“Lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t care. I’m running late and now”—he motions toward his shirt that has become slightly see through thanks to the coffee I spilled on him—“I need to go change before my meeting.”
“Oh, right, of course.” I shake my head, sticking my tongue out like I’ve actually lost my mind. My eyes dart down to where the shirt is suctioned to his chest, the outline of his defined pecs causing my mouth to go suddenly dry. He moves to step around me right as I attempt to step out of his way in the same direction. “Oops.” I giggle, my face growing even redder as I do it again, this time with a little dance.
He stops, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before offering up an annoyed smile. “I’m going right,” he says slowly. “You go left.”
“Wait.” I hold up both hands. “Could you possibly take a picture of me really quick? My best friend wants me to send her pictures and I would love a pic—” I reach into my pocket when I realize I never picked up my phone. My eyes dart around frantically when I see it between his feet. I reach down to pick it up. “Here it is!” I lift it up, checking to make sure the screen is still intact. “Phew!” I laugh. “I was so worried the screen wou—”
“Make it quick,” he says, cutting me off as he holds out his hand. I open my camera app and hand him the phone as I take a few steps closer to the tower. I pause for a brief second before posing, turning to look up toward the top, the wind catching a few strands of hair and whipping them around my face.
“What’s a good pose? I don’t want to look too touristy.”
“You have three seconds,” he says sternly and I turn around.
“Cheeeeese!” I place one hand on my hip, raising the other above my head with a huge smile as I pop my foot up like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. He snaps the photo, stepping forward to hand me the phone before turning and walking away.
“Thank you!” I shout after him but he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t acknowledge me. I open the photo, sending it to Xana, but then I notice he took more than one. I slide my thumb across the screen. The second photo of me is a close-up of my shoulders and face, my hair blowing away from me when I was half-turned away from him, looking up toward the top. I look up from my phone toward the direction he walked but he’s already lost in the crowd.
In the heat of the panic and chaos that just unfolded, I completely forget that someone was calling me. I pick up my croissant and my now empty cup and toss them in the trash. I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk to the metro station to take the train to Père Lachaise Cemetery.
It’s calm here, quiet. Some might think it’s weird or even eerie to find solace in a cemetery but that’s where the two people I love the most are. Carson and my mom aren’t buried here obviously, but I feel like I’m closer to them here. At home, when I’m feeling overwhelmed or too sad to function, I go to the cemetery where my mom is buried. One of the hardest parts of accepting the fact that Carson was also gone was the fact that he wasn’t buried in Chicago, not even in Illinois. His family wanted him back home with them in Tennessee. I don’t blame them, but realizing I won’t be able to visit his grave when I want or need to is something I still struggle with. I sit down on a bench, the buzz of the city almost nonexistent in here. Tears threaten to fall, and my throat grows thick with emotion.
“Please,” I pray, “just give me a sign. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
It’s hard to admit but I’ve been so lost since losing them both, like life no longer has direction for me. My phone chirps and I reach into my pocket. I look at the screen, realizing I have a voicemail.
“Hello, Miss Flowers, this is Rick Fein, administrator over at Crestwood Academy,” he says in his almost singsong voice. “I am so sorry that I’ve taken so long to get back in touch with you. The end of the school year is always a bit hectic as you can imagine. Anyway, I’ll cut straight to the point. If you are still interested in the first grade teaching position here at Crestwood, we would be honored to have you on board. Give me a call back to discuss the next steps. Thank you.”
Now the tears cascade, unstoppable, down my cheeks. I rest my head in my hands, crying, laughing, excited, and anxious all at once.
“Yes!” I shout, throwing my hands up in the air in celebration.
My week in Paris flies by but I make the most of every single second I’m here. I spend my mornings sipping coffee and eating pastries on the small balcony of my hotel room. My afternoons are filled with street art, strolls along the Seine, and sightseeing. Each evening, I savor a small glass of wine while listening to “Les Champs-Elysées” by Joe Dassin—another cliché but it brings me joy.
On my last night here, I triple-check that I’m checked in for my nine a.m. flight, then turn on a peaceful YouTube video to fall asleep to. The soft sounds of rain lull me to sleep in a matter of minutes, a smile on my face when I think about sharing my exciting news with Xana.
“Ugh,” I groan, stretching my arms overhead as I realize it’s my final few hours in Paris. I’m sad to leave but I’m also excited to start my new job back home. I sit up, a little surprised I’m awake before my alarm. I reach for my phone, tapping the screen to check the time, but the screen stays black.
“That’s weird.” I tap it again, reaching to grab it when I realize that while the cord is plugged into my phone, it’s not plugged into the wall. “Oh my God!” I gasp, realizing it died sometime in the night and I, in fact, did not sleep through my alarm because it never went off. I plug it in, the little red lightning bolt on the screen confirming that the phone is completely dead.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I scramble across the bed, reaching for the clock on the other bedside table. “8:14!” I practically scream as I launch myself out of bed, tearing off my pajamas while hopping from one leg to the other to pull on my jeans. I dart to the bathroom, brushing my teeth while simultaneously brushing my hair and attempting to pull on my shirt.
My flight leaves at nine and I’m staying twenty minutes from the airport which means that I need to have left my hotel a solid thirty minutes ago to make sure I made it through security on time. I dash around my room, grateful I packed everything but my outfit for the day and minimal makeup which I now have no time to apply. Realizing I need to conserve my phone battery, I call down to the front desk for a taxi.
“Bonjour, yes, could I get a taxi to the airport as soon as possible, please? Yes, thank you so much.” I hang up, shoving my pajamas and toiletries into my bag before grabbing my phone and running toward the elevator. By the time I make it downstairs, the taxi has arrived.
“Hi, good morning. I’m in a crazy hurry. I’m so sorry. So if we could take the fastest way, that would be great.”
He looks up at me in the rearview mirror, muttering something beneath his breath in French before pulling out into traffic.
“Merci!” I hand him a few extra bills as I tumble out of the taxi, tugging my luggage up over the curb and into the airport. I’m sweating by the time I make it to security, glancing at my watch every few seconds. I stand on my tiptoes, looking over the crowd. There are only a few people in front of me. I look at my watch again. My flight leaves in eighteen minutes. I kick off my shoes once I show my passport and boarding pass, walk through security, and grab my bags again. I don’t even bother putting my shoes back on before I’m running through the terminal, darting around people right and left.