On the walk home, I text my sister.
Joy: What would you do?
Allison: Don’t make me choose!!!
Joy: But you helped me decide to go to France!
Allison: No, you already knew you wanted to go. I just confirmed what you wanted and gave you my support.
Joy: Stop being reasonable and logical. What should I do? Tell me!!!
Allison: You know I want to see you. You know I want you home. I’m not unbiased here. You can’t ask me to decide.
Joy: I miss you.
Allison: I miss you.
Joy: But I love Paris.
Allison: There’s that.
Joy: But honestly, will it be too sad for me to stay?
Allison: I don’t know. I’d like to say it’ll only be sad if you let it be that way.
Joy: But on the other hand, will I regret it if I don’t take this chance?
Allison: Or will you regret it if you do?
Joy: OH MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS HARDER.
Allison: Look at it this way—you are free to make this choice for YOU. Only for you. Not out of guilt, not out of obligation, not for a man, not for love, even. But for yourself. Do what your gut tells you.
Joy: My gut is quiet.
Allison: It’ll speak soon enough.
Joy: But what if it just says it wants a croissant?
Allison: Then that’s your answer. :)
But truthfully, the answer is I don’t know.
Griffin’s jaw drops. “Wow. That’s tremendous, and totally unexpected.”
“I know, right?” I say, as I flop down on the chaise on my terrace, the stars winking faintly above us.
“Are you going to take it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I love it here so much. But the chance to run a perfume lab? That’s a dream come true.”
He nods thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah, it would be amazing,” he says, but the words come out funny, as if he’s not sure how to say them.
“It would be amazing,” I repeat, because that’s simply a fact.
“When will you decide?” He takes my hand in his and rubs his thumb over my palm.
“Supposedly, I’ll have the offer in a few more days.”
Another nod. He swallows this time. Exhales. Scrubs a hand over his jaw. “That’s . . .”
But he doesn’t finish.
I squeeze his hand. “What would you do if you were me?”
I can ask him freely now since there’s no pressure, no expectation. It’s not as if we’re going to be together when I make this choice. I can make this decision for me, and only me, as my sister said. I can choose my career without losing myself. I can rewrite the mistakes of my past.
“When would they want you back?” he asks, and the question comes out rough, as if there’s gravel in his throat.
“Probably in a month, Marisol said.” I furrow my brow. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Absolutely. Just, wow. This is wow,” he says, tapping his fingers against his skull then spreading them wide open, as if this is blowing his mind. Maybe it is. “You’d move back home.”
Home.
That word echoes between us. For a while it felt like home was here with him. But we’re a vacation. We’re an escape. He’s not my home because he’s leaving, and I may as well take off now, too. How fitting that we came together in Paris like a chemical reaction. We combusted, and now we’re repelling. We’re shooting away from our epicenter, both of us, drifting farther apart. Maybe it was meant to be this way.
Home isn’t him and me.
It’s elsewhere.
I squeeze his hand, asking again, “What would you do?”
“If it’s your dream come true, you should go for it,” he says, his voice thick, almost as if it’s clogged with emotion. “I don’t want to hold you back.”
I tilt my head to the side, curiosity gripping me. “How would you hold me back? You won’t even be here.”
He winces and looks away.
“You won’t be here, right?” I ask, pressing. For a split second, my heart leaps. Has he changed his mind? Is he staying? I wait patiently for an answer.
His eyes shine with sadness, and I try to read their meaning. But they’re a language that won’t translate for me.
So, I go first. Taking a tentative step. “If you were here, it would be different.”
He closes his eyes and gathers me close.
28
Griffin
“I know,” I say as I wrap her in my arms and press a kiss to her lips.
I can’t risk speaking more. I can’t say what I want to say. Because I can’t let her make this choice for me. That goes against everything she needs in life. Everything I said I’d do. I told her I wouldn’t hold her back. She doesn’t want me to hold her back.
She wants to be free to make her own choices.
There’s no asking her to stay.
There’s no asking her to go with me for a few weeks.
There’s no putting off the trip so we can steal a few more months.
There’s only a “down the road.”
When we pull apart, I offer that. “Maybe we can see each other in Texas someday.”
“Yeah, maybe we can.” She smiles faintly.
Sometimes, I suppose life insists we stick to Plan A.
Perhaps we were always inevitable—inevitably drawn together and inevitably thrust apart.
I can’t ask her to stay in case I come back sooner. I can’t ask her to have a go of things when I’m done. That’s like asking her to live an unscented life.
Later, after another bittersweet coming together, I finish what I started.
With a few minutes to spare, I confirm the ticket once and for all. There is no Plan B.
We play a game on the train to Giverny on Saturday morning. I pretend I don’t speak French at all. Joy has to do all the talking for us. She buys the tickets at the Saint-Lazare station. She gives them to the conductor and asks where the seats are. She inquires
