Chapter One
Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. I don’t do romance stories.
I’ll never turn into mush. No butterflies in my stomach. Ixnay on any flirting. And batting eyelashes? Forget it. So when the editor at Travel Beyond magazine sets my article on his cluttered desk, leans close until his face fills my video conference screen, and says, “You need passion,” I stiffen.
“Excuse me?”
“Your subject hits that sweet spot between accessible and exotic, but it’s missing the . . .” He rubs his fingers against his thumb, searching for the magic word to express exactly why he doesn’t want the article I nearly died writing. “The je ne sais quoi.”
Great. He can’t even pinpoint the reason he’s not going to pay me for my freelance article.
I need to talk him into this. Convince him he wants what I’m offering.
“This kind of adventure is exactly what Travel Beyond is all about. Your tagline—‘Exploring to the very edge’? I literally went over the edge. I’ve done similar articles for the magazine many times, and your readers always eat it up. ”
He can’t see them through the screen, but I still give a pointed look at the awards lining my spare-bedroom-office bookshelf.
Freshest Voice in Travel Journalism
Best Travel Article of the Year
Most Unique Adventure Article
“This isn’t about you as a writer. You’re one of the best. Whatever you’re missing now, it used to be there, years ago.
I don’t even think a rewrite will help—it’s not the content that’s the problem.
” He pauses, looking down at the pages on his desk, and narrows his gaze to take in my cream silk blouse and dark brown, side-bun hair.
“You really hung off a cliffside in a hammock above the ocean like that?”
He knows I’m up for anything, despite my professional pitch outfit, so I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Obviously I wore sports clothes for my night in the porta-ledge.”
“I know, but I mean why alone? Why do you make the choices you make? What’s making you tick?” He leans back, a sure sign of a decision made, and I brace myself. “I’m sorry. The idea is good, but the Mia Pattison spark isn’t there. Anyone could have written this.”
The rock in my stomach has the words no sale painted on its side. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what the problem is.”
“I’ve seen this happen with seasoned journalists, where their writing suddenly goes dry. They have a personal or family crisis, or the constant jet lag starts to wear on their body. Maybe you’re working too hard. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
Take time off to navel gaze? That is definitely not going to solve the problem of bland writing.
A half-laugh forces its way out. “I travel the world reviewing adventure experiences, tours, and hotels for work. What kind of vacation would I take?”
Not to mention, with what funds? Freelance travel writing isn’t particularly lucrative.
Once I’ve turned in the copywriting for my last back-to-back assignments, I have no income on the immediate horizon, unless I happen to land a quick familiarization job for a product or tour company.
I robbed from my dwindling savings account last month.
That’s only going to work two more times.
His expression softens. “Look, I’m doing you a favor by telling it to you straight.”
Maybe that’s true. I generally have thick skin when it comes to critiques. But this is bigger than cut your adverbs. This is No paycheck until you find the lost treasure that could be anywhere in the world.
“When you can find the voice you’ve lost, then pitch me something and I’m sure we’ll be interested.”
I nod, we sign off, and I push my chair away from the desk with a long sigh. But I don’t move from my seat for a long time.
I love my work, and I’m just as passionate about it as the day I wrote my first article. Even before that, when I filled diary after diary with the tales of our family summers abroad. Travel isn’t my job; it’s my life.
It would be easy to attribute his criticism to a soggy egg roll or bad night’s sleep, except there have been similar hints of dissatisfaction from other editors, and my last blog post had half as many comments as usual. My whole readership can’t have eaten inferior egg rolls.
It’s not jet lag or a life crisis. I don’t have writer’s block or self-doubt.
Whatever it is, it better go away fast, because the last thing I want is to have to give up my dream job and sit in a cubicle all day. That’s what nightmares are made of.
I’ll deal with this later, though. Girls’ night starts in a half hour, and that means Tessa has already ordered our artisan pizza from Grimaldi’s. I change into a soft cotton shirt and well-worn jeans, slip into my flip-flops, and grab my keys.
Tessa’s house sits on the outskirts of San Antonio, a block from the school where she teaches.
Snacks are my responsibility this week. Normally I would have fiddled all afternoon with recipes for tiny Cornish pasties or savory samosas from my mom’s latest cookbook, but with the interview, all I have time for now is a quick stop at the gas station near Tessa’s neighborhood.
I pull into the tiny parking space beyond the gas pumps.
The fluorescent lights in the convenience store remind me of the bathroom stops on every family trip we took growing up.
I fly down the aisles: sweet tea and two candy bars for Tessa’s sugar-loving heart, a Coke and one bag of Poppies brand popcorn for me.
I swipe a jalapeno pepper bag, leaving the last one swinging on its hook.
Another customer grabs it right after me with a chuckle. “We got lucky. Barely avoided a brawl over the only bag left.”
I twist to see who my fellow jalapeno-er is, mainly because his voice is inappropriately loud.
It’s not worth describing his dark, groomed hair, comfortable smile, and gray T-shirt over broad shoulders because this is not a meet-cute.
Especially since we didn’t reach for the last bag at the same time.
I may not know or appreciate tropes, but that’s Rom-com Clichés 101.
“You got lucky.” I wave my popcorn bag in a threatening wax-on, wax-off style. “I know karate.”
He gives me a frozen stare, nodding slightly, then we part ways. Totally platonic interaction, especially since he doesn’t get my humor. Suave good looks and similar taste in spicy snacks aren’t everything, buddy.
I dump my items onto the front counter. The cashier looks past me and hollers, “The machine is down, sir.”
I glance behind me. Jalapeno Guy is smacking the side of the slushy machine and doesn’t respond to the cashier.
Oh. He has ear buds in. That would explain his loud voice and the blank stare. He didn’t hear me.
When he gives the machine a little shake, the cashier sighs and starts to leave the till.
I don’t have time for this. Regular pizza is great piping hot, lukewarm, or as refrigerated leftovers, but artisan types don’t hold their pizazz so long. Think cold, limp spinach and mushy feta. “I’ll go tell him while you ring these up.”
I trot over to him and tap my ear. He pulls out his left ear bud.
“The machine is out of order.”
“Aha.” He leans against the side of the counter and gives me an abashed grin that might work on females weaker than me. “Sorry. I was kind of in my own world.”
The song baby-blaring from the ear bud in his hand is “We Came Back” by Cold Burrito.
Before I can stop myself, I say, “Hey, that’s San Antonio’s theme song.”
It’s niche, and the band hasn’t made it big yet, but it’s what I always associate with my hometown.
He faces me, and I try not to react. His eyes are a smooth, rich brown, the deep color of a warm drink.
I don’t like the tugged feeling his eyes give me, like I’m craving a hug or a lazy afternoon under a cozy blanket.
I’m independent and spirited and it’s summertime, so whatever this is, it’s weird and wrong.
“San Antonio has a song?” he asks.
I gaze at the short rows of snacks and back at the cashier, who is manually inputting the popcorn’s bar code.
Anything to avoid his face. “Definitely. Every place has a noise to it. A sweet melody. A particular beat or a buzz. Whatever. At least in my experience.” And I’ve been to enough places to test my theory.
He listens to the music for a second, then nods. “I can hear that. It’s got the right energy and that undercurrent of Spanish mission influence. Plus I love this song and San Antonio.”
We stand there, staring at each other for too long. It’s not that I’m interested in him, just surprised to find—
I give myself a mental shake. Lots of people, at least two dozen, know this obscure song. And lots of people are intensely good-looking. This guy is nothing special.
He folds his arms and tilts his head like he’s genuinely curious. “Any loser cities with horrible sounds?”
A tiny niggle starts up in the back of my neck, telling me to stop engaging in this conversation, but I ignore it because I have my answer and it happens to be a favorite pet topic of mine that no one ever takes seriously. “Paris.”
He laughs, caught off-guard with the strength of my obvious loathing. “Wow, that’s a first. I have never heard anyone not like the City of Love. Do you have something against love?”
“A private beef. And as for Paris, the world is blinded to its true character.” My face scrunches up just remembering how many times I’ve had to travel to Paris, review coffee shops or hotels, and write glowing stories about its flowery, wrought-iron beauty, despite my true feelings.
“Paris is the smile you give when a photographer tells you to say cheese. It has this screechy, fake giggle sound.”
“That only you can hear.” He’s holding in a smirk.
My back straightens. “I can fight this battle against the whole world.”
His smile turns genuine, eyes sparkling. “I believe it. If you’re prepared to karate anyone standing between you and your spicy popcorn, you can handle anything.”
“Your total is $14.43, ma’am,” the cashier calls to me.
I back away, frowning. So he had heard my weird threat, and he seems amused by it now. Why the slack-jawed, blank stare earlier?
Forget it. Not a mystery I need to solve because I don’t care. Won’t care. “Hope you track down a slushy.”
“Good luck convincing the world about Paris.” He waves with his jalapeno popcorn bag and then winks at me, like we have some inside joke between us.
Nope. We’re strangers. Just how I like it. And I absolutely do not revisit that moment in my memory. Not more than a handful of times, at least.