SAM:You thought about it, though.
I check the page again and expand the stops of the journey. It’s going back on myself, and I’ve already been to Madrid, yes, but it would only take two and a half hours. I accounted for fourteen nights in Barcelona, so a couple of days out wouldn’t derail my trip that significantly.
SAM:You’re still thinking, aren’t you?
This time a full laugh leaves my mouth. I take a screenshot of the page and send it his way.
ME:It’s not that bad . . .
SAM:Logistically? No. Mentally? A psych thriller. Don’t do it.
The more the advice from Sam flies through to my phone, the more I’m reminded of what it was like to have my beacon of male truth next to me on this journey. My thumb swipes to our old texts – the threads of conversations between me and Noah that I couldn’t bring myself to delete. For two people that were joinedat the hip in person, we somehow still found a way to text back and forth like two people who were stationed miles apart. I flick through memes and links to videos and selfies from our travels, and bouts of encouragement before all my dates.
My body grows fuzzy as I read, flushing through with warmth before rinsing out to a shocking, unexpected chill as I reach the last message. Two months ago, I was sitting on the train when I received the final message Noah ever sent me.
NOAH:Safe journey today. You’ve got this.
I never even replied. I knew it was too dangerous to keep it going, even just as ‘friends’. And it still is. The way my heart is lurching, it’s clear that two months wasn’t even remotely enough time to wipe my feelings from my brain.
‘Amorie?’
I look up, taking in my date for the evening. I’m fine without him. I have people. I don’t need Noah.
I went to Barcelona and all I got was . . .
. . .an interruption
‘I’m punching.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Your profile was gorgeous, but seeing you in person? I’m definitely punching,’ he says.
I smile back meekly. He seems so sweet and he’s definitely easy on the eye, but my mind is all over the place. It’s ridiculous. I haven’t spoken to Noah in two months, but his birthday rolls around and suddenly nothing else sticks in my mind. This should be my big day – we’re on date number eighty. But all I can think about is how his surprise party went three days ago.
‘You’re right, you’re atroll,’ I say jokingly, locking back into my date.
His eyes light up with warmth, laughter filling the air as he twirls me once again.
I switched things up for this date, telling him where we would go, because I wanted to make sure number eighty went out with a bang. After copious amounts of research, I tracked down a rooftop tango lesson. We’ve been at it for forty minutes and I’ve only stepped on his feet twice.
The instructor yells out: ‘And now a dip!’
The entire crowd cheers women dropping one by one in the arms of their partners. I feel his hand on my back as he dips me masterfully. He’s a real catch; if only I remembered his name.
‘So, are we still at the stage where I pretend I haven’t stalked you online?’ he asks, pulling me back up to stand.
‘Oh, really? You like the column?’ I fall back into our two-step.
The longer I’ve gone about this, the more I’ve decided that my column is actually pretty cool. I shouldn’t try to downplay it or be ashamed – I’ve accomplished a near impossible feat with a silly timeframeandgot paid for it. Of course, it won’t be for everyone, but no one’s for everyone and I should have never tried to be.
‘You’re a really great writer,’ he replies.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
I’m proud of what I’ve done this trip, and so is Analeise. In fact, she’s asked for a meeting when I get back to ‘figure out what theNew Travellerdoes with me next’.
The class eventually winds to a close and the instructor invites us all to stay for drinks. I wish I could – the virgin sangria looks exceptionally fruity – but I have places to be, so I give my polite goodbyes.
