Wanderlust by Lauren Blakely

Author:Lauren Blakely [Blakely, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lauren Blakely Books
Published: 2018-03-18T07:00:00+00:00

16

Griffin

Eight miles.

I round the edge of Parc de Bagatelle, one of the biggest green spaces in the city. The pale pink light of dawn burns off as the sun rises in the morning sky.

My heart pounds against my chest as my feet hit the hard-packed earth, and my playlist blasts a random mix of new indie bands in my ears. When I first buckled down for the marathon prep, I tried to listen to my Duo Lingo app during my training runs, but I found, at the end, I remembered close to nothing of Portuguese. When I run, I get so lost in the movement I can’t focus on words, only rhythm, so I let this eclectic mix power me through.

As I leave the park, racing past a museum dedicated to the works of Monet, I have the fleeting thought that Joy would probably like that museum. I bet she likes Monet. I bet she’d gaze at the prettiest paintings in the same way she stares longingly at a piece of chocolate, a pink door, or a window box bursting with flowers. The woman loves beauty in all its forms. She devours it with her senses and feasts on it.

I try to shake away the thoughts. If I keep thinking about Joy this much, I’ll want to spend every second with her.

Oh wait. I already do.

For now, I refocus my brain on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, in moving one step closer to completing an all-important item on Ethan’s list—running the marathon in Indonesia. I picture checking it off the list, another accomplishment. Originally, I planned to explore the islands and train at the same time. But I’ve flipped that order around, training here now.

As I switch over to a quieter street to cut across the city, I flash back to the dream I had when I was younger. Running a marathon. It was so crystal clear, and it came out of the blue, inserting itself into my brain unexpectedly.

At the time, a marathon seemed so easy.

Something I could pull off in a cinch.

It’s not easy.

And yet, I don’t mind that it’s hard. I don’t mind that it hurts. I rather like the burn in my legs and in my lungs. I keep up the punishing pace as I near the nine-mile mark, cruising past apartment buildings, then a Monoprix and a nearly deserted Starbucks. Even at eight a.m. on a Saturday, the coffee shop is nearly empty.

We are not a country of early risers, I think with a smirk.

Then I blink. What a strange notion. They’re not early risers, I mean. I’m not from here, so I don’t know why I included myself in that sweeping statement about the French. I’m just a visitor, really, making a prolonged pit stop on my itinerant journey around the globe.

By the time I hit nine and a half miles, a fresh burst of energy surges inside me, and I feel as if I’m flying, even as my muscles are wrung out.

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