“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
