Girls Who Travel

by Nicole Trilivas

  I sprang up. “Sounds good. See you.” I was down his stoop and halfway to my house before I recognized the bounce in my step.

  30

  THIS ISN’T A date. This isn’t a date. This isn’t a date.

  I repeated it over and over like a mantra as I scraped my hair back into a careless ponytail. This isn’t a date, but why then have I been playing with my hair for the last ten minutes? I gave up on my messy locks and let them tumble down my back as they pleased.

  I was annoyed at myself for even thinking that this vaguely resembled a date—the whole pesky idea felt treacherous and unfair to Lochlon.

  Then, my annoyance at myself congealed into sticky resentment: This is all Aston’s fault. He was the one who white-knighted in and saved me from Bae Yoon, revealing himself to be a decent modern gentleman! Why did I have to take his niceness personally? And Elsbeth’s stamp of approval only made it worse.

  I stomped the ground like Gwendy when she didn’t want to go to school in the mornings.

  “Pull it together. This isn’t a date,” I said aloud into the mirror with resolve and a finger point.

  “What isn’t a date?”

  I turned around and saw Mina in the doorway of my room. “Sorry, your door was open. I can come back if you’re busy.”

  My cheeks colored. “No, Mina. Of course not, come in. Sorry about that. I was just giving myself a pep talk. What’s up?”

  Mina belly flopped on my bed and sent her glossed curls flying every which way. “Kika, do you think my parents will let me stay here for school break next week?”

  We were all going to the south of Italy for the end-of-term holidays. The Darlings would be leaving one day earlier than me, since Lochlon’s weekend visit coincided with the start of vacation. But as soon as Lochlon left on Sunday, I would meet them there. This was the first time since I arrived that I asked Elsbeth for anything, and she didn’t seem to mind my arrival being a day later.

  “You want to stay here? Why don’t you want to go to Italy?” I asked.

  “I’m just over it.” Mina was over everything lately. Actually, that wasn’t true; she was either “over it” or she “couldn’t be bothered with it.” They had become her two favorite and interchangeable expressions.

  “Mina, you know I don’t speak thirteen-year-old girl. You’re going to have to translate for me.”

  “I just feel like staying home, you know? Plus, we go to the same place every year. Not like I’d be missing anything.”

  Actually, I didn’t know, because I never felt like staying home. I, for one, was looking forward to the trip.

  “Is it because it’s an ‘off-the-grid’ trip?”

  The other day, Elsbeth did this whole big song and dance where she banned the use of all technology during the trip: All phones, tablets, laptops, et cetera, would be left behind. Save for one emergency phone that Elsbeth insisted on carrying, but it would be left turned off. With all that family time, it was shaping up to be every teenager’s dream vacation.

  “Will you just ask my mom?” she begged in that drippy, world-weary voice.

  “Oh, I know what it is.” I hurdled onto the bed beside her.

  “What?” she asked sharply, suddenly alert.

  I took one of her curls and placed it under my nose to make a mustache. Her mouth twitched with the first hints of a smile.

  “You want to stay home so you can have a party, you devious little teenager, you.”

  When she didn’t respond, I was sure I’d cracked the code.

  “Listen Miss Popular, I’m sure your rich kid friends throw grand fêtes all the time with their cool Euro au pairs from, like, Bratislava or wherever, but your mom is not going to let you stay home by yourself, which means I’ll be here, which also means that there will be no parties.”

  Mina pulled at a strand of her hair and examined the ends with teenage aloofness.

  “Sorry, that’s just the way I roll.” I shrugged, and Mina pouted, which reminded me that though she was technically an adolescent, she was still on the border of little girl territory.

  “Ugh, fine. Whatever,” she said. “So what are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m going to watch some live music.”

  “Cool, can I come?”

  I gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m going to a bar, and I don’t think Elsbeth would be all that happy about you around booze and boys.”

  “Kids are allowed to go into pubs here. I see it all the time.”

  I pulled a face. “You’re right. You have no idea how creepy it is to be having a pint with a toddler running through your legs.”

  My mind went back to the first time I was in Ireland, and I witnessed a father give his baby—less than one year old—a sip of his Guinness. The baby did not enjoy it. I made a mental note to tell Lochlon the story, because he’d find it hilarious.

  “Who are you going with?” asked Mina.

  “You know Aston, the guy next door?”

  Mina nodded. “All the older girls in my school think he’s hot.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “He’s a talented guitar player. I’m going to go to watch him play.”

  “Sure. Whatever,” said Mina. She eyed my Dr. Martens and slipped her feet into them. “So is it, like, a date?”

  I flamed red again.

  “I’m just teasing you. I know you’re with Lochlon.”

  “Right,” I said gruffly. “I’m with Lochlon.”

  31

  “SHALL I ORDER you a pint, unless of course you’d rather . . .”

  “Sure, a pint sounds good,” I said, twirling on my barstool. When I was with the Darlings, the girls and I always guzzled Shirley Temples. It felt different to be offered booze.

  The bar was smoky and low lit with red bar lights that watercolored my hair pink. Aston caught the barman’s attention. They chatted like old friends before he ordered for us both.

  “So are you nervous?” I asked him.

  “No. I play here all the time. Here and at the Zetland Arms by the South Kensington Tube on Thursdays—it’s an absolute old man’s bar, that. Not a bit like this place, mind you, but still good fun. I don’t get nervous about playing. But public speaking is another matter.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but then his body language sobered, becoming stiff and impatient.

  “Kika, before the night goes any further, I must say something.” He spoke over the music. “I meant to tell you earlier.”

  “Go for it,” I encouraged, buying him time by taking a sip of the sudsy pint. I swallowed hard, the glacial buzz traveling straight to the center of my forehead.

  “Right, well, I wanted to ask you to forgive me for being such a rude git the first time we met. I was such a fuckwit.”

  I rifled through my mind. “You mean that morning on the steps?” I wasn’t expecting to hear about that morning again. Somehow, it felt so long ago that it was as if it involved different people entirely.

  “Yes. You see, everything had gone tits up that night. I managed to get into a row with my mates. I had been up all night, so when I met you I acted like an utter wanker.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Rubbish. It really isn’t. Not to make it some sort of excuse, but that night was . . . well, it was the anniversary of their deaths. I loathe that they call it ‘anniversary.’ Surely, there’s a better word for it?” His face distorted inelegantly with bereavement.

  From inside of me came the urge to hug him or shake him—anything to get him to change his facial expression. Instead, I said feebly, “There really should be.”

  Realizing that he had colored the mood, he put on a dignified smile. “Ah well. Can’t be helped. But I do apologize. For it all.” He spoke with a clear and rehearsed sort of sincerity. It let me know that this had been on his mind.

  “And here I was
thinking you were an alcoholic bum who just fell asleep on the stoop,” I said grimly, trying to get him to cheer up. “Thanks for apologizing. It’s cool. We’re friends now.”

  He squinted at me. “Is that what we are, mates, then?”

  I slowly nodded, testing out the friendship in my mind. “Mates it is.” I offered my hand, and we shook on it.

  Just then, a microphone squeak stole our attention away from each other. The crowd bent toward the blue-lit stage.

  “Okay, well, it looks like I’m up, then. Get your hands ready to stuff your ears.” He hopped off his barstool and ran his palms along his jeans.

  I batted away his British self-deprecation. “Please. You’re going to kill it.”

  He jogged up to the platform and swung his guitar onto his lean body, looking all self-assured and eager. And kill it he did.

  32

  “SO WHAT’S THIS about some bloke coming to visit you next weekend, then?”

  As it got later, the bar buzzed with boozy bravado. It was like everyone was sure that life would always be as beautiful and unplanned as it was on a Saturday night.

  I took another pull on my beer before answering. “I never said a boy was coming,” I said with a coquettish smile. Because I was talking about Lochlon, I thought I could get away with some innocent playfulness.

  “Well, go on, then,” he said.

  “I’m kidding. It is a guy. His name is Lochlon. We met when I was traveling. He only returned home to Ireland recently, so we’re going to catch up. Nothing crazy.”

  Aston blinked evenly, as steady as flashing traffic lights. We were then interrupted by another person complimenting his playing—this was the fourth or fifth person to do so since the end of his set.

  “Well, I have to say that I am impressed. I knew you could play, but I didn’t know you were a performer.”

  He leaned in. “You’re too kind.”

  “I’m not being kind. I’m being honest.”

  He smiled. “You know, I do see that in you. You are an honest person. You don’t hide much, do you?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. I’ve been known to blurt out my thoughts—mostly because they just fall out of my mouth.”

  “I should try that more.” Aston nodded to himself.

  “Well, it’s easy. Quick, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Aston shifted his vision away from me and scanned the crowd.

  “No,” I insisted, touching his arm. “Stop thinking about it. Just say it!” I snapped my fingers in front of his face to bring him back to me.

  He squared his eyes to mine. “All right, if you’re sure,” he countered, mirroring my assertion. “I was just thinking about kissing you.”

  My heartbeat stuttered and skipped a beat. Come again?

  Aston grinned and shrugged at my unconcealed shocked reaction. “What? If you truly want to know, I’m thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.”

  My mouth dried up, and I felt a lump building in my throat.

  “Now you’re thinking about it, too, aren’t you?”

  Shit, I am thinking about it. I didn’t speak.

  His fingertips strummed against the top of the bar. I couldn’t help but watch how easily they moved. Aston moved his face closer to mine.

  “That’s cute,” he said softly.

  I ran my tongue over my teeth. “What?”

  “You’re picturing it right now.”

  “No, I’m not.” I felt my skin get hotter, and Aston scoffed with amusement. But now, without being able to stop myself, I pictured Aston tilting up my chin with his nimble fingertips and moving his mouth nearer. The vision was so visceral that I could almost feel his lips delicately skimming mine, our mouths lightly brushing against each other before he parted my lips with his in a full-on, openmouthed kiss. I accidentally shivered.

  I tried to swallow down the dry, chalky bulge in my throat. It wasn’t dread or discomfort, I suddenly realized. It was desire.

  Then, in real life, as if I forecasted it, Aston edged closer to me. As his lips got closer and closer to mine, I felt my gaze lowering. He was a few inches away from my mouth, and I licked my lips unintentionally, my body roasting hotter than ever.

  But instead of kissing me, Aston stopped a mere inch from my lips. “You’re beautiful when you blush,” he whispered. I closed my eyes.

  But then, a smacking sound jutted me awake. A hand slapped down on Aston’s shoulder. “Great playing, mate!”

  I jerked away from Aston’s mouth and directed myself toward the interruption. Go away! I mentally yelled at the intruder, fizzling in disappointment.

  Then a split second later, it hit me: What am I doing? I almost just kissed Aston! I straightened my neck. I shouldn’t be disappointed with the disruption—I should be relieved.

  Aston made eye contact with me and blew a small exhale out of his nose but otherwise hid his annoyance and turned to take the guy’s hand. “Cheers, Thomas. Are you well?”

  “Kika, this is Thomas, a mate from uni,” Aston said, making a polite introduction. They began to catch up, and I used the moment to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. As I stood, I exhaled hard, only then fully understanding what I had almost just let happen.

  33

  WHEN 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.