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I closed my eyes. “I’m mortified,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I think in that moment you may have single-handedly brought me back to health.”
“That’s not nice,” I said, blushing. But I relaxed into him anyway. For the first time, since we’d been so far away from each other, I felt myself truly relaxing.
“But Griffin? ” I said, softer now, closer now. “I’ve been thinking about something else,” I said.
“One more thing?” he said.
I nodded. “One more thing.”
He looked right at me, pulling the hair off of my face. “Hit me,” he said.
I leaned into his hand, which was still holding my hair. “I know it’s silly, but I want a wedding. I want to buy a big, poufy white dress that costs too much, and to wear my tango shoes, and have a first dance in the backyard. I want to take a really awkward photograph with our mothers, and to get a really bad hangover the next day,” I said. “I want to say this counts.”
He got quiet for a minute, looking at me. Then he nodded. “I’m up for that.”
“Good,” I said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. But just, one day.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’d say tomorrow is probably out.”
I laughed, Griffin leaning into me, his mouth right by my ear.
“But so you know,” he said, “if you say it softly right now, it will.”
It took me a minute. It took me a minute to understand what he was saying. And it took me one last minute before I did it. “It counts,” I said.
Then, as if on cue, the nurse came in, and told us we could go home.
39
Maybe the most important thing I learned from writing “Checking Out” was that there was no such thing as the perfect destination. To a certain degree, I understood that going in, but it became more clear to me every time that a reader asked the magic question: If you could only take one more trip, where would you go?
On any given day, I could choose Sicily, just to revisit the loveliest waterfall I’d ever seen; or Caracas, Venezuela, for the tiny staircase leading down to the greatest tango room I’ll probably ever have the privilege of dancing in; or Brattleboro, Vermont, and that tiny bar that I’d happily spend half my life in, and not only because it has the best macaroni and cheese I ever tasted. Or that foresty inn in Big Sur, California, where my soul feels a little bit like it can take a breath without asking anyone’s permission.
In the end—even if no one wants it be so complex (or so simple)—every place offers its own special treasures. But no place offers all of them. Which no one wants to hear. Because it puts it ultimately in our hands, doesn’t it? What we choose to live with, and what we choose to live without.
Twenty-four hours before my thirty-third birthday—a few weeks after I was back in Williamsburg for good—I was sitting on the living room couch, trying to get some work done.
I was trying to get some work done as opposed to what I was actually doing, which was watching the Tee Ball game that wasn’t exactly happening right outside of the bay window. The twins were in the backyard, running around the tee, playing some sort of impromptu game of tag, while a very excited Mila jumped up and down with the ball in her mouth.
I laughed, making myself look back at my computer screen. That was the deal, after all. I couldn’t go outside until I was finished working on the introduction to my book. My book. It made me feel good to say it. (Good and a little bit terrified, though I was trying not to focus on that part.) It was a book of photography. It was centered around the photographs I’d taken of the beautiful homes. And centered around how one travel writer’s journey ended when she found hers. Or, maybe, how it began again. However you wanted to look at it.
“Knock . .
. knock.”
I turned to find Griffin standing in the living room doorway, a ridiculously big bowl of buttered popcorn in his hands.
“Just wanted to see how it’s going?” he asked.
“Well, if I can get you to bring that popcorn over here, I’m far more likely to tell you,” I said.
He handed over the popcorn, taking a perch on the side of the couch. “So?” he said.
“Well, so far . . .” I looked down at my computer screen, then back up at him. “I’ve written fifteen of the introduction.”
His eyes got wide. “Pages?”
