Wynn in Doubt (24 page)

one year later

The clink of glasses and scraping of chairs on the stone floor is so loud I can hardly hear my travel mate’s words. “What did you say?” I call across the table, turning my ear toward her.

Amy cups her hands around her mouth and yells. “I said that guy I was telling you about is supposed to be here.”

We’re in a basement club in a repurposed church in Old Berlin. We arrived two days ago by train from Belgium. I’ve been walking around in awe of the architecture and the beauty of the city. Amy and I rented bikes this morning. The roads here twist and turn, taking you to the most interesting places. One of my favorite things about Europe in general is how varied everything is. Near-ancient relics sit next to sleek black skyscrapers. And people from all over the world blend together in a stream of culture and color. The world is so much bigger than I ever thought possible.

I stopped to check out an antique store after lunch and Amy rode on to a city park. She met some guys there, which doesn’t surprise me. Amy’s always meeting guys. I guess they told her about this place.

I’m exhausted. The last week has been grueling, traveling between three countries, but I’ve got a new rule. Whenever I feel like saying no to an unexpected opportunity, I ask myself what I could miss out on. The chance to see Amy dance on a table in the middle of Berlin definitely felt like something I wouldn’t want to miss.

We splurged on an actual hotel for our stay. It was such a relief to sleep in a nice bed again. You can stay in only so many hostels before your head starts to itch just from the thought of bedbugs. I flopped down on the double bed before the door had even closed. My passport fell out of my backpack and onto the floor. The stamps, some red, some green or black, still amaze me. I pulled out the map Mom found in Grams’s things and matched the stamps up with the countries printed on the back. I’ve been to eighteen of them in the last year. Not including a brief trip home to see Tabby become the most beautiful bride in the world. I think a lot about Grams these days. I wonder if she kept the map, like the blue glass, to remind herself of her mother.

I didn’t think my own mother was going to let me leave again after the wedding. She fed me so often, I started to worry she was channeling the witch in “Hansel and Gretel” and was going to keep me prisoner. But when it was time for me to go, she didn’t cry as much, and I think she was even a little excited for me. It’s been hard, not seeing them. I missed Samuel’s kindergarten graduation, and Lucas—my sweet seven-year-old nephew who, thank God, takes after his father—has lost two teeth since I’ve been away. I send them postcards and call Mom and Dad once a week. Life seems to be going on as usual. Except for me. For me it’s gotten so much bigger.

In truth, the endless need to see, feel, touch, taste, and explore scares me a little. I keep expecting it to end. That I’ll feel I’ve done enough and want to go home, but I haven’t. I want more.

There’s a place in Spain where the waves rolling in from the ocean are so fierce, you wonder how they don’t break the earth below your feet. I sat and watched them for a long time and made a promise to myself. If one of the stones that made up the beach cracked, split open from the power of the waves, and was pulled back into the water, I’d go back and be happy I’d had this experience. But they never did. They took a heavy beating, and there were times I swear I saw them sway, but they withstood the storm. They were strong, and they made me strong, too. I’m a dreamer. I want to live a life that feels honest to me.

I won’t be home until Thanksgiving. That’s when Amy’s year abroad ends. I’m taking the opportunity to go back, see family and old friends—Lisa and I have been exchanging emails for months now—and decide my next steps. I’ve been frugal. Lola’s money turned out to be the gift that kept on giving. Franny, my genius sister, did a little research. The bills, which were old Federal Reserve notes from 1928, had increased in value almost threefold since their original printing. In the end, I walked away with nearly a hundred thousand dollars.

Needless to say, Dex and Tabby’s wedding gift was freaking awesome. And Franny’s boys now have a nice start to their college funds, courtesy of their favorite aunt.

So I’ve got time to plan. Lately I’ve been thinking I might try teaching again. The Guatemala job isn’t available anymore, but there’s got to be an opening for an English teacher in a Mongolian village somewhere, right? I’m not tied down to any one idea. The most rewarding thing to come out of the time I’ve spent traveling is the ability to let go of those feelings that held me back for so long. Fear, uncertainty, doubt—they don’t have a place in my life anymore. I’m excited by what’s ahead of me.

Meeting Amy on the Camino was a godsend. I walked mostly on my own for a couple of weeks. At first it was liberating. Just me out there, alone, thinking and walking, walking and thinking. But thoughts get pretty loud with that much solitude. When I saw her fighting a muddy pass to win her boot back, I seized the opportunity to make a new friend. She’d been walking alone almost five weeks. I don’t think she stopped talking for three days.

We shared our stories to date and our hopes for the future. She probably knows more about who I really am than almost any other person on earth. With one exception. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Oliver. You’re so exposed when you travel by yourself. I wanted to keep something private, just for me.

I’ve sent him postcards here and there and to my utter shock, he’s even sent me a few emails. We never talk about us, about the future, or what we almost were. I tell him what I’ve seen and he tells me what he’s learned. It’s hard to think about him sometimes. I know I made the right decision, but there are moments when I would give anything to hear him laugh. To feel his arms around me.

The walls of the club are carved out of natural stone. It reverberates the sound from across the room. If I move my head just right, I can hear people’s conversations. I listen carefully, concentrating on their voices, and catch pieces of what they’re saying.

“. . . stupid tour . . .”

“. . . difference between Mozart and . . .”

“. . . fucking Americans . . .”

Ahh. The international call of the traveler.
Fucking Americans.

“Want another drink?” Amy leans across the table, practically screaming into my ear.

“Yeah, okay.” I hold up my beer.

She disappears and I people watch. It’s one of the best things about travel. There are so many damn people in the world. It’s endless. And we’re all different. Or at least, we’re trying to be. I like to pretend I know who they are, where they come from, and what they do. I can’t tell you the hours of entertainment this little game has given me. When you’re trapped in an airport in Italy for two days, you can get pretty desperate.

A man across from our table in a shiny silver shirt bops his head to the music. I’m thinking native German, possibly a Hasselhoff fan, definitely looking for some young tourists to take advantage of. The man to his left has beautiful mahogany skin and a brilliant white smile. A red scarf loops casually around his neck. Too fashionable for an American. I’m going with French architect in town for business but out to party. I assess everyone around me, amusing myself with my answers until Amy returns.

Her grin shows all of her teeth. “Wynn, these are the guys I met in the park today!” She brushes her red hair back and turns, allowing one of them to move past her and take a seat. He’s good looking with thick brown hair and an all-American quality about him. He tells me his name is Peter. Amy practically levitates off her chair when he calls her my “beautiful friend.”

The man behind him has his back to me. He waves at someone out of my line of sight, but there’s something very familiar about his shape. A tug low against my stomach seems to pull him around to face me. We stare at each other for a long time. And then he smiles, and I see my chip.

His eyes never leave mine. Oliver maneuvers himself between our table and the one with the Hasselhoff fan.

Peter raises his voice to yell an introduction across the table. “This is my friend Oliver!”

I offer Oliver my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says, though I can barely hear him.

Our handshake continues for a considerable length of time. Amy and Peter notice.

“Oliver’s a musician,” Peter calls, watching us curiously.

“Oh yeah? Are you in a band?”

He bites his bottom lip, enjoying this. “I used to be,” he says, loud enough for me to hear. “How about you? What do you do? Wynn, was it?”

I play along. “I don’t really
do
anything.”

“Come on, everybody’s got to do something, right? For example, what have you been doing for the last year?”

“This year?”

“Sure. Just as an example.”

Our hands remain locked across the table. He moves a finger along my palm, and it’s like switching on a light in a room that’s been dark for a long while. It takes me a moment to adjust. “I’ve been traveling.”

“Where?”

I run my thumb across his knuckles and watch the heat turn up behind his eyes. “Everywhere.”

He pulls me up, toward him, and I follow as he moves around the table, never letting go of me. He says something in Peter’s ear and Amy waves energetically, frantic to get my attention. She mouths the question, “What’s going on?” It’s too difficult to explain, so I just shake my head and smile.

We weave through the other guests, emerging onto the street and the quiet summer evening. He pulls me into his arms and presses his mouth to mine. His taste, the way his mouth moves, everything is the same and yet . . . different. I’m different. I’m not scared anymore.

When he breaks away, I realize we’re both out of breath.

“What’re you doing here?” His voice is full of amazement.

“We came in a couple of days ago on the train. We’re doing eastern Europe for the summer.”

His eyes widen with amazement at my words. “You’re
doing
eastern Europe? Who are you and what have you done with Wynn Jeffries from Downers Grove?”

“She’s still here.”

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, wrapping me in a hug. I hold on to him, tight.

That he’s here feels like a trick. I’m so happy. I can’t stop laughing into his shoulder.

He lets me go, but his smile remains. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Happy.”

His hands squeeze mine and he nods. “How’s everyone back home?”

“They’re great. Tabby got married. My parents are taking cooking lessons, which they love, and Franny got a job as a school counselor. Can you imagine?”

That laugh—it’ll never change. “Those poor kids.”

I think back to my conversation with Franny after returning from Kentucky. “Her methods are unusual, but I actually think she gives pretty great advice.”

People walk past us and turn their heads in our direction. I can only imagine what we must look like standing here, ridiculous smiles on our faces.

“What about you? How’ve you been?”

He swings a hand holding mine. “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Writing songs, mostly. I’ve been playing in any bar that’ll have me the past few months, working on a solo album.”

“Wow, that’s incredible. Good for you.” My cheeks strain from the effort of holding my smile. “Any chance I can catch a concert while I’m in town?”

“Maybe.” He pulls me to him. I place my hands high on his chest and feel something beneath his shirt. I slide my finger under the collar and tug at the strand of leather hanging around his neck. Michael’s ring falls against the white cotton and gleams in the streetlight.

Relief fills every part of me.

“Do you still have yours?” he asks.

I pull the chain around my neck until the gold ring falls onto my blouse. I’ve worn it every day of my trip.

Oliver presses his forehead to mine, his lips curling upward.

I’ve often wondered if, somehow, Michael and Lola are looking down on us. I’d like them to know their story isn’t over, that it continues every day we think of them. Their article woke me up. It gave me a reason to search for something missing in my life. But their story,
her
story, has given me so much more than I could’ve imagined. It’s taught me to be strong, even when I feel afraid. To not give up on what I want for my life, even if it means risking my heart. And, most importantly, that realizing our dreams is only part of what makes us whole. We need people to root for us. We need to be able to come home again.

“I missed you,” he says.

I hold him tighter.

“Have you seen enough of the world yet?” His voice is low. He’s asking whether or not I’m ready to come back to him.

“No,” I say, bringing my lips close to his. “But I’ve seen enough of it on my own.”

about the author

Photo © 2013 Emily Hemmer

Emily Hemmer was raised in the Chicago suburbs before settling in Kansas City in 1996. As is the case with many artists, she dropped out of college to pursue a vocation in daydreaming before getting married, having kids, and starting a Roth IRA. She completed her degree in 2010 to make her mother proud.

For more information, visit
www.emilyhemmer.com
.