“And I’ll be back in time for work on Tuesday,” she says, taking her time to work out the details.
“So it’s a plan.”
“Yes, I could do that”—she drops her keys on the kitchen counter, biting her thumbnail briefly. “But I have a job in London. And you are in London.”
“Jo, this sounds like working at The Met has been your dream.”
She gives an apologetic smile. A tiny one. “I admit it has been.”
“And you want to go to the interview. We just worked through the logistics.”
“Yes, I know.” A deep breath, then a grimace. “I should be jumping at an opportunity like this.” She steps forward, grips the collar of my shirt harder. “But everything is happening so quickly.”
Everything with work? Everything with us?
But the answer doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that she gets on that plane with all the confidence she possesses.
“Yes, some jobs are like that.”
“Would you…” She stops, swallows, then speaks again. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d go to the interview.”
I leave it at that. There is a time and place for relationship talks and it’s not now.
Do I want her here in London with me? Of course I do. My family is here. But I don’t want her to ditch the interview and regret it. And if The Met is too wonderful to turn down, then we’ll figure out what that means.
For now, she needs to get ready for a flight. “Anything could happen, you don’t know the future, so don’t shut the door on opportunity until you’ve seen what it’s offering,” I add.
“But you live here and you’re giving up your job. And that’s huge. I can’t just jet off,” she says, but there’s a tiny note in her voice that says . . . or can I?
That means I need to get out of her way so she can choose her own adventure. She’s thirty-two, vibrant and bursting with energy. She has a bright future in front of her.
“You can, though. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t try,” I say, even though the prospect of her saying yes to the job is a new fork in our road.
I’m not sure of the path we should take then.
But I don’t want to plant new worries in her head. She needs to give the interview and the job her full consideration.
“Heath,” she says, and my name sounds a bit like a plea, and a little too like she’s asking for permission.
To pursue this, perhaps.
“Jo, you’re in love with art and curation. This possibility is too good.”
“But what about us?” she asks, all sadness and worry. But then, her eyes spark. Possibilities flicker in them. “Come with me.”
A shocked laugh escapes me. “What?”
“We can get away to New York for the weekend. Or a night, rather, but so what if it’s only one? We can make the best of it. Please say you’ll come with me.”
“Oh, sweet, brilliant Jo. You know I love you madly . . .”
Her shoulders sag more. “But . . .?”
“Why is there a but?”
“I hear one,” she says, her voice thin with worry.
I take a steadying breath. “There’s no but. I promise. You should go do the interview. You want to and I want you to. Then we’ll talk about us and long distance and what it means.”
Her lips quiver as she shakes her head. “This is silly. I love my job here. I love you . . .”
“But you don’t love London. And New York is your home,” I say gently. “You have to try for this.” My voice cracks. “We’ll figure out the rest.”
She tilts her head to the side. “We will?”
“Of course,” I say, and I mean it, though I know it won’t be easy.
But she needs to make this decision without my influence. And I need to let her.
“We will find a way,” I promise. I’m not sure how to keep that promise, but I know I want to.
She ropes her arms around me tighter, pulls me closer, then murmurs, “I want to find a way.”
When she kisses me, though, I can taste the salt of her tears.
Early the next morning, I open the door to a black cab, set her overnight bag in the backseat, and kiss her hard.
“Break a leg,” I tell her with a smile that I’m trying to mean.
“Thank you,” she says, then she gets in the car and leaves.
I walk away through the neighborhoods I know well, a little aimless, a lot lost. I don’t go home.
I just wander along side streets, down alleys, looking for something to photograph. Something that sparks an idea. A story I can tell with my camera.
I find nothing.
25
JO
“Good morning! Welcome to your British Airways flight from London to New York. Our flying time is seven hours and thirty-five minutes, and we’ve got clear skies across the Atlantic. We should have you to the Big Apple at ten-thirty. Be sure to fasten your seatbelts, lock your tray table in the upright position, and settle in.”