A summer. In France.

My reflection in the mirror whispers, What the fuck are you doing? I blink my eyes closed, pushing myself into autopilot mode.

I find my clothes; he’s made room for my things in his dresser and closet.

You’re married.

I brush my hair. My toiletries are unpacked, tucked into one of the drawers in the bathroom.

You’re living with your husband in Paris.

I start to lock up the apartment using the spare key Ansel left for me right next to a small bundle of euros.

I find myself staring down at the unfamiliar paper bills, unable to quell the unease I feel at Ansel having left me money. It’s such a visceral reaction, the way my stomach tightens at the thought of living off someone else—someone other than my parents, I guess—that I have to push it aside until he’s home and we can have a conversation that doesn’t involve me with my head in the toilet.

In Las Vegas, and then in San Diego, we were on even footing. At least, it felt more even than it does now. We were both on vacation, carefree. After, I was headed to school, he was headed back here to his job, and life, and well-decorated flat. Now I’m the post-college squatter with no plans, the girl who needs directions to the métro, and snack money left by the door.

I leave the money where it is and cross the narrow hall to the elevator. It’s tiny, and with barely more than two feet on either side of me, I reach out and press the button marked with a star and the number one. The lift groans and shudders as it makes its descent, wheels and gears whirring above me until it lands with a thunk on the ground floor.

Outside the apartment it’s loud and windy, hot and chaotic. The streets are narrow, the sidewalks made of pavers and cobblestone. I start walking, stopping at the corner where the narrow road opens up into what must be a wider, main street.

There are crosswalks, but no clear pedestrian rules. People step off the curb without looking. Cars use their horns as frequently as I take a breath but they don’t seem the slightest bit annoyed. They honk, they move on. There don’t really seem to be lanes, just a steady stream of cars that stop and go and yield in a pattern I don’t understand. Street vendors offer pastries and bottles of bright, sparkling sodas, and people in suits and dresses, jeans and track pants rush past me as if I’m a stone in a river. The language is lyrical and fast . . . and completely incomprehensible to me.

It’s as if the city is spread lusciously before me, prepared to pull me fully into its intricate heart, into mischief. I’m instantly, deeply enamored. How could I not be? Everywhere I turn the streets look like the most beautiful sets I’ve ever imagined, as if the entire world here is a stage, waiting to see my story unfold. I haven’t felt this kind of buzz since I was dancing, lost in it, living for it.

I use my phone to find the métro station at Abbesses, only a few blocks from Ansel’s apartment, manage to locate the line I need to take, and then I’m left waiting for the train, struggling to take in my surroundings. I send Harlow and Lola pictures of everything I see: the French posters for a book we all loved, six-inch heels on a woman who would already be taller than most men on the platform, the train as it blows into the station, carrying hot summer air and the smell of brake dust.

It’s a short ride to the sixth arrondissement, where Luxembourg Gardens are located, and I follow a group of chattering tourists who seem to have the same destination in mind. I was prepared for a park—grass and flowers and benches—but I wasn’t prepared to find such huge stretches of open space nestled in the center of this busy, cramped city. I wasn’t expecting the wide lanes lined with perfectly manicured trees. There are flowers everywhere: row after row of seasonal blooms, cottage beds and wildflowers, hedges and lacy blossoms of every imaginable color. Fountains and statues of French queens offer contrast to the foliage, and the tops of buildings I’ve seen only in movies or pictures loom in the distance. Sunbathers stretch out on metal chairs or benches under the sun, and children push small boats across the water while Luxembourg Palace watches over it all.

I find an empty bench and take a seat, breathing in the fresh air and the scent of summer. My stomach growls at the smell of bread from a nearby cart but I ignore it, waiting to see how it handles breakfast first.

It’s then that I realize again that I’m in Paris. Five thousand miles from everything I know. This is the last chance I’ll have to relax, soak it in, create my own adventure, before I begin school and the regimented march from student to professional.

I walk every inch of the park, throw pennies into the fountain, and finish the paperback I had tucked in the bottom of my bag. For the span of an afternoon, Boston, my father, and school don’t even exist.

Chapter EIGHT

I’M ON SUCH a high from my day, I stop at the small market on the corner, intent on making Ansel dinner. I am all over this Paris thing, check me out. I’m learning to make do with the language barrier and find that the Parisians aren’t nearly as frustrated that I don’t speak French as I’d expected. They just seem to hate it when I try and then mangle it. I’ve been able to get by just fine with some pointing, smiling, innocent shrugging, and s’il vous plaît, and manage to buy some wine and prawns, fresh pasta, and vegetables.

But my nerves creep back in as I walk to the rickety elevator and as it noisily ascends to the seventh floor. I’m not sure if he’ll be home yet. I’m not sure what to expect at all. Will we pick up where we left off in San Diego? Or is now when we start . . . uh . . . dating? Or has the experience of our first few days put him off this little experiment altogether?

I lose myself in cooking, impressed with Ansel’s small kitchen. I’ve figured out his stereo and have some French dance music on as I happily bounce around the kitchen. The apartment smells of butter and garlic and parsley when he walks in, and my body grows tight and jittery when I hear him drop his keys in the little bowl on the entry table, put his helmet on the floor beneath.

“Hello?”

“In the kitchen,” I reply.

“You’re cooking?” he calls, rounding the corner into the main loft of the apartment. He looks good enough to devour. “I’m guessing you feel better.”

“You have no idea.”

“It smells wonderful.”

“It’s almost ready,” I say, begging my pulse to slow. Seeing him makes the thrill inside me bloom so wide my chest grows tight.

But then his face falls.

“What is it?” I follow the path of his eyes to the pan on the stove where I’ve tossed the prawns with the pasta and vegetables.

He winces. “It looks unbelievable. It’s just . . .” He swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

I groan, covering my face. “Holy crap, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, clearly distressed. “How would you have known?”

The question hangs between us and we both look anywhere but at each other. The amount of things we know about each other seems dwarfed by the amount of things we don’t. I don’t even know how to go back to the introduction phase.

He takes a step closer, telling me, “It smells so good.”

“I wanted to thank you.” It takes a beat before I can get the rest out, and he looks away for the first time I can remember. “For taking care of me. For bringing me here. Please wait, I’ll go get something else.”

“We’ll go together,” he says, walking closer. He puts his hands on my hips but his arms are stiff and it feels forced.

“Okay.” I have no idea what to do with my own arms, and instead of doing what I think a normal woman would do in this situation—put them around his neck, pull him closer—I fold them awkwardly across my chest, tapping my collarbone with my finger.

I keep waiting for his eyes to flare with mischief or for him to tickle me, tease me, do something ridiculous and Ansel-like, but he seems beat and tense when he asks, “Did you have a good day?”

I start to answer but then he pulls one hand away, digging into his buzzing pocket and pulling out his phone, frowning at it. “Merde.”

That word I know. He’s been home for less than three minutes, and I already know what he’s going to say.

He looks back up at me, apology filling his eyes. “I have to go back into work.”

ANSEL IS GONE when I wake up, and the only evidence I have that he came back at some point is a note on the pillow beside mine telling me he was only home for a couple of hours and slept on the couch, not wanting to wake me. I swear I can feel something inside me splinter. I went to bed in one of his clean T-shirts and nothing else. New husbands don’t sleep on the couch. New husbands don’t worry about waking up their new, jobless, tourist wife in the middle of the night.