“You can say anything you want about me Travis, but the next time you insult Amanda, I’m taking you out,” I yell. The hate pouring from my eyes must be making me blind because I don’t see Coach until he starts yelling.
“That’s enough,” Coach barks at us. “When the hell did my team turn into a bunch of middle school girls? Gray, go home. Travis, I want you in my office. Now.”
Bubba lets me go and Miles shoves me out of the locker room. He tells me to get in the car like he’s my dad and I’m grounded. I slam the door shut and slump down into the backseat, wiping the blood off my mouth with my T-shirt. I wonder if my life can get any worse.
DYLAN
Can my night get any worse? A half hour ago, my luggage was stolen at the train station. I’m soaking wet and freezing cold after running three blocks in rain and sleet. Now, I’m stranded in the middle of Switzerland, and it’s past midnight.
“Look, I have a reservation,” I insist and smack my receipt on the counter for proof. “There is no way you can be full.”
The manager of the Alpine Hostel in Interlaken stands across the bar from me. He looks younger than I am and his long, curly blond hair bounces like springs when he shakes his head. He says something in a British accent.
“What?” I yell over the shouts and music inside the bar, which doubles as a check in lobby for the hostel.
“You’re supposed to call to confirm the room, love,” he says. “It’s our policy, since you didn’t put down a deposit.” He informs me that I was supposed to call twenty-four hours in advance to confirm the reservation. He points out the fine print on my receipt. I follow his finger along the words. Fine print, I decide, is bullshit.
“What are you saying, Mr. Alpine? You’re going to throw me out on the street?” He ignores my question to fill a pitcher of beer for a customer, because that’s more important than my current state of homelessness.
I breathe out a heavy sigh and sit down on a bar stool. Normally I love a challenge, but I’m really not in the mood to be stranded on a rainy night in a foreign country. I’m surrounded by a mob of partiers and smoke so thick I could be sitting inside a burning building. All I want is a warm, quiet bed. I wipe wet strands of hair off my face and stick out my bottom lip, forcing it to tremble for a dramatic effect. The manager isn’t fooled.
“We’re booked up,” he says and then he grins. “But you’re a cute girl. I’m sure you can finagle your way into some bloke’s room.” He winks at me and I frown. Does he think I’m going to put out, just for a place to crash? I know I’m an American, but despite the rumors, we’re not all easy.
I wrap my stone-washed jean jacket tighter around my chest and my teeth chatter. I inherited this jacket at a flea market in London. It loudly displays the British flag on both the front and back and it’s so ugly the person working the booth gave it to me for free. I feel a special bond with the coat, like we’re both underdogs, just looking for people to love us for who we are. I know it’s strange to feel an emotional connection to a garment, but strange seems to summarize my thinking process in general. The inside of the coat is even lined with red, white and blue stripped flannel. Bonus.
I drum my fingers on top of the bar and mentally sort through my cash. I have barely enough money to pay for food and lodging for the next two weeks, let alone budget for a new wardrobe. Almost everything I own in my life was in that stupid luggage. All my clothes. An old T-shirt I stole from Gray that I sleep with every night and still smells like him. Souvenirs I bought for all my family and friends. Three journals I filled during the trip. A painting I bargained for from an artist in Prague. A poster of the England Cricket team I bought for Gray. Clean, dry underwear.
I’m comforted to know I still have my camera, money and ID’s in my backpack. I try to count my blessings. I have my health, minus all this second hand smoke. I’m alive. I’m not in a gang. But for the first time since I’ve been traveling, I want to go home. I want to see the calm eyes of someone I trust. Gray’s eyes. I want to lie on his warm chest in the dark and turn the music up and my thoughts down.
My thoughts are interrupted when a guy wearing a shiny soccer jersey falls against me, blowing a mouthful of beer breath in my face. He apologizes to my boobs. Nice. I shove him off me and he teeters on his feet until he catches the bar ledge.
“Do you know where else I can stay?” I ask the manager. He tells me the whole city’s full-up for an air show in town. My head sinks down to my arms and I rest my forehead on the bar. When I let out an exhausted groan, he sets a beer down in front of me.
“This one’s on me, love,” he says. “Looks like you can use a pint.”
“Thanks,” I say and slam half the beer. I look around the smoky space and see a blue couch in the corner of the room. Half the upholstery is ripped off and there could be a rat infestation going on, but I have a feeling that it’s going to be my bed tonight. Just as I reach this conclusion, a young girl and guy crash down on the couch, their hands pawing at each other’s faces and lips pressed together. He climbs on top of her and she pulls his shirt halfway up his back.
I guess I won’t be using that couch after all. A deep yawn escapes my throat and my eyelids feel like weights are pulling them closed. Despite the music and the noise, I start to nod off at the bar.
A girl suddenly slams an empty pint down next to me and I jump in my stool, almost falling over. She looks about my age, with an army cap pulled low over short brown hair. She has a round face and full red lips and she’s nudging away the same drunk guy that fell on me. I notice she’s talking in an American accent. She glances at me and her huge, brown eyes meet mine. She takes in my drooping eyelids and the fact that it’s taking considerable effort for me to hold my head up.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I consider this word. “Okay’s a vague descriptor,” I say. “If you consider okay as in all my limbs are currently attached to my body and I’m not suffering from a terminal illness, than yes, I’m okay. If, however, you take into account that I’m homeless, soaking wet, all my luggage was stolen, I’m wearing the only pair of underwear I own, and I’m in a foreign land where I know no one, then no, I guess I’m not okay.”
I slam the rest of my pint and she’s still standing there, studying me. “Enough about me,” I say. “What’s your story?” I stare back at her and grin because it’s just nice to have company. She smiles and tells me she’s out here visiting her grandmother, but she’s from the States.
I picture her grandmother’s quaint, quiet cottage, probably nestled between pine trees. I imagine it’s clean and quiet, with a little stone fireplace that’s lit right now, crackling and filling the room with a toasty warm glow. I try not to let my jealousy show. Why can’t I have relatives that live in Europe? All my family lives in Wisconsin, Iowa and North Dakota. Probably the three most unexciting places on Earth.
“You look exhausted,” she says.
I glance over at the blue couch. It’s empty again and looking more abused than ever. I wonder out loud if the cushions will give me head lice. I wonder if head lice burns or itches or both. I wonder if it looks like dandruff.
“Come on,” she says and grabs the damp sleeve of my jacket.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re staying with me. I’m not going to leave you in a bar all alone. Girls have to watch out for each other.”
I stand up and grab my backpack. I don’t know who this girl is or if she’s psychotic or a serial killer or trying to rob me of my last remaining possessions, but at this point I’m too tired to care.
***
The next morning, I’m treated to tea and homemade cinnamon bread. Catherine’s grandmother is seventy-five years old, but has the energy of a teenager. Her curly hair is dyed bright red and she wears a loose, black dress that sways in the air with her movements. She runs a B&B out of her house and goes by Madame Kuntz to her customers. There’s an older, quiet Japanese couple dining with us in the parlor and both of their fa
ces are glued to travel books and brochures.
Catherine’s grandmother made it her mission this morning to piece together a make-shift wardrobe for me. She gave me an old, giant duffel bag out of her hall closet and let me choose from a crate full of clothes left by other travelers. I inherit a blue hooded sweatshirt with HAWAII spelled on the front in white letters, socks, a few V-neck T-shirts, and a couple pairs of jeans. I also acquire a pair of silver flip flops that fit my absurdly long feet, and a pair of brown corduroy pants that are too short and rise just above my ankles.
I take a sip of black tea and look out the picture window in front of the table. The Alps stretch out in the distance, white and brilliant and shining like glittering diamonds against a clear blue sky. The snowy peak of Jungfrau stands out against the others and its giant presence makes all my problems dissolve. How can I dwell on what I lack when, looking out at this skyline, I have everything? I’m reminded that possessions are meant to be temporary. Material things are easily replaced. The important things people can never steal—love, hope, trust, faith—these things are sewn inside of us, tattooed like ink inside our hearts.
I look around the room and think it’s strange that sometimes you have to lose what you have in order to gain what you need. Sometimes you need to be desperate to be reminded angels exist. And there’s nothing more rejuvenating to the spirit than to fall asleep to the pattering of rain at night and wake up to a clear, blue sky. It’s the greatest omen in the world.
I help myself to another thick, warm piece of buttery cinnamon toast. Catherine tells me she’s heading back to the States tomorrow, but her grandmother has an open room if I need a place to stay.
“Where’s home?” I ask her.
“Albuquerque,” she says. I almost choke on a mouthful of bread and take a huge gulp of tea to flush it down.
“New Mexico?” I ask, when I get my breath back. She grins and says she’s pretty sure there’s only one Albuquerque.
“Do you go to school there?” I ask. She shakes her head and tells me she dropped out last year. She teaches guitar lessons and is the lead singer in her band, Chuck’s Angel. They’re waiting for their drummer to graduate so they can set up a road trip tour.
“I live close to campus,” she says. “My roommates all go to UNM.”
I smooth out the napkin on my lap. “I hear it’s a good school,” I say. She nods and says its okay, if you like the whole college thing.
“Have you ever been to a baseball game?” I blurt out before I can hold it back. “I mean, my cousin’s thinking about playing there, so I was wondering if the team’s any good.” I sip my tea as if this is a typical conversation to have in Switzerland over breakfast.
I expect Catherine to roll her eyes. She looks about as knowledgeable of college baseball as Madame Kuntz, but she surprises me and tells me they have a great team.
“I’ve been to a few games,” she says. “One of my friends is a jersey chaser, so she’s dragged me to more than one sporting event.”
“Do you know any of the players?” I ask and try to keep my tone casual. She shakes her head and tells me she isn’t into athletes. Too cocky.
“I know one of their girlfriends, Liz. She works at my favorite boutique downtown. She’s dating Todd Richards and he lives with some other players, Miles somebody, and Gray.” I wonder if she notices me flinch when she says Gray’s name. I stare across the table at Catherine. Out of all the people to run into last night, this musician from Albuquerque has heard of the love of my life?
She looks at my dazed expression and asks me if I’m alright.
I nod, slowly, and decide it’s time to confess. “Okay, the truth is, one of the players on the team just happens to be my soulmate and future husband.”
She sets her cup down and grins at me. “Which one?”
“Gray,” I say. “Gray Thomas. He’s the love of my life and we’re going to get married someday. When the timing’s right,” I inform her. I pour more hot water into my teacup.
Her eyebrows arch with surprise. “So you like the bad boys?”
“What?” I ask. Gray’s sarcastic and cynical and a little brooding but—
“You didn’t know he’s on probation?”
I shake my head and ask her what she’s talking about.
“Before I left the States, I heard he had some drug issues. A few weeks ago he threw an entire game high. He almost got kicked off the team.” She smiles like she’s impressed.
I frown as this news sets in. My perfect, sexy Gray is on probation for a being a stoner?
“You didn’t know any of that was happening?” she asks, “and he’s ‘the love of your life?’”
“We haven’t spoken in a few months,” I admit. For the first time, I feel a pang of regret in my chest. It sinks in how much of Gray’s life I’m missing out on. It’s easy to be far away from the people you love when you think everyone’s happy. But when you find out someone needs you and you can’t be there, it makes the distance grow claws and teeth and start to gnaw at your heart.
Cat looks intrigued. “What I want to know is, if he’s your soulmate, what are you doing backpacking alone in Switzerland?”
I rip off a corner of the toast and chew on it. “What do you mean?”
“Why aren’t you together?” she presses. “Call me a hopeless romantic, but I think love’s everything. It’s up there with food and water and shelter and oxygen. I think you need it in order to survive. So if you’re lucky enough to find love, why are you passing it up?”
I stare back at her as she talks about love like it’s a buried treasure, like it’s something you need to go on an archeological dig to uncover. I believe it’s in endless supply. It’s everywhere if you tap into it.
“I’m not passing it up. I just don’t want to settle down right now. I’m only eighteen years old. Besides, I think you can bring love with you wherever you go,” I say. “Love can wait for you.”
She thinks about this for a few seconds. I watch her piecing my words together, like my refreshing wisdom is all starting to make sense.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” she says. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”
My forehead creases.
“If you’re in love with someone, you should be with him,” Cat presses. “Or give him up. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Gray’s okay with this,” I argue. “He gets me. He knows I want to travel. We agreed to see each other when it works out, but we promised never to hold each other back.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure about that? It’s one thing to go to Europe for a few weeks, but you can’t just leave for six months whenever you feel like it, and have him be okay with it. It’s not fair to him.” She registers the surprise on my face and raises her hands. “Sorry. I know it’s none of my business. I can be a little opinionated.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay.” Then an idea occurs to me. “Maybe my future self entered your body to give me crucial advice I need to hear in order to lead me down the right path.”
Cat ignores me. “Listen, Dylan, you’re awesome. I figured that out in about two seconds. But I’ve tried dating people like you, musicians that breeze through town. They’re so easy to fall for because they’re unique and inspiring, but it gets old really fast because you can never depend on those people.”
I set my hands down on the table and look at her like she’s giving me an ultimatum. “So, you’re saying I should break up with him?”
She laughs at my question. “What do you mean, break up? What’s there to break up? You’re not even in a relationship. You haven’t spoken to each other in months. You call that a relationship?”
I look down at my plate as her words sink in.
“I think you need to figure out what’s more important to you, freedom, or Gray,” she says.
***
Later that afternoon, I head downtown with my camera. My head and heart are sore from the honesty beating I took from Catherine and
I need some air. I love the escape of getting outside and taking pictures. It helps me get out of my head and focus on things outside of me. One side of the street is crammed with hotels and people eating at outdoor restaurants. On the other side is a small city park that dissolves into an open green field with the view of the Alps towering in the distance.
I try to take a few pictures, but every time I lift the lens to my face, Cat’s word echo through my head and I can barely see straight. I sit down on the curb, a few feet away from an outdoor café, and stare across the street at the grassy field next to the park.
My mom always tells me that you can’t become who you’re meant to be without planting roots. But maybe that’s not me. Maybe I’ll always be a girl that’s flying. Except, I’m learning that eventually your feet need to touch the ground. You need to land and refuel.
Maybe Cat’s right. Maybe it’s time to settle down. My only questions are: Where, When, Why, and For How Long? Why are some of the tiniest questions in life the hardest to answer?
I study two women sitting at a café table a few feet away from me. They’re meeting for a business lunch, immersed in conversation and pouring over notes and laptops between them. They’re both wearing black heeled shoes with stylish black skirts and blouses with frilly collars that flip over their camisole sweaters. They look so content, so organized, so focused. I want to ask them: What is your secret? How do you know what you want to do with your lives?
I’m so amazed by people who know what they’re passionate about, who have it all figured out in high school. They know they want to be doctors or teachers or artists. They remind me of trees—strong and tall and confident as they climb up to the sun. I never knew what I was good at in high school. I never had a teacher pull me aside and tell me I was talented, probably because teachers don’t typically commend students for having a two-second attention span, daydreaming through class, or for talking more than they listen. And there aren’t a whole lot of job listings for wandering travelers (I’ve looked).