Chapter 46
Will
“So you’re quitting,” Paul repeats.
“Yeah, sorry. I should have given you more notice.”
“No problem.” He finishes wiping the bar down with a rag, then throws it in a bin. “When did you say you’re going?”
“In a few weeks.”
“You said it’s for a month or two months? Because I could bring someone on just for the season and hold on to your spot.”
I line up the glasses carefully on the shelf. “I don’t know when I’ll come back.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
I shrug. “It depends on Greta.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
I look down at the last glass in my hand.
I haven’t thought about it, if I’m being honest. I don’t want to think about it, if I’m being even more honest. Everything’s fine this way.
It’s the first time I’ve been with a person I admire, trust, and like.
Greta is a refuge for me. A light amid my shadows.
“It’s okay. I like to travel. And Greta needs it, and she needs for me to just be there. It’s her first time away from home.”
We finish picking up. I grab the broom and sweep between the tables and chairs while Paul counts the drawer. He makes a few notes, closes it, and sighs. “What will you do when it’s over?”
“I’m still not sure,” I tell him.
“Do you have options?”
“Uh…” I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but I know Paul, we’ve been working together awhile, and he won’t let me off the hook, so I spit it out: “Maybe I’ll go with Greta to San Francisco next year for school.”
Sarcastically, Paul replies, “So your new job is going to be following around your girlfriend. Isn’t there anything you’d like to do that doesn’t depend on her?”
I don’t think about the answer. Don’t meditate. Don’t analyze. Don’t want to.
“No,” I reply, putting on my jacket.
The moon’s shining up high as I head to the RV park and walk through my front door.
I never thought I’d end up liking this place, but it’s so simple, it fits me somehow.
I can’t accumulate a bunch of junk, I have to buy my groceries every day, and I spend hours reading at the laundromat.
It has everything I really need: a roof, walls, water, electricity.
I take off my clothes and put on something more comfortable.
I fall back in bed. It smells like her. Greta’s scent is unmistakable, her perfume smells sweet, like forest fruits.
I saw the bottle on her nightstand in her room.
I turn around and light a candle and sigh before peeking under the bed.
Most of my stuff is there, and so is the Map of Longing, the birthday gift I never got around to giving Greta, and the book I was looking for and that I immediately forget when my finger touches the ribbon on her present.
I slide it across the floor and pick it up.
I should have given it to her then, but I couldn’t.
And I’ve never found the time since. I don’t know if I will. There aren’t many opportunities left.
I leave it on the bench next to the piles of novels, grab my book, lean back. I read for half an hour. Then someone knocks on the door.