On the train, she buys two bottles of water, and she asks the woman across the aisle if she knows the time.
It’s simple stuff, but she does it all.
“You might not even need this language anymore,” I say with a smile, even though I find it immeasurably sad that she’s learning French only to go home to a place where she won’t need it.
“I’ll find an enclave of French speakers in Austin,” she says, and if that doesn’t make it clear she’s leaning toward returning to America, I don’t know what does.
“So you’re going back to the United States?” I ask as the train rattles into the station, nearly an hour from Paris.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine a chance like this coming along again.”
“That’s the thing about chances. When they come your way, you need to take them.”
She raises her bottle of water in a toast. My plastic bottle smacks against hers, making a dull echo.
Yes, it seems she’s going back to the States.
We were always a moment in time.
And if I’ve learned anything from carrying this list with me for the last year—if I’ve learned anything about why I carry it—it’s to make the most of every single moment. “Hey, Joy. What do you say we focus only on good things this weekend?”
“Only happy talk.”
“Deal?”
“I’d say you’ve got a deal.”
29
Joy
June is flamboyant.
This month is such a show-off, sashaying around with its warm breezes and lush flowers that blaze with red, cherry, and ruby petals. I snap photo upon photo of the kaleidoscope of flowers in Monet’s garden. It’s a pinwheel of colors. It’s a painting. It’s lushness come to life.
No wonder the artist drew such inspiration here.
“Once you see these gardens it’s no surprise that he painted so many variations of them,” I say as we wander past flowerbeds that do their best impression of emeralds, garnets, and sapphires.
“It makes you wonder how he painted anything else at all,” Griffin says.
He points to the forest-green bridge, curling over a shimmering pond. Water lilies float on the surface, bobbing aimlessly as they luxuriate in the afternoon rays. “Where would you take it?”
“I’m not picky. I’d take it wherever it went. I’d like to see London at some point. Amsterdam, too. Tokyo sounds like fun. Everywhere. But I might also take it right back to the Jean-Paul Hévin chocolate shop in Paris. Or, wait.” I snap my fingers. “I’d go to the market to buy walnuts and bread. I might even take it to Montmartre sometime and wander through the hilly streets.” I stop in front of an archway lined with pink roses. “Where would you take the bridge?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t ask a ridiculous question.”
I furrow my brow. “Why is that ridiculous?”
He dots a kiss on my forehead. “I’d take it to see you, obviously.” My skin warms, but I can’t linger in the sentiment because he tugs on my hand. “Come on, we don’t want to miss anything.”
As we wander through extravagant foliage, making sure we don’t miss a single petal, I ask him to tell me more about his parents. He talks about the new movie kick his mother is on, the efforts his dad makes to cook, and how they’ve mentioned recently they want to visit Iceland. Was the travel bug passed on to him from his parents, I ask? It’s entirely possible, he says, and as he describes the trips he and his brother planned, something snags in my brain, like a moment of déjà vu. I’m not sure what it is, or how to place it, but my mind is desperately trying to latch on to something.
He seems to sense it, tilting his head. “You went quiet. What’s on your mind?”
“Something feels eerily familiar about what you said. I can’t figure it out, though.”
“It’ll come to you at three in the morning. That’s when all the unsolved riddles are answered.”
As we stroll under a weeping willow, the conversation shifts again to another level of happy talk. “What makes you happiest?”
His answers come swiftly. “Running. Eating ice cream. Kissing you.” He drops his voice to a whisper and moves his mouth near my ear. “Fucking you.” I blush, and he raises his voice, continuing. “Hanging out with friends. Laughing. Finding something unexpected. What about you?”
“My sister. Shoes. Bright colors. Rain on cobbled streets. Kissing you in the rain on cobbled streets,” I say, and his quick smile in response thrills me. “Endless gorgeous views. Lazy conversations that seem to meander nowhere, but let you truly know someone. And pretty, luxurious, decadent scents, but you know that.”
“I do, and I know, too, that someday you’ll be accepting an award for your creations.”
I give him a look as if he’s crazy.
“You will,” he says, with cool confidence. “And you’ll even accept it in French. I can see it so clearly.”
I roll my eyes, even though, inside, my heart is springing, loving the idea.
“You’re going to be at the top of your field. I believe that. You’re going to be the best at what you do. You’ll make some amazing new concoction. It’ll be splashed all over magazines and necks and wrists, and it’ll be this new infatuation that everyone wants.”
“You’re crazy.” But I can’t stop grinning.
“Someday, it’ll happen.”
I whip my head in the direction of a delicious smell. I’d know it anywhere. A flower, slinking its way unexpectedly around the weeping willow. “This is my favorite. Honeysuckle.”
He leans in close and murmurs his appreciation. “This smells like desire.”
“It does?”
He nods and brings his mouth to my neck, kissing my throat. “Completely.”
And that’s when I know what my concoction is missing. It’s right under my nose.
My favorite.
When he pulls away, I tell him, “I came to Monet’s garden to explore, and now I’m reminded of what I love.”
“Me, too.”
The room is dark. Moonlight filters through the open window, the curtains fluttering.
There are a million things that could be said, and yet there’s nothing more to say.
