Bea’s mom is a writing teacher at a small university in Paris, so in theory she might be of help, but after the force—nay, intensity—of my mom’s reaction last night, I know for a fact it will do nothing. My best option is to appeal to my dad, but how am I going to do that when I can’t even get him to call me back?

Before I can stop it, my eyes prickle with tears, which Bea of course notices. “Willow, it will be okay. Really. Maybe…”

Her expression falls and I’m instantly flooded with guilt. I hate the idea of my bad mood transferring to her, so I quickly shift gears. “Enough about me. How’s Julia?”

Julia is Bea’s on-again-off-again girlfriend, and I can typically count on bringing her up to wipe out whatever other topic I’m attempting to avoid. But not today.

“Willow, you can talk to me about tough things too, you know,” she says, her eyes big and insistent. “You don’t always have to pretend that everything is fine. I’m here for you.”

A puddle has formed around me, a slight breeze cooling my skin. Part of me wants to tell Bea the real reason I want to leave home early is the woman currently discussing the likelihood of rain at the charity event she’s hosting: “We’ll need all tents on hand. Plan B has to be flawless.”

Bea is watching me carefully now. “Willow… is there something else? Are you okay?”

As usual, she’s seen right to my center, and my throat goes tight. But explaining the giant mess that is my head to anyone, even Bea, feels impossible. I shut my eyes behind my sunglasses again and an image emerges of our old Brooklyn apartment, my mom, my dad, and me squished in the tiny breakfast nook arguing over Scrabble. The truth is, I haven’t felt grounded or settled or at home since the day my mom and I moved out. Which is ridiculous. I have a perfectly lovely home. Two of them. But I miss feeling at home.

I’ve tried to explain my need to travel to Bea, but every time I do, my words fall flat. I’ve read so many articles and blog posts by other people who experience intense wanderlust, the constant feeling of the world tugging them by the arm. But sometimes I wonder if what I’m feeling is in a different category entirely. It feels less like a desire than a need. Like if I don’t get out there and find my place, I’m going to drift out into nothingness, attached to no one and nothing. My breathing starts to quicken and I feel the rush of anxiety pressing down on me. I have to redirect myself. And Bea.