The Lost Girls by Jennifer Baggett Page A

(which we’d divide into Tupperware containers to use for lunches during the week). We fought, too, over typical relationship issues, like his staying out late and not calling or one of us blowing off a date to work. Sometimes I wondered when we’d stop making our careers the thing we focused on the most and when our relationship would come first. Still, the mundane stuff, those little ordinary moments, seemed deeper with Elan next to me.
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    H ave you told Elan about the trip yet?” Jen had asked a couple months before. I’d trekked into the city from Brooklyn one slushy afternoon to meet her at the Adventures inTravel Expo at the Javits Center for yet another trip-planning expedition. Since getting promoted at another women’s magazine, I had finally mastered the art of work-life balance. I was as in love with Elan as ever. But still I went.
    â€œOf course I’ve told Elan!” I’d said in surprise—it hadn’t occurred to me not to. But when I glimpsed Jen’s crestfallen face, I’d hoped I hadn’t been too insensitive. “Um, I mean, yeah, we’ve talked about it. Have you told Brian?”
    â€œNot exactly,” she said, nervously scratching her arm. It was the first time Jen and I had been alone without Amanda, who was out of town, and it felt as if we were on a first date. But instead of gauging whether we would upgrade from drinks to a full-fledged dinner, we were both weighing whether we could commit to talking, eating, and sleeping with this new person for 365 consecutive days.
    â€œI’ve hinted that I may want to travel to South America this summer with you and Amanda,” Jen continued. “But I haven’t told Brian I’m actually going on the trip—yet. How did Elan take it?”
    â€œSurprisingly well.”
    â€œSeriously? How’d you break it to him?”
    Telling Elan about the trip hadn’t been easy, of course. I’d brought it up one lazy Sunday morning when he was lying next to me in our bed, an arm thrown over his brown eyes to shield them against the light filtering in through the plastic blinds. All sharp angles and smooth skin like one of those Roman statues I’d studied in art history classes, his face still mesmerized me. I could look at it a million times, try to etch his features permanently into my mind, but then he’d turn and the shape of his nose or curve of his lips seemed to shift and I’d see him again as if for the first time. It was always like that with him: just when I thought I knew him, I’d suddenly glimpse him from a totally different vantage point.
    I’d wanted to stay silent and keep my head buried in that safe haven on his shoulder. It was one of those beautifully simple moments where the way I wanted things to be and the way they actually were were one and the same. I felt the rise and fall of Elan’s chest as he breathed rhythmically and heard the hissing of the radiator straining to heat the icy air that penetrated the thin walls of our apartment.
    Mustering up the courage to tell him about my extended trip plans, I’d braced myself for the high probability of a breakup. Or, more likely, the knowledge that if he truly wanted me to stay, I would. But he didn’t dump me; the two traits I admired most about Elan—his independence and open-mindedness—shone through. “It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime. I think it could be one of the best things you could ever do,” he’d said softly after a few torturous moments of silence, my hand tightly grasping his beneath the blanket. For a microsecond a doubt flashed through my mind: If he really loved me, he wouldn’t let me go . Then it vanished just as quickly as it had come. Was I completely nuts? My boyfriend was actually supporting my big adventure, and here I was second-guessing his love.
    â€œHol, if two people are meant to be together, going after your dream is not