mark.

  Holy shit.

  That’s a lot of miles.

  I don’t stop. I should. But I don’t want to. I keep running the rest of the way to my flat, finishing finally at eleven miles, when I slow my pace, panting, exhausted, spent.

  But utterly high on endorphins, too.

  No wonder Ethan liked this so much.

  It feels spectacular, like it does every damn time I run.

  I wipe my brow, unlock the front door, and head into the entryway of my building then up to the third floor. Beads of sweat drip down my body. After I enter my flat, I fill a glass of water, down it, and then drink one more. As my breathing calms down, I strip out of my running shorts, step under the showerhead, and turn the faucet to hot.

  The shower is the most welcome sight in the world.

  And then, unbidden, Joy joins me in it.

  This is getting to be hard.

  Pun intended.

  This isn’t the first time she’s come into the shower with me. I’d like to say I ignore the visit, but that’d be a lie. As soon as the image of her pops into my mind, I’m ready to go.

  We’re talking a proposition-style hard-on.

  I picture last night, wandering by the Eiffel Tower, tugging her close as she snapped a photo of us. God, I’m so fucking transparent. The way I touched her, gathered her near, kissed her good night like I wanted it to last until the morning—I’m doing a terrible job at playing just friends. But every little crumb, every morsel makes me want more of her. Every brush of my fingers against hers makes me want to know what more of her would taste like, feel like, look like.

  I lean my head back under the stream, letting the water streak down my body, and then I take matters into my own hand. She’s here with me. Naked, wet, aroused. Wrapped around me.

  I groan, grip myself harder. I see her lips, red and inviting. Lips I’ve longed for since the day I met her. I want to kiss, taste, and right now, I want to fuck those lips. I want to slide my aching cock in that lush mouth and watch her take me deep, suck me hard.

  Lust jolts through my body as I let the fantasy play out. As I watch my cock thrust deeper into that perfect mouth, as I wind my hand into her wet hair, her lips are so tight around me.

  I jerk harder, tug faster, picturing what it would feel like to finally have her on her knees.

  But, then I blink.

  Shove the image away.

  That’s not how I want Joy right now. I know what my own orgasm feels like. Fantastic. I’ve been there, done that, don’t need to picture it.

  Instead, I want to do filthy things to her. Want to find her naked on my bed, wearing nothing but a white shirt I’d discarded earlier, unbuttoned and spread open, revealing those beautiful tits, rosy nipples, and a soft belly.

  Rough, raw noises rumble up my throat as I shuttle
my fist harder, faster. Rocking into my hand, I imagine crawling down her body, licking a path between her tits, kissing to the paradise between her thighs. I picture flicking the tip of my tongue over her for the first time.

  Primal desire flares inside me, and I grunt as I imagine tasting her where she’s wet and hot and needy. She arches her hips. Begging. Pleading. Curling her hands around my head.

  I heed her call. Oh dear God, do I ever fucking heed it.

  I bury my face between those thighs, and then pleasure yanks me under, rockets through me as I come hard. A shudder racks my entire body, and I press my forehead to the glass door. “Fuck,” I mutter as water pelts my back.

  I groan loudly, a rough and hungry sound.

  An empty one, too. That felt absolutely great and utterly annoying. Because it’s not real. It’s not happening. And I’m going to have to fight like hell to pretend I don’t want to do unholy things to her body when I see her again.

  And damn, do I want to see her again.

  I adjust the temperature in the shower, going lukewarm then cooler, forcing myself to stand under the stream as it chills.

  Ten minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and still wanting her. Oh yeah, turns out a shower wank doesn’t evict Joy from my brain. Nor does an ice cube–temperature shower, either.

  From the kitchen counter, I grab the chocolate tart she gave me last night and devour it.

  I’m still hungry.

  But before I root around for something else to gnaw my way through in mere seconds, I snap a photo of the paper the tart was wrapped in. There’s one crumb left. She’ll like this. I send her the shot.

  * * *

  Griffin: There’s nothing quite like a ten-mile training run, followed by a chocolate tart. By the way, thanks for dessert for breakfast. It was delicious, and I thought of you.

  * * *

  I look at the sent message. Well, it’s not totally obvious I have it bad for her. It was delicious, and I thought of you, I mouth to myself. Could I be any more blatant? I shake my head and sigh heavily. I set down the phone.

  Maybe I ought to try not thinking about her for a full minute. I grab my phone and click open a word game. This one helps keep my Spanish in shape as I have to steer letters, Tetris style, into words. But as I form sobra, my phone buzzes. I exit the game so quickly that I leave the a free-falling. So much for playing it cool, as the letter crashes to a cruel death.

  * * *

  Joy: My, my. Aren’t you quite the warrior? I’m still lounging in my jammies, drinking coffee and eating bonbons.

  * * *

  Griffin: What kind of jammies?

  * * *

  Look, I can’t help myself. When a gorgeous woman says she’s in PJs, I’m required, on account of being male, to ask what she has on. Especially since she was naked in my shower mere minutes ago.

  * * *

  Joy: A corset, Griffin. I sleep in a corset. It’s black lace. I wear stocking and garters, too. As well as stilettos.

  * * *

  I crack up. She’s onto me.

  * * *

  Griffin: Ah, that sounds quite comfy. I find it quite pleasant, myself, to sleep in a tailored suit.

  * * *

  Two can play at this game after all.

  * * *

  Joy: You don’t say? I might need a picture of that.

  * * *

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me of the other important matter at hand. Sustenance. I open the fridge. A jar of pickles stares forlornly at me. I scratch my jaw, wondering why I even have pickles. I don’t remember buying them. I take a photo of the pickles and send it to Joy. But before I can add a note to explain why I’m sending the picture, a text from her lands on my screen.

  * * *

  Joy: Why, I thought you’d never ask me to go pickle shopping with you. I accept. :)

  * * *

  Griffin: I’m starving. I’m off to get some breakfast. Petit déjeuner to you. I’d invite you to join me, and teach you scintillating phrases about eggs and coffee and bread, but you’d need to get out of your jammies rather quickly, since ten-plus miles of running has made me rather ravenous.

  * * *

  So have thoughts of you coming on my lips.

  * * *

  Joy: You have no idea how quickly I can get out of bed when breakfast is involved.

  * * *

  Griffin: By the way, have you been to the Musée Marmottan Monet? If not, it’s quite lovely, and it’s open today.

  * * *

  Joy: This will come as a complete and utter shock, but, like nearly everyone else in the world, I love Monet. Oh, and yes, you can take me out to breakfast and to see some million-dollar art, Griffin.

  * * *

  So, yeah, that means I’m completely transparent to her. Brilliant. As I leave, I remind myself to not make it so patently unmistakable that I like her during breakfast.

  But when she arrives at the café wearing tight jeans, a light blue shirt, and a red bandana around her hair like a headband, it’s a lost cause.

  “You had that on the first time I met you,” I say, pointing to the cloth in her hair, the ends tied in a little knot, its tails poking out under her ear.

  Her lips quirk up. “En français.”

  “You caught me,” I say with a laugh.

  “You remember?” She runs her fingers over the red fabric.

  I nod, keeping my words simple so she understands. “I remember. I thought it was bold. You looked like Rosie the Riveter.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “You know Rosie? That’s so American.”

  “I happen to like American things,” I say, and when her green eyes lock with mine, I watch as understanding registers in them. As the words turn in her head till she knows what I mean.

  The moment she does, her eyes sparkle then hold mine. She doesn’t look away. “I like English things.”

  Evidently, we’re both rubbish at friendship. I lean back in the chair and sigh. “Being friends, it’s so easy, yeah?”

  Might as well call a spade a spade.

  “So simple,” she says drily, her hand rising to fiddle with the bandana as if she’s going to take it out.

  “No, seriously. It’s so incredibly you,” I tell her, reaching across the table, brushing my finger against the fabric then down a soft strand of her hair. The red locks slide over my hand.

  I raise my gaze. Her lips part the slightest bit as I let go of her hair. She watches as the strands fall against her chest.

  She clears her throat and taps the menus. “We better order, or the specter of pickles will haunt you all day.”

  “Best to avoid pickle hauntings.”

  I tell her what I want, and when the waiter arrives, I let her order. She gets it right, and I’m more pleased than I should be.

  Because it’s her.

  Soles of shoes echo across the hardwood floors in the quiet mansion that houses more than three hundred Monets. A handful of other museumgoers flit by, but we aren’t packed like sardines.

  I gesture to all the space. “The best part is it isn’t crowded like the Musée d’Orsay or the Louvre.”

  “It’s a little secret in Paris,” she says as we wander through gallery after gallery of impressionist art. I switch back and forth between languages, teaching her new words and phrases as we go. She’s a fast learner, with a nimble mind. She stops in front of one of the many images of the Japanese bridge the famous artist painted.

  “I want to see the bridge,” she says, and a burst of pride flares in me since she said that correctly on her first try.

  “We should go to Giverny.”

  Then I stop, processing what I just said to her. The weight of it. The intention of it. I invited her to Monet’s gardens. That doesn’t sound like something a teacher would say to a student, but rather a man to a woman. A woman he wants to romance.

  Those wide green eyes give me her yes. Then her words do, too. “I want to go.”

  My heart springs around in my chest, and i
t’s the strangest sensation. A nearly foreign feeling—one I haven’t experienced in a long time. The last few years have been dictated by the fallout from one unexpected event, so I haven’t had the time or the inclination to feel anything more than the occasional bout of desire. “I’ve never been.”

  She shoots me a curious look. “You haven’t? How is it possible there’s a place near Paris you’ve never traveled to?”

  “Miracles do happen.”

  “I’m shocked,” she teases, then drops her hand and returns her focus to the painting of the bridge. “I read a novel once where paintings came alive.”

  “How so?”

  “In the story, the Degas dancers at the d’Orsay twirled out of their frames after hours. They performed ballets in the museum. The cat in Manet’s Olympia jumped from his painting and padded across the tiled floor once the sun fell. It was like Night at the Museum meets Midnight in Paris. And in the story, the hero could travel through Monet’s bridges to other museums around the world that had one of his paintings of the bridge, since he painted so many.”

  I chuckle. “Sounds quite fantastical.”

  She laughs. “It was. It was magical. But I think that’s the power of great art. It not only transports you but makes you want to crawl inside and live in it.”

  “Do I need to hold you back from trying to jump inside a Monet, Joy? Are you warning me of your intention to launch headfirst into a famous work of art?”

  She brings her hands together in front of her, as if prepping to dive. Her eyes are quizzical as she poses the next question. “If you were going to jump inside any painting, what would it be?”

  I marinate on that for a minute, considering. “I suppose if these bridges really do transport you, I’d go into one of those Monets. Easy way to travel, right? Sort of like apparating in Harry Potter. I could be at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg like that.” I snap my fingers.