Work Text:
“Text me as soon as you get to the station,” my roommate Anneliese says. “And the airport. And when you board?”
Laughing, I give her one last squeeze, burying my face in her bright orange hair. “Okay, Mom. I’m going to miss you.”
“Pshh. You can visit me in Austria next summer,” she says as she pulls away. “Now go. We both know you will take the long way and I don’t want you missing your flight.”
I don’t want to miss it either but at the same time, I do. This is all so complicated. Home is so complicated.
Taking a fortifying breath, I shrug on my ginormous backpack and grab the handle of my roller bag. I can do this. If I can just get to the airport and get on the plane, everything will work out.
I glance back at her when I get to the bottom of the stairs. This is harder than I thought.
“Follow your heart,” she says, then closes the door.
That’s terrible advice, at least for me. I’ve tried following my heart already—multiple times. It never works out. That’s why I’m in Paris in the first place. As long as I forget who I’m supposed to be here with and pretend he’s not part of why I chose this city, I’m okay.
Instead of heading for the nearest train station, I hike my backpack higher on my shoulders and roll my suitcase toward the Seine, just like Anneliese expected, stretching out the time I have left for as long as I can. It’s only a fifteen minute walk along the river to where I’m headed.
I've walked this path a ton of times in the last nine months and the fact it never really changes is a comfort. Boats bob along the stone walls lining the river. An old man I’ve seen out there countless times feeds pigeons from his spot on a little wooden bench. I smile at a woman walking a little white dog I've met before and stop long enough to pet it.
I love it here, I really do. The people, the language, and the city itself are exactly what I hoped for when I thought about France. Everything here feels lived in and the buildings with all their windows and stone practically breathe history. I said that to Anneliese once and she informed me that what I meant to say is they’re dingy and they stink. She insists Austria is much better. Sounds like I’ll get to find out myself next summer. But here, in Paris, I can walk around for hours and never get tired of seeing it all, smelly or not.
Other than the city itself, the people are probably my favorite thing about being here. I’ve made so many new friends from all over the world through my study abroad program at Sorbonne. A group of us went out every Friday night and drank and danced and laughed—and cried, depending on what romantic drama was going down and how much we’d drank—until the sun came up Saturday morning. Then on Saturday nights, Anneliese and I would find a speakeasy and hang out, just the two of us. We went to a different one every time and I don’t think we made it through even a fraction of the ones in the city. That would probably take years.
School itself has been really good and my grades are solid. Anneliese is big on proper study habits and balance. Very lucky I got paired up with her for the year or I might’ve spiraled a little, especially at first. She’s also been teaching me German and I’m pretty darn good at it now. I loved my classes, too, especially psychology. I didn’t expect that, though Taylor cracked up when I told her. She’s supposed to be the psychology nut not me, but instead, she’s majoring in communications.
Figuring out what I’m passionate about wasn’t easy. It took me losing the two things I loved most to shock me out of the cozy, uncomplicated bubble I’d been living in. I can’t do anything about one of them, but I’m determined to turn the hell I went through losing volleyball into something useful. Helping athletes work through the mental grind of rehabilitating an injury and fighting their way back onto the court or field feels like something I could be good at. There are a couple schools with solid sports psychology graduate programs on the east coast that I’m thinking of applying to. The one I want to go to most is actually pretty close to home…but it’ll put me right in the path of my past.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? With Paris, with applying to a graduate school in Massachusetts, with my whole future. For years, I had a hazy picture of what life with Conrad might look like. Hazy because who knows anything about anything when they’re a kid? Then, I got a taste of what life with Jeremiah is like. Real life, not just the dreamy, summery parts.
And now, no matter how far I run, no matter how much I grow into myself away from Cousins and the Fisher family, no matter how many dates I go on trying to fall in love with someone else, everything that’s happened since the day Jeremiah called off our wedding and walked away has felt wrong.
We were supposed to do Paris together. This place was never meant to be an adventure just for me. None of this was. I’ve taken the train to London and Barcelona and Strasbourg, and even with my friends chattering all around me or holding another guy’s hand, I’ve missed the warmth of him beside me and how excited I know he’d be about literally everything flying past the windows. He’d probably die of joy just being on a high-speed train. Finally a mode of transportation that goes as fast as his brain.
But in the city, it’s worse. No matter how hard I try to fill it with other things, Paris has a giant Jeremiah-sized hole in the center. Everywhere I look, I see the ghost of him. Crossing a bridge too far away for me to make out more than a hint of blond hair. Buying colorful macarons at the patisserie across the street from school. Slipping between the closing doors of the Métro before I can catch up. He’s not here, I know he isn’t, but I can’t help but want to dash after him to see if he’s real or another daydream.
It’s been a year. A whole year. Why can’t I get past this? I’ve tried but he’s been one of the most important parts of my world forever. As Anneliese told me one night after another of my failed date attempts, that kind of time with that kind of person leaves a mark on someone’s soul. Like fingerprints, she said. We were two bottles of wine in by that point but I remember liking that description. Jeremiah Fisher’s fingerprints are all over my soul. That’s exactly what it is.
He and I have talked, of course. Surface level chats, never anything about us or the two years we spent being young and in love. He reached out first on Thanksgiving when neither of us went home for the same unspoken reason. Then again on Christmas. That got us talking about how school was going and the classes we had planned for winter term.
The pictures started after that. Little things he saw that reminded him of me. I sent memes back. He saw Steven recently and sent a picture of him with his arm around my brother’s shoulders. Things haven’t been the same between them since the wedding but maybe they’re starting to find their way back to each other. I sent him a picture of my new haircut after that. He liked it, said it makes me look older. When he tacked on a “And hot” with a winky face, I felt like maybe things would be okay.
That was before Conrad came to see me.
I didn’t tell Jere when his brother started writing me letters and sending me things from home, trying to remind me he exists like he always has while never once apologizing for ruining my wedding and my life. I didn’t tell him that Conrad showed up on my doorstep when I didn’t respond to those letters.
Standing in his hotel room a month ago, my mind spinning with memories as he repeated what he said the last time I saw him, I thought maybe I could try to be happy with him. Maybe he was how I could hold onto the Fishers—onto Jeremiah. What kind of person would that make me? I tried anyway but it only took two days of Conrad being in Paris, not fitting in with my friends or my life or who I am now for me to know. After apologizing, I sent him away for good.
Jere doesn’t know that, either. I haven’t responded to any of his texts since his brother left.
Now I’m down to my last hour in Paris and the little life here I’ve created for myself. As complicated as my feelings are about literally everything, I’m glad I came to France. I needed this. When I get off the plane in Philadelphia, I have a whole school year of finally getting to know me to stand on if I start to feel lost again. And then, once I graduate, I’ll apply to that school in Massachusetts and begin the rest of my story. It feels good to have plans.
All I want is to see the cathedral one last time. Watching it slowly come back together over the last few months has felt a little like what I’ve been doing here. Then I’ll let go of Paris and get on the train that’ll start my journey home and into the first summer of my life not spent in Cousins.
It’s warm and sunny, one of the first warmish days of spring, and it feels like the whole city has come out to soak in the sunshine. There are a ton of tourists in this part of town and a lot of locals, too. The mix makes for fascinating people watching. Halfway across the Pont au Double, there’s a bunch of middle aged guys playing jazz on a trumpet, clarinet, banjo, electric guitar, an upright bass, and an…accordian? That’s a first. I kind of love it.
An old couple is slow dancing to the music just off to the side while two little kids bounce around like they’re at a rock concert in the middle of the road. The benches are packed with people resting their feet, gazing up at the cathedral and all the construction, or watching the boats drift up and down the river. Voices and laughter and the sound of lives being lived swirls around me on the breeze. I never want to forget this moment.
Sadness hits me first, then an unexpected wave of exhaustion. I’m going to miss this place.
A warm sound that feels like home floats over the water. That happens sometimes. Echoes of the past, maybe. They’ll probably get louder now that I’m headed back and I’ll have to see all the places and people and things that remind me of him. The daydreams I’ve had of him are never close enough for me to imagine his voice and I’m glad for that. I don’t think I could take it.
There it is again. Closer, this time.
Frowning, I draw my bag to a stop and look back the way I came and the air whooshes from my lungs.
No. No, no, no. My mind can’t be this cruel.
Like I conjured him, this daydream of Jeremiah is vivid and heartbreakingly gorgeous and somehow jogging across the bridge toward me. My heart trips over itself as he ducks around the little kids and swerves a guy on a bike. He looks so real that it hurts. Why can’t this be like all the rest of my daydreams where he’s there and gone before I can soak in the sight of him? Why do I have to see his curls glowing gold in the sunshine?
Dreams aren’t real, I remind myself firmly. Not even the kind when you’re awake. This one is just crueler than normal. I grab the handle of my bag and force myself to turn away.
“Bells, wait!”
Everything in me freezes. I turn back around and his jog has slowed but he’s still headed toward me with the long strides I’ve had to rush to keep up with since he turned fourteen and grew half a foot practically overnight.
Frantically, I drink in the sight of him. Brown jacket. White T-shirt. Jeans. He’s so beautiful and so close that I can see the uncertainty and need in his bright blue eyes and I can’t breathe because this is way too much.
My face and my heart crumples as he reaches for me and then we crash into each other’s arms like we never left.
“Are you real?” I choke out. “You feel real but you can’t be.”
“I’m real.” He tries to draw away but I cling even tighter. “Bells, look at me.”
“No. I’m too scared you’ll go away.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But please look at me.”
Scared to my soul, I let go just enough to see his face. There are tear tracks on his cheeks and his eyes are full of way more emotions than any one person should be able to feel at once. Pain and need and fear and regret. I drown in them all because they’re mine, too.
“Why?”
He sniffles a little and wipes my tears away with his thumb. “I needed to see you. I’ve tried to give you space and talking to you these last few months helped, but it wasn’t enough because it wasn’t us. And then you just…stopped. I thought maybe if I came, maybe I could see you and things would feel better again and I could leave you alone.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I miss you so damn much.”
“But how did you know I’d be here? I’m leaving. My flight is literally in four hours. I should already be on a train.”
He hesitates a little too long. Beneath my hands, his back tenses.
“Jere?” I pull away and search his face but his expression is shuttered.
“Conrad told me.”
Oh, God. I try to untangle myself from his arms but he doesn’t let me.
“No, please don’t. I’m glad he did. You didn’t say anything.”
About the flight or his brother? Does it matter? “It wasn’t important.”
“Everything about this is important.” Jere’s eyes search mine. “He and I…we’ve been talking. He said he came here to see you but you sent him away. Why did you send him away?”
Because he isn’t you.
I can’t say that. It wouldn’t be fair. Especially not if he’s reconnecting with his brother. The only way that feels possible is if I’m out of the picture. I want that for them so bad. It’s part of why I came to Paris. They’re all they have left. I can’t keep breaking them apart.
A large tour group flows around where we’re standing in the middle of the road. The hum of voices that suddenly surround us is enough to snap Jere out of the intense way he’s staring at me, like my answer is the only thing that matters in the world. Does he suspect?
“C’mon.” He grabs my roller bag and leads the way through the small crowd to the railing. The Seine stretches out in front of me like a grayish green ribbon as a long barge skims under the bridge. Beautiful. But not as beautiful as the boy next to me who looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.
He scrubs his hand over his face, then runs his fingers through his hair, sending his curls in a hundred different directions. “If you don’t want to tell me why, fine. But I wish you’d have told me you were leaving instead of just ghosting me. I know things are complicated between us, but I still care. A lot. When he told me you were coming home, I got on the first plane I could. Didn’t even pack, which feels pretty dumb since I’m stuck wearing this for however long I’m here and my phone died before we even landed because I don’t have a charger, but I was afraid that if I wasted any time, I wouldn’t get to do this.”
He’s talking so fast I can barely keep up. “Do what?”
Cupping my face in his hands, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. It’s soft, tentative, and lingers just enough to tell me how much he’s holding back. It’s also so achingly familiar that I can’t breathe.
“Kiss you in Paris,” he says quietly. “You made me promise. I already broke one promise to you. I wasn’t about to break another one.”
I did make him promise that. I made him promise to kiss me in all the cities we planned to visit. Not like he wasn’t going to anyway—we kissed a lot back then—but after everything that happened last summer, he flew here just to keep his promise? What does that mean?
When I don’t say anything, the little bit of hope in his eyes fades. His hands fall back to his sides and he sets his shoulders. “So...that's that, I guess. I’ll ride with you to the airport if that’s okay? There’s probably a flight back to Boston tonight. Or to…somewhere. I’ll figure it out. You won’t have to see me again after that. Here, give me your backpack.”
Panic flashes through me. What does he mean, not see him? Now that I’ve seen him again, been kissed by him again, I don’t want to stop. Is that what he wants, though? I glance at the hand he’s holding out to me. This boy—no, this man, because he’s not a boy anymore just like I’m not the girl I used to be—has held his hand out to me a million times in my life. I’ve only not taken it once and have regretted it every day since.
Follow your heart. This is a huge risk, not just for me but for him, but I can’t not try one last time. I have to know once and for all.
Instead of giving him my bag, I grab his hand and hold on tight. “What if I don’t want to go?”
He frowns at our hands, then back up at me. “To the airport?”
“No.” I squeeze tighter. “What if I don’t want to go home?”
His frown deepens. “Why wouldn’t you? Taylor is dying to see you. I’m sure your mom is, too. I can’t speak for Steven, but maybe…?”
That makes me smile a little. “Yes, but you’re not there.”
His eyes flare, turning them a shocking blue in the sunlight. “I’m going to need you to be very clear about what you’re saying right now, Bells.”
I grab his other hand. Touching him grounds me. I need to be grounded for what I’m about to say.
“I never stopped loving you,” I tell him. “That’s why I sent Conrad away. And now that you’re here, I don’t want to get on a plane and not know when I’ll see you again. I can’t stay away anymore. I don’t want to.”
Watching him process this, what I’m asking for, is the scariest thing I’ve done in a long time. This is it. If he rejects me, it’s over for good. I’ll walk away and never push for more again.
After what feels like forever, he nods once. “Okay.”
What does that mean? “Okay? That’s not a clear answer at all—”
He dips his head and kisses me again. And this one…it’s for real. Heat that has nothing to do with the warm sunshine floods every part of me. Desperate to be closer and grateful that I can, I wind my arms around his neck. The part of me that’s been missing from my life for the last nine months because it’s always been with him clicks back into place.
Jere breaks away first. “Is that clear enough?”
I’d answer but I’m too busy kissing him again.
He’s breathing hard but grinning when I finally let him go. “I’m super into this but you really need to get to the airport.”
I know. And we still have so much to figure out. With us. His brother. Life. Kissing is the easy part. “Okay, but I’m not getting on a plane until I know you’ll be on one, too. You flew all the way here. I’m not just going to leave you in Paris.”
“I’ll find a flight. Don’t worry. Now let’s go.”
When he tries to work the straps of my backpack over my shoulders, I swat him away. “I can carry it. You’re not my personal pack mule.”
“Send a girl to Paris and she doesn’t want you to carry her things anymore…” He shakes his head but his eyes sparkle. “That thing is huge and it smells strangely good for a backpack.” Leaning closer, he sniffs the air. “Wait. Is it full of bread? Is that why you won’t let me carry it?”
I lift my chin. “Airport food is expensive and I’m on a tight budget. There are some macarons in there if you’re hungry, though. Or maybe you want a brioche? The boulangerie near campus makes the sweetest ones I’ve been able to find. I bought, like, ten of them. That’ll feed me for days.”
“Cookies and bread? That’s what you plan to live on this week?” He looks disgusted. “First restaurant I see in that airport, I’m buying you a proper meal.”
“Or…I could just steal half of whatever you order?” That’s what used to happen. He always ordered things he knows I like because of it.
“What’s mine is yours. Pretty sure we figured that out when we were babies.”
I grin. Being together has always felt so easy. No matter how long we were apart during the school year growing up or during the rare times we got into an argument, we were always still us. I thought blowing up our wedding would have ruined that, but maybe not?
His expression softens as smooths a hand over my hair and tucks a chunk of it behind my ear. “When I got on the plane last night, I had no idea whether you’d even still be here, let alone if you’d talk to me. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up on the plane and this will be another dream. I’ve had so many.”
“Me, too.” As much as I want to kiss him again to prove to both of us that this is real, I really might miss my flight. It’s non-refundable and I can’t afford another ticket. “Maybe we can pinch each other a few times on the train to make sure, and then maybe in between figuring things out, we can kiss some more on the plane? Which you will be on with me. If it’s full, I’m going to bribe someone to give up their seat with brioche.”
That makes him chuckle. “When we get to the station, text your roommate and let her know I found you, okay? She seemed pretty happy to see me.”
I can only imagine. Anneliese has seen pictures of Jeremiah and had a lot to say about his hotness. She could’ve texted me a warning, though.
He reaches for my roller bag, but stops, face lighting up. “Hey, wait. We need proof we were here. Give me your phone.”
I slide it out of my pocket—nope, no texts from Anneliese, the traitor—and hand it to him. He hesitates before trying the code he’s known since I got this phone and set it up. 070522. The day he kissed me for the first time. When he realizes I never changed it, a little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He holds the phone out and shuffles us around as he tries to get in some of the water and a hint of the cathedral. Easier said than done. I watch our faces on the screen and can’t help but smile. Seeing myself so alive and happy in the city I’ve always wanted to live in with the boy I love feels like proof that I’m going to be okay. That everything that’s happened this year was supposed to happen and will be worth it in the end.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” a blond woman says from where she’s sitting on the metal bench closest to us. “Would you like me to take a picture of you? You’ll be able to see more of the background that way.”
“That would be great!” Jere says. “Thank you.”
He hands her my phone, then wedges his arm between me and the backpack and wraps his hand around my waist. I let out a little oof when he tugs me right up against his side. I fit exactly right. Just like I always have.
“Smile,” the woman says. We do and she takes the shot. “You two are adorable. One more?”
“By the way,” he whispers. “I never stopped loving you, either.”
I have no idea whether or not she takes a second shot. I’m too busy smiling at Jeremiah, the boy I love, the boy I’m never letting go again.