Never Really Over (Bremmy 3)

Chapterish 5

| BALI |

MIDNIGHT WAVES & WINE

I roll over in a white down comforter that envelops me like the Parisian cloud it is. My silk night top hangs off my shoulder, its matching panties lost somewhere on the floor. I stretch my bare legs until I feel relief. I inhale the pillow, ready to suffocate in this bliss, and my lips spread into a smile as the memory of last night shifts into focus.

After a quick search, my eyes find him standing in the balcony's doorway, framed like a perfectly priceless oil painting. Brooks belongs in the Louvre. Would put everything else to shame.

The muscles move in his back as he lifts a coffee mug to his lips. The faint aroma of freshly brewed espresso floats on the wind.

I want to call to him, to say good morning. But I don't want to disrupt this image. It's the perfect moment of morning –when the day isn't really here yet –when everything in the entire world is still possible.

I look beyond our room, beyond him on the balcony, and I focus on another familiar silhouette. Dawn is my favorite light for the Eiffel Tower.

What a thing to wake up to.

What a dream to wake up from.

2:17 AM

The sliding glass door to our suite is open and I can smell tropical flowers on the breeze. I cross the room in just my T-shirt and step onto the balcony. The cool tiles beneath my feet are soothing. Our wine glasses are still on the table from hours ago. I top mine off and, pulling it to my lips, curl up in the basket chair.

My eyes scan Bali's ocean horizon.

In another life this is where I live full time. In another life, this salty expanse is why I'm up right now. Instead, I'm up thanks to the alternative.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't keep me up at night. If he didn't keep me up at night. Some nights, at least.

For a while I blamed myself, hated myself. I hated the idea that I indoctrinated myself with: That to have epic love, it had to be tortured and profound and everything that's wrong with the greatest love stories. Looking at you, Bard.

Maybe it's Thirty dancing on the horizon, but I don't blame myself anymore. I don't even blame Brooks. Sure, some fault can be awarded to all the young adult teen rom-com-drams that I graciously swallowed down without question, but mostly the fault is just there. 

It just exists. Without question. Without any answers.

I'm in a better place now, which I know sounds like something I've been coached to say, but it's true. I've made peace with what isn't.

Josh helps.

My phone screen lights up, casting a wide square of blue on the glass table beside me. It's just a sign-up alert. Go Zen's membership has tripled, many thanks to our two new studio locations and Zoë's unwavering insistence that we offer online courses. Our next venture is the yoga retreat experience to learn a more authentic yoga experience. Hence Bali.

2:28 AM

The date on my phone is an instant reminder. Maybe it's why I'm up. Yes, let's blame the date.

I pull up my camera and take a moon-lit, wine glass in-hand, kissy-face selfie and mark it up for Trix and Travis.

ONE YEAR U FUCKERS <3 HAPPY ANNI

Yes. That's right. It's been one year since Trix and Travis's wedding. One year since I've seen Brooks. One year since I've even talked to him. Heard his voice. Saw his face. Anything. Everything.

Nothing.

It's been one whole year since I tore my Paris plane ticket in half and left it behind in the airport bathroom. But like I said, better place now. Really.

I stifle a yawn and flip through my text threads.

I think maybe I'll text Josh, but it's afternoon back in Seattle and I know he's crushing a major presentation he spent weeks preparing.

I click my phone shut and smile at the background. Me and Josh at his work picnic last fall. It's one of my favorites. I tuck my phone down between my thigh and the basket chair cushion.

I finish the wine and stare, mesmerized, at the sediment left behind on the glass. I tilt my head back and search the stars, jealous of Zoë and all the sleep she's getting inside right now. It's not Zoë's fault I've had the same nightmare at least once a month for the past year.

I yawn again and pull my damp hair into a side-braid. I can still smell the aromatic hibiscus shampoo I used hours ago –the smell I associate with Bali now.

I watch the waves for another hour or two, checking my phone every now and then for a response from Trix. All I get are a few more sign-up notis and online orders for our merchandise store.

It's not really a store, more like products that we sell in the studios and on our website: totes, yoga mats, some tanks, zen-bead bracelets, essential oils –that sort of hippie dippie shit (as my mom likes to call it).

The whole patio is flooded with moonlight by the time I finally stand up and retreat into the bedroom. Zoë is out cold in the bed on the right. I plug my phone charger in and make sure my alarm is set for morning before hopping into my own queen-sized bed.

I roll over in the white sheets and promise myself a good night's sleep.

There will be no more dreams tonight.