23
Two Weeks Later
Bleary-eyed, I reach over to the nightstand to silence my phone’s alarm. It’s been fourteen days since I woke up in the guesthouse.
Now I’m back in my old childhood bedroom, where a poster of Justin Timberlake with platinum-blond highlights is still pinned
to the wall.
My world, it seems, has done a backflip. All the things I thought I wanted before this wild experience have faded into the
background, leaving space for the here and now: an orange-hued sunrise over the Puget Sound, a mug of Rosie’s chamomile tea
with honey, the crunch of pebbles under my feet on the beach at low tide. Though I’m home, I’m still reeling—still trying
to make sense of the highs and lows of all those alternate lives. And while I may always wrestle with the hows and the whys,
perhaps for the rest of my life, my time “out there” left me with a sense of clarity: what matters and what doesn’t.
Above all, however, I realize I was given an impossibly rare gift: the chance to see how life might have turned out had I chosen one path or another. That changes a person, and it certainly changed me. This experience has taught me many things, but most importantly, that our choices matter, more than we know. Life can often feel so one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, so prescriptive: Must be successful. Must find the perfect mate. Must check all the boxes. I did that, attempted to, anyway, but I lost myself along the way. I was so fixated on the finish line that I neglected to see all the beautiful moments along the way. I understand now that we’re writing our stories every minute of every day, and all of it counts: Letting a tired grandma cut in front of you in the grocery store checkout line; showing up to a friend’s birthday party, even when you’d rather stay home with takeout and Netflix; smiling at a fellow passenger on the train; finding the courage to apply for the job of your dreams, or quit the one that’s draining your soul. All these decisions, big and little, add up to become the story of your life.
As for mine, I’m still figuring it all out. For starters, I decided to take a leave of absence from work. My boss, Christina,
was more than a little miffed when I gave her the news, but I remained firm. “I haven’t taken a vacation in five years,” I
told her over the phone. What I didn’t express, however, is my growing uncertainty about spending the rest of my career “driving
value” for soulless companies and their vapid executive teams.
“You could start a cupcake company,” Frankie suggested over the phone a few days ago.
I nixed the idea immediately. “There isn’t a market for inedible cupcakes.”
“Maybe pick up writing? Try your hand at a screenplay?”
True, I do have plenty of material, and I was a bestselling novelist—in another life. Perhaps I could even look up Gina, the
woman I met in Hawaii. She wouldn’t remember me, of course, but I could pitch her my story, the one she resonated with on
the beach that night. Maybe.
“Oh, I know!” Frankie added. “You could get in touch with your artistic side—maybe finish some of your mom’s old paintings!”
When Frankie came to visit, we lugged my mother’s assortment of easels and canvases to Rosie’s living room. I even ordered
some brushes and tubes of acrylic paint on Amazon. But each time I sat down to begin, my hands felt leaden.
After another frustrating go of it, I let out a deep sigh and put down my paintbrush, just as the phone in the kitchen rings.
“Get that, dear, will you?” Rosie calls from her bedroom.
“Hello?” I say, picking up.
“Rosie?” a woman asks.
“No, this is her niece,” I say. “Can I help you with something?”
“This is Kelly from Firefly Honey in Pike Place. Your aunt ordered a case of our special-edition release, and we have it here
for her.” She pauses. “If she could swing by and grab it, that would be great—and the sooner, the better. Like today, even.
We’re running out of space.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sorry. I’ll let her know.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Who was that?” Rosie asks, walking into the kitchen.
“The honey people,” I say. “Your order is ready for pickup at the Market. They want you to swing by today.”
Her eyes light up. “The blackberry honey ?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. She didn’t specify.”
“Sweetie, can you get it for me? Jim’s coming over after lunch,” she says, her eyes bright, “and we’re practicing a new move .”
“Of course,” I say, grinning widely.
As I make my way off the ferry in Seattle, seagulls squawk and flap their wings overhead. The Market isn’t far—just a short
walk up from Alaskan Way—and fortunately, the sun’s out. I pass the infamous “gum wall” as I make my ascent up Post Alley,
smiling as I recall that night after prom when Mike and I went out for ice cream then deposited two wads of bubble gum along
the brick facade just below the Market’s entrance—a Seattle right of passage, as gross as it is.
It’s an unusually warm spring day, and Pike Street is thick with tourists, many of them stopping to take photos under the
famous public market sign. Others watch in awe as fishmongers toss an enormous salmon back and forth in theatrical fashion. I walk to the flower stand ahead, where I select a bunch of tightly packed pale pink peonies—Rosie’s favorite—before picking up the honey. I load the jars into my bag, then head for the exit, pausing momentarily at the edge of the staircase that leads to Café Vita, when my phone buzzes: Frankie.
“Hey,” I say, setting my heavy bag on the cobblestone walkway beneath my feet. “I thought you were flying to Iceland today.”
She and Christian had been planning the trip for the last year. He wanted to see a real volcano and she dreamed of soaking
in the Blue Lagoon.
“Yeah, we just landed in Reykjavik,” she begins, her tone exasperated. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”
“What?”
“The airline tagged my bag wrong at JFK, and apparently it’s on its way to Paris as we speak.” She sighs.
“Oh no!”
“Oh yes. And don’t even say it.”
“Say what?”
“That thing everyone says about how you can tell the true character of a person when their luggage is lost. I’m furious. I
could have throttled the airline employee just now. She just looked at me and shrugged, like, Too bad, lady . Anyway, Christian’s at the customer service counter trying to sort it all out, but it looks like I’ll be wearing the same
outfit for the next five days.”
I feel bad for her, but have to stifle a laugh when I imagine my jet-lagged and probably hangry best friend facing off with
the unsuspecting employee at baggage claim.
“Try to shake it off,” I suggest. “Maybe you can stop somewhere and grab some extra clothes.” I smile to myself, remembering
what Spencer said that day on Bainbridge Island. “You’re just having a Helpless Traveler moment. Christian will be the Competent
Traveler.”
“Lena, what the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a line from a book,” I say, laughing to myself. “Anyway, don’t let this ruin your vacation. It’s just a bag.”
“Yeah,” Frankie replies with a long sigh. “You’re right.”
“Okay, send photos and be nice to the airline employees. Love you!”
I tuck my phone in my bag, and with Spencer’s words echoing in my mind, I proceed down the staircase to Café Vita. My heart
beats faster as I step inside, taking a spot at the end of the line.
The café is the same, but different—in the best of ways: new marble countertops and a larger pastry case brimming with tasty-looking
selections. I think about what Spencer told me, about his vision for the café: the changes he wanted to make and the things
he vowed to keep the same. I immediately smile when I see the old wing chairs—tattered and worn, but still holding court by
the window. I can’t help but wonder if this is all his doing—his dream, actualized.
At the counter, a tattooed woman with a nose ring and blunt bangs greets me with a smile. “What’re we feelin’ like today?”
“Uh, a chai latte, please,” I say, “with almond milk.” I peer over her shoulder to the espresso machine. “Hey,” I continue,
a little tentatively. “Is Spencer here, by chance?”
She shakes her head. “The big boss flew out to New York this morning.”
“The big boss?”
“Yeah, Spencer,” she says. “You know, the owner.”
“Oh yeah... right,” I reply.
She hands me my drink. “You might have heard that we’re expanding to Brooklyn. He’ll probably be out there for a while, setting
up the new roasting plant.” She points to a rack of bagged coffee beans beside me. “Have you tried our anniversary blend?”
I shake my head.
“Get it while you can, because we’ll be sold out by the weekend, if not sooner.” She smiles. “And don’t forget that for every
bag sold, we give ten percent to farmers in South America.”
I grin, filled with pride. Spencer did it—and exactly how he planned. “I’ll take four.”
She eyes me curiously as I tuck the beans into my already heavy bag. “You a friend of Spencer’s or something?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “An old friend.”
I wander up the stairs a little aimlessly, carrying the weight of my thoughts—and Rosie’s enormous order of honey. I smile
to myself, thinking of Spencer, how he’d comforted me that day on Bainbridge Island, the way he held me so tenderly. It was
so natural, it was like we... fit, and yet, it was the first time I saw him through that lens, the first time I considered
anything out of the bounds of friendship. Maybe I’ll see him again, maybe not. But now I have a ferry to catch.
Picking up my pace, I pass a group of slow-moving tourists as I make my way to the exit, stopping suddenly when I think I hear my name in the distance.
“Lena?” a man’s voice calls again from somewhere in the crowd.
I turn around, eyes darting right and left until I spot a familiar face a few yards away. “Spencer?” I freeze in place as
annoyed strangers zigzag past me. He’s the same—that boy-next-door smile, those kind blue eyes—but changed, somehow, more
polished, more professional, as he walks toward me in a navy sports coat, leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Wow,” he says, obviously stunned. “Lena! I can’t believe this! I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure. How long as it been?
Ten years, maybe more?”
No, just a couple weeks , I want to say. Twenty-two days, to be exact . “Yeah, something like that,” I say instead.
“Did you move back to Seattle?”
I shake my head. “I live in San Francisco, but I’m in town for a little while, visiting my aunt on Bainbridge Island. It’s
nice to take a little time off work—clear my head, you know?”
“Tell me about it,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve taken a single day off since I took over the café three years ago.”
“Congratulations,” I say, a fluttery feeling rising in my chest. “I, uh, was just there... stopped by to... say hi. One of the baristas said you were in New York.” I search his face.
“My flight got canceled,” he replies with a shrug. “Apparently there’s a hurricane brewing in the Atlantic.”
I set my overloaded bag down beside me, never more grateful to hear of a hurricane than at this moment.
“Funny bumping into you after all this time,” he continues, beaming as a ray of sunlight hits his left cheek.
“Yeah,” I say a little breathlessly. “Funny.”
He scratches his head. “This is going to sound crazy, but I’m having a total déjà vu moment right now—like this has all happened
before.”
“Same,” I say, more than a little stunned.
He eyes my bag. “So you’re just doing a little shopping, then?”
“Oh, I’m here on very important business. I had to pick up my aunt’s special order of honey.”
“Honey.”
“Yeah, want some? We now have a lifetime supply.”
Spencer grins, lifting my heavy bag over his shoulder, which makes my heart contract. “When do you head back—to San Francisco?”
“I don’t know. I’m still figuring all of that out. I took a leave of absence from my job. It’s complicated. They want me back,
but I’m not sure I want to go back.”
Spencer eyes me curiously, and I can’t help but notice his gaze shift to my ring finger. “So, I take it you’re not married,
then?”
I shake my head. “I certainly hope not.”
“No significant other ?”
“Only a bunch of insignificant ones,” I reply, recalling the woman I spotted him embracing when I was last at the Market. “Listen,” I continue, squirming
a little. “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“I was at the Market with my aunt last month, and I saw you, with your girlfriend .”
He grins. “Spying on me, I see.”
“No, no,” I fire back, a little embarrassed. “I was just... passing by and happened to notice you in the window.”
“And this woman you saw me with,” he continues, “was she tall? Blond?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Any other identifying details?”
“Well, she flipped her hair like this.” I make an exaggerated gesture with my hand.
“You were so spying.”
My cheeks flush. “I was not!”
He laughs. “That was my sister , Anne. She was in town that week, visiting from Pittsburgh.”
“Oh,” I say, a little mortified, though the corners of my mouth begin creeping up into a smile—without my permission.
“Yeah, I’m a party of one.”
I look up at Spencer, inwardly debating whether or not to make my move, but then my eyes meet his. “Maybe we could be a party
of two,” I say suddenly, pulling the trigger. “Well, for dinner tonight, that is, if you’re free.”
“Yes,” he replies. “I mean, no. I mean...” He pauses. “I don’t have plans, and I’d love to have dinner with you. Have you ever been to Matt’s?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. Best oysters on the half shell in the city. Afterward, we could head down to the café, play
a little Rummikub for old times’ sake? If you can believe it, that old box is still under the counter.”
“Sounds perfect,” I reply. “I mean, if you want to get your butt kicked.”
He laughs. “Well, I think we both know who the Rummikub champ is, and her name is not Lena.”
“We’ll see about that,” I fire back.
A shiver creeps down the back of my neck as we weave through the Market, my mother’s words echoing in my mind. She was right,
so right: The most beautiful things in life are almost always right in front of our eyes. It just took me thirty-five years
and a ten-day roller-coaster ride to figure that out.
“Should we get you a refill of that chai?” Spencer asks.
“You remember ,” I say, looking up at him, happily surprised.
“How could I forget?” His eyes scour mine as if he’s peering into my soul.
I smile, my mind—and heart—reeling. It was him. In a suit or an apron, in this version of life or another, it was always him .
As we walk toward the staircase that leads to Café Vita, my heel catches on a cobblestone. When I lurch forward, Spencer swoops
in to blunt my fall, grabbing my hand, which I hold on to.
I don’t let go. In fact, this time, I don’t think I ever will.