The Geography of You and Me

“Sure you don’t want to take a tour?” Mom asked, nodding at the line that stretched the whole length of the building, and Lucy shook her head, stepping carefully off the star. Instead, they walked around the back of the building, where the spindly columns faced out over the fork in the River Seine. They crossed bridges and passed through small islands in a slow pilgrimage, and when they reached the other side, they ducked into a little bookshop with sagging shelves that smelled of paper and leather and dust, where Lucy picked out a small volume of The Little Prince.

Outside, there was a man selling watercolors on the bank of the river, and Mom paused to flip through them. They were small and delicately made, showing Notre Dame from all different angles and in every possible type of weather: gray skies and blue, rain and snow and sun.

“This one is lovely,” Mom said to Lucy, who was standing nearby, already scanning the first page of her book. In the painting, the church glowed under a sun as powerful as the one that beat down on them now, which made everything a shade brighter than it had any right to be.

“We have that one in a magnet, too,” the man said, reaching for a crate underneath his little table. “And a postcard.”

Lucy froze, staring at her book.

“What do you think, Luce?” Mom asked, and there was a strained note to her voice. “Need a postcard for anyone?”

When she finally raised her eyes, Lucy was surprised to see a trace of hope in the way her mother was watching her, and all at once she understood.

She knew about Owen.

Not just the postcards but the rest of it, too. She must have known the real reason she was going out in San Francisco that night. She must have realized why she’d muddled through the week in Napa in such a fog. She must have listened from the kitchen as Lucy said good-bye to Liam that day, and she must have understood the real reason. She must have known it all; if not the specifics, then at least the general idea of it.

And for the first time in a long time, Lucy didn’t feel so alone.

The painter was still holding out a postcard, his hand wavering just slightly, and her eyes pricked with tears as she reached for it.

“You can’t know the answer until you ask the question,” Mom said with a smile, but Lucy was still looking at the man.

“Thank you,” she said to him as she took the card, though really, the words were meant for her mother; Lucy knew she’d figure that out, too.

All the next day, as they walked along the River Seine and explored the Left Bank, Lucy thought about the postcard that was pressed between the pages of The Little Prince. On the train ride home that evening, her mother slept in the seat beside her while Lucy chewed on her pen, staring at the blank space on the back. It wasn’t until she was home that night that she finally wrote something, the simplest and truest thing she could think to say: Wish you were here.

She didn’t have his address in San Francisco. For all she knew, he might not even be there anymore. They could have gone back to Tahoe or somewhere else entirely by now. The logical thing would be to e-mail him, but how could she ask for his address without saying all those things that had been building up since their fight: Hello and I’m sorry and I didn’t mean it and I miss you and Why couldn’t you just have kissed me? There was something far too instant about an e-mail, and the knowledge that he could be opening it only minutes after she hit Send and choose not to respond—or worse, choose to delete it—was almost too much to bear.

She’d rather send the postcard floating out into the world and hope for the best.

After school the next day, she sat at the kitchen counter and dialed the main number to their old building in New York. As she listened to it ring, she pictured the front desk in the lobby and felt a twinge of homesickness. She closed her eyes, waiting for someone to pick up, and when he did, she was quick to recognize the voice.

“George,” she cried out, and there was a brief silence on the other end.

“Uh…”

“It’s Lucy,” she explained quickly. “Lucy Patterson.”

“Lucy P,” he said in a booming voice. “How’s my girl?”

She smiled into the phone. “I’m good,” she told him. “We’re in London now. I miss you guys.”

“We miss you, too,” he said. “Not the same without you around here. Any chance you’ll be back for the summer? Or what about those brothers of yours?”

“I don’t think so,” she told him. “Looks like we’re all going to be over here, actually.”

“Well, that’ll be nice,” he said. “Not often all five of you are in the same place.”

Lucy smiled. “I know,” she said. “It’s crazy, right?”

“So, what,” George said, “are you just calling to catch up on some of the gossip around here? Because I’ve got some great stories.…”

“I’m sure you do,” she said, laughing. “But I think my dad would have a heart attack over the phone bill if you told me even half of them. I’m actually calling because I have a favor to ask. You don’t happen to have a forwarding address for the Buckleys, do you?”

There was a brief pause. “That super?”

She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Yup.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said. “Talk about gossip…”

“C’mon, George.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, and there was typing in the background. “It’s in Pennsylvania.”