Free Finding It by Leah Marie Brown Page B

dismissive noise that translates, “Please, it was nothing.”
    “The love you felt for Nathan was but a drip in the wineglass compared to what you feel for Luc.” Fanny’s voice is suddenly hoarse. “You might not realize it yet, but it’s true, ma cherié . I’ve never seen you as happy as you are when you are with Luc.”
    An image of Luc holding a sign with the words “You fill my heart with music, Vivia Perpetua Grant” in the arrivals terminal at the Vienna airport, a musician dressed as Mozart playing the violin behind him, flickers in my brain. Luc. Sexy, smart, sometimes-sappy, larger–than-life romantic gestures, Luc. Luc does make me happy. Crazy happy.
    “I love Luc. I do.” My voice is thick with emotion. “But I love my job, too. I might not have imagined myself a travel columnist, but I have always wanted to be a writer and I love writing travel pieces. I am not ready to trade my suitcase for a stroller. You know what they say, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes popping Prozac over the baby carriage.”
    Fanny chuckles. “Oh, Vivian.”
    “I am not kidding!” Fanny’s verbal jabs have loosened secret feelings I have been too frightened to release before this moment. “My mum could have had a brilliant career as an artist, but she gave up art to marry my father, support him in his career, and raise me. I don’t want to be my mother, Fanny.”
    I love my mum, dearly, but I don’t want to follow in her domestic footsteps, suppressing my creative spirit, abandoning my goals, in the name of marital bliss. I won’t be subjugated by any man…not even Luc.
    “Your mum is wonderful, Vivian. Truly.”
    “Yes, but deep down she’s not happy. She knows she could have had a brilliant career. That’s why she keeps such a frantic, frenetic pace, rushing between Zumba and poetry readings and Bible study. Her creative spirit has withered and cries out for nurturing.”
    “Have you ever thought your mum didn’t really want an art career? That if she did, nothing, not a domineering husband or an energetic child, would have kept her from painting?”
    I exhale again. This is all too deep, too emotional for Boujis. I can’t ponder weighty life issues to an electropop soundtrack.
    “Luc and I have only been dating for a year—long-distance dating. We have had a whirlwind romance—champagne in Chamonix, bootie calls in Belgium—and I’m not ready for it to end.”
    “You can’t go on dating long-distance forever, Vivian.”
    “Why?”
    Fanny sighs. “If you love Luc-ious, forget the Downton Abbey set and get to Paris.”
    I grit my teeth. I hate when people refer to Jean-Luc as Luc-ious. It’s a stupid, demeaning name coined by one of my Twitter followers after I tweeted a photo of Luc, tanned and shirtless, sailing off the Amalfi Coast.
    “I am still on assignment, working on a story. Jean-Luc will wait.”
    “French men don’t wait.”

Chapter 8
    A Conscious Uncoupling
     
    I sink down and take a seat on the commode. Have I become self-absorbed? I have missed a few of Fanny’s phone calls over the last few months—and I’ve only seen her once since taking the GoGirl! gig.
    It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what is going on in my best friend's life, who she is dating, how she spends her Saturdays now that I am not in San Francisco. Fanny is right! I have become a wee bit self-absorbed. Tears prickle my eyelids.
    “Vivia? Are you okay?”
    Oh shit! It’s Poppy. I don’t want posh, powerful Poppy to see me weak and weeping. I swipe the tears from my cheeks and open the door, the brightest, phoniest smile plastered on my face.
    Poppy narrows her gaze.
    “If you think you are fooling me with that smile, you really must be away with the fairies.” She tilts her head, and her chic blond bob spills over her bare shoulder. “Whatever is the matter?”
    My bottom lip trembles. I can only shrug like some sad six-year-old. Poppy reaches into her Lucite clutch, pulls