Page 117 of Holiday Romance
“I figured. I thought you wouldn’t mind this one.”
“Wouldn’t mind?” I have to choke the words out. “I love it, Andrew.”
He shrugs, watching me examine it.
“You’re supposed to shake it,” he reminds me, and I do, tilting it so the snowflakes flutter, until the plane is soaring through a winter’s night. I lean forward so I can see it better in the light and Andrew’s hand drops my hair in favor of rubbing slow circles into my back. It’s like he can’t stop touching me. And I don’t want him to. In this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever been as comfortable with another person as I am right now. The burnout I’d been experiencing the last few weeks, the anxiety and the nerves and the sleepless nights wondering what I should be doing with my life, it’s all ebbed away, giving me a kind of clarity I haven’t had before.
“Remember when I said I wanted to tell you everything?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the plane.
His fingers pause in their movements and I smile at whatever dramatic direction his mind just went. “Yeah,” he says slowly.
“I don’t have a secret lovechild somewhere.”
“I was thinking CIA agent.”
“I’m flattered.” I place the snow globe carefully on the coffee table and sit up as best I can, twisting to face him. “I lied to you before. When I said I didn’t know what I would do if I wasn’t practicing law.”
“I knew you were lying,” he reminds me. “I said you were.”
“Okay, well… I’m unlying to you now.”
He just waits.
“I like food,” I say, stating the obvious. I’ve always liked food. My greatest pleasure in life is eating and eating well. Finding new restaurants, trying new flavors. I introduced my friends to some of my favorite dishes the way a lot of people share their favorite movies, intently watching their faces to ensure they’re reacting in all the appropriate ways. “I’m not good enough to cook professionally,” I continue. “I know I’m not and I don’t think I want to do that either. But…” I trail off as Andrew gently pulls my hand free from my hair. I hadn’t even realized I’d been playing with it. “I did have one idea,” I admit.
He smiles when I don’t continue. “I’m dying of suspense here, Moll.”
And it all suddenly seems so stupid. I don’t know why I’m bigging it up so much or why I’m so scared to tell him. Maybe it’s because I’ve never told anyone before. It’s just one of those little dreams inside your head, like marrying a member of a boyband or winning the lottery. Only, as Andrew is about to find out, nowhere near as glamorous. “Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be a tour guide when I was little?”
He watches me for a beat, as though trying to weigh up if I’m joking or not. “No,” he says eventually.
“Well, I did. I wanted to be one of those people who stands on top of the tour bus and leads a group of people down the street wearing a bright rain jacket and waving a matching umbrella over their head. My dad loves tours like that. He would take me and Zoe on them all the time. I always thought they were fun.”
“And you want to be one now?” he asks curiously. “In Chicago?”
“Not exactly. I want to be a food guide. I want to take people around the city and show off all the restaurants and food stalls, not just the ones in the tour guides or the ones designed to be posted on Instagram. I want to show off therealplaces. Off the beaten track.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t live in a movie. Because I’ve got another eight months on the lease of an expensive apartment and student loans that I’m already spending a lifetime paying back. Because I live in America, which means I need health insurance. Because I spend several hundred dollars every year dyeing my hair.”
“You dye your hair?”
“Of course I dye my hair. You think these highlights are natural?”
He looks very confused. “What, like the lighter bits? That’s not your hair?”
“I dye my hair,” I say. “I dye my hair and I pay a monthly subscription for my hot yoga classes, and I like getting massages when I want them. Which means I need enough money to pay for them.”
“Or marry rich.”
“Or steal.”
“Or that,” he agrees.
“It was just an idea. I don’t know the first thing about how to get started. It would probably take years and might not even make me any money and…” I trail off, repeating the same things I’ve said to myself for weeks. In those moments in the dead of night when I can’t sleep and I wake up so anxious and worried that sometimes it’s like I can’t breathe. I started a little bit of research, but never let myself think too much about it. The cons always outweighed the pros. The price of failure always much too high.
“Sounds like you’re thinking a lot about what could go wrong and not about what could go right,” Andrew says gently.
