Chapter One
Chelsea
Challenge: Visit a localwinerybar
I had this neat trick. Close my eyes, and I could zip off anywhere in the world.
This unseasonably warm October breeze could spirit me away to beaches along the Mediterranean coast. The not-so-subtle notes of Acqua de Gio and Aramis conjured any random bar from New York City to Tokyo. Broken bits of conversation mingled, indistinguishable from Spanish or French or Greek.
As a kid, I used to summon these mental escapes—from poverty or abuse—or, like right now, from crushing boredom.
Saint-Tropez sounded exotic.
Relaxing into my fantasy, I envisioned some model-perfect Frenchman eyeing me with curiosity, approaching hesitantly, crafting words to invite me to join him on his yacht, moored just offshore, for a week-long excursion along the French Riviera. He’d say…
“Chelsea, are you awake?”
At the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, I opened my eyes and returned to the tedium of ho-hum downtown Charlottesville. My teeth clenched as reality hit me like a cage slamming shut. With a therapeutic breath in, then out, I donned my no-fucks-to-give friend demeanor.
“Just slipping into a coma, E.” At her grimace, I added, “What? Not everyone’s as passionate as you about post-structuralism.”
She crossed her arms, equally bored with me, as we let anotherFriday night slip by on the Skybar’s rooftop terrace. Elizabeth gave as few fucks about guy-gazing as she had in her appearance—zero—whereas I’d primped in the hopes of picking up some nameless stranger for a night of oblivion.
If I couldn’t get out of town, I’d find other distractions. Sex and alcohol calmed the beast, at least temporarily.
A frat boy glued his eyes to my cleavage until he passed, and I tilted my head to ogle his ass, even though college boys were starting to look way too young lately. They’d always been an easy go-to for a fast, no-strings fix, since they never even pretended to want my phone number. The last thing I needed was some local boy looking for love in all the wrong places.
Give me mind-blowing sex, not a soul mate. Elizabeth, on the other hand, clung to the romantic aspiration that someday her prince would come. I never had such illusions. In my opinion, romance was nothing but a trap.
And I certainly didn’t want to sit there all night talking to Elizabeth about some book on Foucault she was editing. “Come on. Let’s mingle.”
The music from the bar down below snaked up the stairwell with a mufflednn-nn-nnbass. Groups of college-aged boys congregated at tables, hollering loud, incomprehensible inside jokes and bellowing with laughter. I could’ve probably coaxed a free drink off one of them, but the funky mold in the rat’s nest the last guy called home haunted me. I nearly gagged at the memory.
Elizabeth reached for her purse. “I don’t think so, Chelsea. I’ve told you. This isn’t the way I like to meet guys.”
Shit. I hadn’t locked down a hookup, and I didn’t want to hang out alone. How pathetic. I scrambled for a way to get her to stay. “I challenge you to check something off the list.”
She shot me an arched eyebrow. “Are you serious right now?”
“What? It’ll be fun.”
She leaned back with an exaggerated sigh while I slid out my phone and opened the file. I had our list fairly well memorized by now, but I wanted to see our options.
The list started as my therapist’s idea to create nondestructive distractions. Dr. Rubin liked to remind me that “adventure is always right around the corner.” Instead of running away, she’d challenged me to live every day authentically. I’d been trying, but vulnerability was risky as fuck.
Elizabeth insisted we both contribute to the list, and then she turned my therapy into a contest. To keep things interesting, we held a kind of sword of Damocles over each other. The first draft of her novel sat on my hard drive, just ready for me to email to her dream agent. And she possessed the only copy of a letter my therapist had me write to my dad, telling him off in all the ways I never could when I was younger and had no desire to do now. Sure, I fantasized about confronting him for fucking me up, but in reality, I never wanted to see or talk to him again, in any form, and a letter like that could be construed as an invitation to a dialog, however unlikely. Besides, I didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction of knowing how much power he’d had, how badly he’d hurt me.
If challenged to complete a list item, we had to follow through at the risk of our precious documents being flung at their unsuspecting recipients.
As a reward, however, we’d assigned a point-based system to the world map, and our end-of-year vacation options would improve with every check we accrued. Finishing the list became an obsession for the wrong reasons. I wasn’t jazzed about the ten-point bed-and-breakfast in Vermont when, for forty points, we could be hiking to Machu Picchu or scuba diving in Aruba. I couldn’t outrun my demons within delivery distance of a Domino’s. Between the two of us, we’d amassed enough for Bermuda or Key West, but I was aiming for Europe.
Whether due to the carrot or the stick, I had to confess I’d challenged myself more than ever this year.
Some of the action items were gimmes, so I wouldn’t immediately right-click-delete the file. Elizabeth addedRead 15 books, knowing she’d knock it off by the end of February. Meanwhile, I was still working on mine even though I’d counted a reread of my favorite paranormal series as valid.
Some of our suggestions were obscenely out of reach. For instance:Invite a neighbor over. Wasn’t gonna happen. See also:Give your phone number to a guy.Mostly, we pushed each other to stretch. Elizabeth cattle-prodded me to be more open to romance while I tried to inject fun into her life.
We’d each tackled about half the list so far, but the more challenging items remained. And the Venn diagram of what we found difficult was far from a circle.
