Northern Lights

By Asta Idonea

A dream romantic vacation to Iceland to see the Northern Lights turns into a nightmare when James’s workaholic boyfriend, Richard, again insists on putting his work first. After a call from Richard’s office, an argument ends with the couple splitting up for good. Not only has Richard left James, he’s left him abandoned to explore the park alone, where James quickly gets lost. But just when things seem darkest, the Solstice works its magic, and James finds the guiding light he needs. Or it finds him.

“N
O
. N
O
,
Bob, listen to me. Bob, listen to me. Yes. No. Yes. Bob. Bob. Calm down.”

I turn off the tap, shake my hands over the sink, and reach for towel as I listen to the one-sided conversation drifting through from the next room. I don’t really know why I’m surprised. It’s not as if this hasn’t happened a hundred times before. Richard and I will make plans, and then that damn phone of his will vibrate, emitting the inane, grimace-inducing ringtone I’ve never been able to stand, and everything will unravel.

Richard and I met at a Christmas party five years ago, just before he started his job at Robert Preston & Associates. To date, that was the one and only Christmas we’ve managed to spend together. Every year since, something work-related has called him away. He does his best to make it home for dinner on my birthday, which falls during the holidays, but even that is touch-and-go. Some years I’ve ended up celebrating alone, surrounded by fast-cooling, half-eaten slices of pizza and a pile of empty beer cans.

For months I’ve been begging him for this overseas trip. We’ve been going through a tough patch, and I thought spending the holidays together—without interruptions, just the two of us—would go a long way toward healing the rift. I’d held out hope that the distances involved would grant us some measure of security, that the fact that we were out of the country would make Bob think twice before dialing. But it appears I was wrong. Honestly, you’d think Richard was Bob’s boss and not the other way around, given the manner in which the man carries on.

“Yes, all right. Let me check flight times and I’ll call you back, okay? Yes, I’ll be there, I promise. Try not to panic. Yes, I’ll call you straight back. As soon as
I
know,
you’ll
know. Okay, Bob, hang tight.”

I lean over the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It seems that Grinch-Bob has struck again, ruining the holidays for the fourth year running. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to stay calm for the conversation I know is coming.

In the bedroom, Richard sighs and sets the phone down. A moment later he’s standing in the doorway, and I look up to meet his gaze in the mirror.

“Jimmy, I’m sorry, but Bob—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.” I bite back the rant hovering on the tip of my tongue and brush past him into the bedroom. “When do we leave?”

“There’s no need for you to cut short your vacation. The room’s paid up for the week, and I’m going to be sleeping at the office for the next few days anyway, from the sound of things, so you may as well stay. Enjoy yourself, enjoy the holidays, and I’ll see you at home next Monday.”

“You want me to stay here on my own?”

“Reykjavik was your idea. You said it would be inspirational for your writing.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t why we came.” I swallow, trying to clear the tightness in my throat. “This was supposed to be about us, Richard. You know things haven’t been right between us for a while, and this trip…. Did you forget tomorrow’s my birthday?” I can hear myself descending into a whine, but I can’t seem to stop the words from flowing. “You promised we’d see the Northern Lights together. It’s Christmas for chrissake!”

“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, Jimmy, I promise. I’ll get you a new camera, a new laptop, whatever you want. It’s just that Bob—”

“Bob, Bob, always Bob. Well, you know what? Fuck Bob! Or maybe you already have.”

The slap takes me by surprise, and my neck gives a painful and audible crunch as my head snaps to the side. My cheek stings, but I fight the urge to rub it, just as I refuse to brush away the tears I can feel rolling down my face.

“My work is important, Jimmy. Can’t you see that?”

“Oh, I can see it just fine,” I reply, staring down at the red and white stripes of the carpet. “It’s more important to you than I am, that’s for sure.”

The toes of Richard’s loafers enter my field of vision as he steps toward me. I find myself wondering why his shoes always have to be so goddamn shiny. “At least I’m doing something worthwhile with my life. With you it’s just one pointless project after another. You’re a dreamer, Jimmy, and a scrounger—always have been, always will be. Don’t forget
I’m
the one who keeps a roof over our heads, who puts food on the table.”

“No, Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer, I hadn’t forgotten. You never let me forget it.”

“What the hell do you want from me, Jimmy?”

“Only for you to be here, to put me ahead of your work now and then. And if you can’t do that, well, maybe we should just call it quits.”

I look up to find Richard regarding me with one of his assessing looks—the look he usually reserves for witnesses during cross-examinations.

“You know what? You’re right. It’s clear we both want very different things, and I think it
is
time we moved on. This trip may have achieved its aim after all. It’s given us this chance to make a clean break.” He turns away and retrieves his suitcase. A moment later he has the bag open and is repacking the clothing he removed from its confines less than an hour ago. “Stay out the week, Jimmy, and see your Northern Lights. There’s plenty of money on your Cash Passport. When I get home, I’ll move your things into the guest room, and you can stay as long as you need once you get back. Peter owes me one. I’ll ask him to find you a nice outer-London apartment with affordable rates. I’ll even pay the first month’s rent for you while you find yourself a job.” He zips the case shut and pulls on his coat. His wallet and phone go into the pockets, and then he picks up the suitcase. “I’d better get to the airport and sort out the flight home. Have a good birthday, Jimmy. I’ll see you back in London.”

Richard opens the door.

He steps out into the hallway.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And then he’s gone.

A strange sound comes out of my mouth, somewhere between a word and a guttural sob, and I sink to the floor. I pull my knees in tight and wrap my arms around them, rocking forward and back.

What just happened? More importantly, how could I let it happen? I just stood there, an openmouthed idiot, as my boyfriend of five years left me. I should have stopped him. I should have apologized and told him I loved him. I should have begged him to stay and talk things over. Instead, I baited him. I dared him to go and then did nothing when he called my bluff.

With a whimper, I roll over onto my side, and the thick fibers of the carpet soak up my tears.

I
MUST
have fallen asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, it’s dark outside. A glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table confirms it’s after ten, and I drag myself into a sitting position and from there to my feet.

I look out of the window, taking in the five-star, no-expenses-spared view of the city. The lights from the buildings are reflected in Tjörnin Pond, creating a kaleidoscope of color. The artist in me acknowledges its beauty, and a muted voice in the back of my mind prompts me to reach for my camera. But the heartbroken, disconsolate part of my soul is the stronger right now, so I draw the curtains and turn away.

I kick off my shoes and lie upon the bed. Folding my hands behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the shadowed form of the lampshade, trying to decide what to do. I could ignore Richard’s parting words and catch the next available flight home. Maybe if he and I talked, we could find a way to patch things up between us. But no, that’s nothing but a pipe dream. This split has been a long time coming. I think we both knew it, but neither of us wanted to be the one to speak up first. Even if we
could
make amends after this argument, it would be no more than wrapping a bandage around an already fatal wound—a prolongation of an inevitable end.

“It’s over.”

I say the words out loud and give myself a moment to digest and accept them. My chest is still tight and my heart feels as if it’s been stabbed with a hundred tiny blades, but I also experience a sense of relief that things have finally come to a head. I think again about packing my suitcase and leaving. Richard’s accusation of scrounging cut deeper than I care to admit, and I relish the idea of tossing his gift of this room and the Cash Passport back at him, letting him know I neither want nor need his money.

But then I reconsider.

It’s Christmas, I’m in Reykjavik, and tomorrow’s my birthday. Why shouldn’t I make the most of it? Without Richard’s funding, I doubt I’ll have this opportunity again in a long time, if ever. And everything’s already paid for anyway; it would be a shame to waste it in a fit of petulance.

I’ll stay, I decide in that moment. I’ll do my best to enjoy my time here, and when I go back, I’ll clear out of the apartment while Richard is at work one day and never take another penny from him.

Despite my newfound calm and the acknowledgment that what has happened is for the best in the long term, I can’t bring myself to follow our original plans for the day. My birthday was supposed to start with a tour around the city, followed by some museums, a lavish dinner, and then an evening trip out to see the lights. If I’m going to do this, I need to make sure everything is completely different to eliminate any lingering thoughts that Richard should be at my side. I still have a full week ahead of me; the Northern Lights can wait a few days.

I scan my memory for some of the other sights I’d read about in the guidebook, and the day trip to the famous geysers pops into my mind. The idea seems a promising one: a full day out of the city, where I won’t be reminded of Richard’s absence, where everything will be planned out for me so I won’t have to find ways to occupy myself. Yes, it’s perfect.

I reach over and fiddle with the buttons on the clock, setting the alarm for six thirty. That should give me plenty of time to get up, have breakfast, and then make my way to the information center to see if I can book a last-minute place on the tour.

W
HEN
I
reach the tourist office the next day, I’m in luck: there are still spaces on the trip, and the coach will depart in ten minutes’ time. I buy my ticket, order a coffee, and gulp it down in five swallows, burning my tongue in the process, when I see the coach approaching ahead of schedule. The door opens, the driver inspects my ticket, and I’m waved aboard.

The vehicle is about two-thirds full, mostly couples and family groups, and the only remaining seats are either right at the front or at the back. Unable to overcome my schoolboy fear of the front row, I head to the back and settle in an aisle seat, dropping my bag onto the empty seat beside me. An elderly couple boards a minute or two later, taking seats at the front, and then we’re off.

I concentrate on the scenery as we leave the city, snapping a few shots through the slightly smeary window with my DSLR. The images aren’t going to win me any prizes, but I hope to get some better pictures when we make our stops.

Our first port of call is the Strokkur geyser, and it’s certainly an impressive sight. For a few short minutes, I almost feel happy as I snap away, trying to capture the motion of the water as it shoots skyward. However, that feeling doesn’t last.

I suppose it was inevitable since I’m the only single person on the tour, aside from the driver and tour guide, both of whom are busy smoking foul-smelling cigarettes over by the coach, but I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find myself faced with a young couple sporting shy, hopeful smiles.

“Would you take a photo of us? With the geyser?”

The girl’s accent sounds German, and she’s already holding out the camera, all but pressing it into my hands, so I have little choice but to take it from her. I frame the shot and wait. When the water erupts behind them, I depress the shutter, and then I hand back the pink Nikon compact. They huddle together to assess my effort, then break into wide grins.

“
Danke
,” the man says. “Thank you. Very good picture!”

They’ve barely taken a step back before another couple, having seen my charitable act, approach and make the same request. And then another, and another. By the time the guide calls us back to the coach, I’ve taken photos for just about everyone on the tour, and I’m starting to think this trip wasn’t such a good idea after all.

It’s not that I mind helping with the photos, but having to keep looking at these couples and families enjoying this experience together—in love, happy—is starting to make me melancholy. Today was supposed to be about me letting go of the past and looking to the future, but all I can do now is think about Richard. Wondering what he would have made of this place, imagining the photos
we
would’ve taken together, his arm around my waist, his fingers brushing my hip.