Chapter Fourteen Asher #3
‘I mean, I love a bougie hotel as much as anyone, but the best part of travelling is when you step outside the predetermined path. I wanted to start an agency that works with the locals – people who actually live there and know the land, you know? I want the experiences to be curated by them, not some random person sitting in an office a thousand miles away, who gets to pocket most of the fee while the person doing the hard work gets next to nothing.’ She glances at me, almost like she’s bracing for a reaction, and then looks away just as quickly.
‘I know it sounds idealistic. Probably na?ve. My father certainly thinks so. He keeps telling me it’s not scalable enough and there’s no real profit in it unless I compromise with the margins.
’ Her shoulders lift in a small helpless shrug.
‘But I don’t want to compromise. What’s the point of travelling if you’re leaving the place in a worse state than you found it? ’
I think about the woodworker in Bali she’s been commissioning pieces from for years. I think about the tapestries, the ceramics, the hand-embroidered crafts, and the map on her wall. This isn’t just a sudden whim for her – this is a dream she’s been nurturing for a long time.
‘That’s why I was going to head back to the Seychelles,’ she says softly.
‘I’ve been in touch with a woman there who runs a small eco-lodge.
She employs women from nearby villages, sources everything locally, and reinvests as much as she can into marine conservation.
I was supposed to meet with her to discuss designing a travel package that would bring in more visitors without destroying the reefs or pricing locals out of their own home.
’ Her voice drops slightly. ‘I was going to use it as a case study for my father. Prove that this kind of model does work and see if he’d be open to letting me advertise on some of our flights. ’
I push myself off the counter without really thinking and take a step closer towards her. ‘Imani,’ I say. ‘That sounds amazing. Incredible, really.’
She looks up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. ‘You think so?’
I nod. ‘You’d be making a difference.’
The light in her eyes dims slightly. ‘I’m not doing it though.
Even this one thing I wanted to do, to prove that I could do something and have something for myself, I can’t do without my father bankrolling it.
’ She says the last few words with uncharacteristic bitterness, then seems to catch herself.
She shakes her head and forces a smile. ‘Anyway. First-world problems, right?’
‘Don’t do that,’ I say.
‘Don’t do what?’ she asks. She’s turned and started rifling through a cupboard and pulls out two ceramic mugs from a high shelf. I wonder which country she got them from.
‘Don’t dismiss how you feel,’ I say. ‘Don’t call it a “first world problem” like you’re not allowed to feel the way you do.’
Imani freezes, her fingers curling around the handle of one of the mugs like it’s the only thing anchoring her in the moment.
I step closer. ‘You don’t have to pretend you’re fine just because you’ve got things most people would kill for. You’re still allowed to be upset when your dream, the thing that brings you joy, gets taken away. Especially like this.’
‘No, I know how it sounds,’ she says with a wry smile.
‘It sounds spoiled. Bratty. I’m here complaining about not being able to take off whenever I want when my life is pretty much perfect here, when there are people out there just trying to make it through the day.
’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Tell me honestly that’s not the very definition of spoiled. ’
‘Imani.’ Another step and I’m close enough to see the faint shimmer of the glossy lipstick on her lips.
Her breath hitches but she doesn’t move to put any more distance between us.
‘You don’t have to measure your pain or struggle against anyone else’s.
It doesn’t work like that. What matters to you matters.
And it’s not just about you wanting to take off whenever you’d like.
It’s your dream. It’s part of who you are.
Having that taken away would mess with anyone. ’
Her lips part like she wants to argue but I keep going.
‘It’s not spoiled, or bratty, or na?ve, or any other word you want to use to dismiss how you feel. It’s human.’
Her gaze locks onto mine and the world tilts for a second. I think I could stand here, looking into those eyes for an eternity, and I’d still want more time.
‘You miss the thing that makes you feel alive,’ I add. ‘That gives you purpose. That’s not you being selfish by any definition of the word. That’s you being honest.’
She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘You think very highly of me.’
‘I do,’ I say with a shrug. ‘And you should too.’
She tilts her head slightly, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. I wish she would. But instead, she shakes her head and presses the mug in her hands into mine. Our fingers brush as she hands it over and the contact zings all the way up my arm.
I don’t hate it.
I don’t think she does either, because she still hasn’t made any effort to move away.
‘Do you like travelling?’ she asks suddenly.
‘Not like you,’ I admit. ‘I mostly just travel for work. Vouvalis Resort hotel rooms and back again. It’s nice but it’s nothing really meaningful. Nothing like this.’
‘Do you want meaningful?’
I think I must stare at her for a solid three seconds before I remember to answer. ‘Yeah, I think I do.’
I finally get the smile I’ve been waiting for. It’s soft, almost conspiratorial.
‘Alright. One day I’ll show you how to travel Imani-style.’
I shouldn’t be imagining it, but I do. I can see her laughing in the middle of some crowded marketplace halfway across the world, tugging me through narrow streets.
I see her barefoot on some nameless beach at sunset, throwing her head back with laughter as she pulls me into the ocean after her.
I see us huddled under a tree in a rainforest, waiting out a sudden thunderstorm.
It’s terrifyingly easy to picture myself travelling the world beside her, and from the way she’s looking at me, I wonder if she’s picturing it too.
‘Imani-style sounds good,’ I say.