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“You’re not the only one!” he said. “But, now, before you get all excited, you need to know ‘Checking Out’ is still over. At least in its former incarnation. Caleb Number Two wants to create a real-time travel column. More interactive in a variety of ways that are still to be determined. Though regardless of the details, you’ll like this part. They’ll be paying you more.”
“Really? ”
“Don’t even get me started on how I pulled that off. Just, if anyone ever asks you, a little magazine called National Geographic was very interested in having you head their African Bureau.”
“Okay . . .”
“My love, I can go over all the details with you later, but the main thing you need to know is that I got you a three-year contract. A thirty-three percent raise, right off the bat, full health benefits back. And they want much more involvement from you. They want you to help the paper create a travel presence. Whatever that is supposed to mean, TBD, as they say. But, of course, considering the ongoing micromanaging reign of terror, there’s the small issue that they need you to do it from London. Though they will be giving you housing while you acclimate. One of the benefits of being taken over by a massive corporate conglomerate, I suppose.”
“Wait. Slow down a sec. What do you mean, London?”
“My love, if you don’t know what I mean by London, I may have to reconsider fighting so hard for your job.”
I got quiet. I didn’t know what else to do. “I live in Massachusetts,” I said.
“I know you live in Massachusetts, but Beckett Media is very serious about their European bureau. They’re even considering sending me over for a spell,” he said. “They wanted you based out of London, or out of Berlin. Those were the choices. And, let’s be honest, I’m not sure you’re cool enough to live in Berlin.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“All I’m saying is, it’s not forever,” he said. “Can’t you commute home for the time being?”
“From London? ”
“Go back on the occasional weekend, perhaps. For the occasional silly Hallmark holiday.”
“Peter . . .”
“It’s a great opportunity,” he said. “Perhaps, one could say, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“What happened to everything has a season? ” I said. “What happened to your whole speech that my heart wasn’t in ‘Checking Out’ anymore? That it might be time to move on?”
“I would have said anything to make you feel better!” he said. “And this is London, we’re talking about. You love London. And, keep in the back of your head, you can always make a demand later about returning to America, once they know how much they need you. Six months, and you’ll be good to head back out to Farm Town, USA. Nine at the most.”
“Peter . . .”
“Farmland? ”
“I can’t, Peter. I just can’t right now. . . .”
“You can.”
I shook my head. I shook my head as though he could see me. And then I said the truth, my queasy stomach seconds away from a win.
“Right now all I can do is get off the phone.”
An hour later I was opening the door to Griffin’s restaurant. I didn’t know how to begin to process the job news, but I knew I had to see Griffin, to make last night right, or more right. I needed to explain to him what was happening with me. And maybe by doing so, I could start to understand.
But when I walked inside, I felt at a loss all over again. Because sitting at the newly completed bar—sitting on one of the beautifully brushed stools in front of it—was Gia. Gia leaning across the bar top, leaning across her tall mug of coffee, toward Griffin, who was leaning toward her too, both of them laughing. Both of them looking happy, together.
I stopped in my tracks. I stopped in my tracks, just as they simultaneously turned to look at me.
“Annie . . .” Griffin said.
And Gia waved.
Uncertain what to do, I waved too, a small hip-side one. Then I hurried—too fast for it to seem natural—right back out of the front door.
Griffin followed me outside, calling after me, and I thought seriously about not turning around. But I had to. For starters, I had walked the wrong way and had no idea where I was going.
