Page 49 of The Marrying Kind
It was about nine in the morning in Texas, according to the internet, and I had just checked into Le Méridien Munich. That meant I could now call my friend Cara to check in.
We’d taken to having a monthly call to catch up. She loved hearing about my travels, and I loved hearing about the new beau she was falling in love with. And honestly? It was nice knowing that someone on this planet really cared to hear from me.
I’d been having this nagging feeling in the back of my mind lately, wondering who would even know if I disappeared during my travels. It was a dark thought, for sure, but every now and then, it popped into mind, and there were only two names I could think of—Cara and Austen.
Since I only spoke with Cara once a month, I’d have to be missing a long time for her to notice. I spoke to Austen way more often, though, still every few days. He’d snap a photo of some flowers or his bees, or a beer or something, and I’d send back a picture of wherever I was. It wasn’t particularly loquacious, but it suited us.
My room looked, well, like any other hotel room. That was something unexpected on my European travels, how similar all the hotels looked. I had to work to avoid staying places I recognized, like Marriotts and Hiltons and Holiday Inns. I wanted a unique experience, so I tried to find places with a little more local character.
But honestly? A hotel was a hotel.
A bed, usually a desk. Sometimes a balcony, if I was lucky. Though sometimes that balcony just overlooked a parking lot, or like one time in New York City, the rooftop of a neighboring building with air-conditioning units.
I guessed that wasn’t totally true. I’d managed to stay at a castle in Ireland, and that was pretty freaking spectacular.
“Hey, Jet Set,” Cara said, answering with the nickname she’d given me a few months back.
“Hey, pumpkin butt.”
“Why do you make me regret things I tell you?” She snorted in protest.
“I just happen to agree with Chad’s assessment that you indeed have the booty of a pumpkin.”
She groaned into the phone. “So, where in the world is Jet Set today?”
“Actually, I just got back into Munich. How are things with you and Chad? He pop the big question yet?”
“Check your messages!” She squealed, and I heard my phone ping in reply.
I hit theSPEAKERbutton and opened the messages app.
“Holy shit!” I screamed at the image of a giant rock on her finger. “Dang, girl. I didn’t know Chad made that kind of dough.”
I had known that Cara was a bit of a material girl, and while it wasn’t my taste, I was still going to hype it for my bestie.
“I feel so happy inside when I think about him, it feels like I might burst,” she said in a bubbly voice.
Her words were like a slap in my face because I knew that feeling too. I got quiet for a second too long, and Cara clocked me on it.
“I still can’t believe you left that sexy lumberjack.”
“He runs a business, he’s not a lumberjack, and I had to. I would never forgive myself if I just stayed put in the first place I ventured out to.”
Even though I had been tempted to, I had been wavering, talking myself out of taking this indefinite vacation. Partly because I was afraid of what traveling would really look like, what else would go wrong.
I mean, hell, if it weren’t for Austen giving me a place to stay, I might have hightailed it back to New Mexico when I realized my hotel had burned down. I might have taken that as a sign.
But the other part? That part wanted to stay in the safety of Austen’s warm cabin.
As nice as it would have been, I know I would have regretted it. There would have been a permanent question nagging in my mind about what I might have seen and done. And somber thoughts about what my parents never got the chance to do.
“Fair enough,” Cara said with a laugh.
“So, tell me about the big wedding plans. You have a date yet?”
I listened while Cara told me approximately six million specific details about her plans. Meanwhile, I unpacked my suitcase and laid out my clothes for tomorrow. Particularly, a big fluffy sweater I had just snapped up in Italy. It was so cute, and a pretty pale pink color with cream stitching.
I’d been in Europe now for seven months. It was starting to get unpleasantly cold here, but I’d learned from a woman I met at Oktoberfest that there would be a class on pottery at the museum from a student of the late world-renowned artist, Calista Baptiste. After I had looked up pictures of her stunning work, I knew I was going to brave the cold and hoof it back to Germany in December.
