“Yes. I’m terrified of burglars.”
“I’ve always wanted a dog. But my apartment’s too tiny and I’m gone for so many hours it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Yeah. I’d take my dog to work with me.”
“You can take a dog to a pub?”
“Of course. A resident hound is an enticement to stay and have another pint.”
“I suppose I’ll add a loyal hound to my English country dream.”
Her English country dream.MyEnglish country dream. The one I was fantasizing about the morning I found the Instagram posts.
How far gone I was in that moment still scares me. But I can’t stop myself from asking: “Would you actually move to the UK?”
Her eyes dart to mine, tentative. Like talking about this with me makes her nervous.
“I would,” she says slowly. “If I had a reason to. Unfortunately they aren’t just handing out visas to random American publicists.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I briefly imagine a different life. One where I could be her reason.
Which is why it is imperative that I change the subject.
Hope
Something has shifted between me and Felix. Sitting here on this beach with him, discussing my dreams for the future, I feel that flicker he’s so good at eliciting. A flare of connection so bright it’s impossible to pretend it’s not there.
It beckons me as much as it frightens me.
I’m not sure if I should cling to my resolve from last night with my fingernails, or to simply enjoy him.
I want to do the latter.
We’re leaving in the morning. Would it be so bad to lean into our chemistry for a few hours?
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.
I realize he’s not when he says: “You never sound terribly enthusiastic about your job.”
There is no greater buzzkill than my professional ennui.
“I’m not enthusiastic about it,” I say.
“Why is that?”
“It’s stressful, and constantly being under pressure to write press releases is depressing. And begging journalists to cover those press releases is even more depressing.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be. I’m sure I’m fired anyway.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I think mostly I’m disappointed with myself that this is what I’ve ended up doing with my life. Like I haven’t met my potential.”
He nods. “You want to write books.”
“Very badly,” I admit. “But the older I get the more it feels like that dream is delusional. I came on this vacation in part because I’ve been so dispirited about the whole thing. Like, if it were going to happen for me, wouldn’t I have gotten it together by now? At least have something I’m proud of, even if it’s not published?”
