Page 2 of One Year Ago in Spain
For the second time in just minutes, Claire found herself blinking at him. If Glenn had gotten angry or stomped off or something else dramatic, she could have taken it. But instead, he had returned her careful line of reasoning with a rational argument of his own—one that walloped her in the stomach far harder than if he’d told her to fuck off.
“Claire?”
She shook herself out of her thoughts.
“No,” she said.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“No,” Claire said, looking him in the eye. “You’re really nice, Glenn. And maybe you’re right, but I’m not ready to give up yet. I still want—”
“The impossible?”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Glenn laughed without humor, but he was too placid a person to be angry. “All right, then. Best of luck to you, Claire. I hope you find the love of your life.”
“You, too, Glenn.”
He nodded once, then headed off toward the subway station.
Claire allowed herself one more long exhale. And then she turned in the other direction and began to walk toward the gallery where her friend Yolanda was waiting for her.
—
Claire trudged throughGreenwich Village, mostly oblivious to the people and storefronts as what Glenn had said about her echoed in her head.
Boring.
Uninspired.
You care more about practicality than passion.
Was it true?
Claire’s lifewasremarkably predictable. She woke every morning at 5:30a.m., went for a run through Central Park, came home and showered, then made the same oatmeal with raisins, walnuts, and cinnamon for breakfast. She left her apartment at 7:25 to catch the train, which got her through the frontdoors of the law firm at 7:47—enough time to grab a coffee from the break room and read through any emails that had come in overnight before hopping on client calls starting at 8:30. The only thing Claire couldn’t predict was when each workday would end, because sometimes there were calls with clients on the West Coast or even in Asia.
But my reliability is why my clients love me,Claire thought, trying to reassure herself.
And being reliable wasn’t mutually exclusive with wanting to hold out for a bigger love. Right?
Then again, if she thought about the epic love stories she’d grown up with, they always involved a large dose of spontaneity and upheaval—time travel, sinking ships, and giving up everything and everyone you’d ever known.
It was a lot to ask.
Oh god, what if Glenn had been right about her?
Claire wove around some of the stinking trash bags that had been left out to fester on the sidewalks. Deep in her thoughts, she almost walked right past the Rose Gallery and its exhibitionSurreal Delight.
But the dead streetlamp above her suddenly flickered on and illuminated the plate glass window, and Claire drew in a breath in surprise.
There was a long oil painting of the Manhattan skyline on a rainy day. At first glance, it was just another realistic steel and gray view of the city. But then Claire’s eyes traveled to the bottom half of the painting, where a small girl in a yellow rain jacket crouched next to an enormous puddle that spanned the length of Manhattan. And in its watery, upside-down reflection was a whole different world—one where the skyscrapers weretowering sunflowers, and the little girl was a euphoric bumblebee.
The next painting was also realistic on its face: a Spanish chef laboring over flames and a large pan of paella. The kitchen staff around him sweated and bustled, and the rich, deep colors of the painting reminded Claire of classical European art.
But the exhibit was calledSurreal Delight,and on closer inspection, she noticed that the saltshaker in the chef’s hand was scattering not salt, but tiny hearts, the little red confetti tumbling down onto the saffron rice in a shower of culinary love.
“I wantthat,” she said out loud. Not the literal painting—although she wouldn’t mind having it on her wall—but thatfeeling,that twinkle of joy in her otherwise orderly world.
