After several deep conversations and my dad assuring me thoroughly that nothing was going on while my mom was still alive, I have come to realize that I don’t understand it. I think because that’s not how I dealt with losing Carson, but at the same time, I wasn’t married to him for thirty years like my mom and dad were. I decided that he’s still my father and I do love him and want to work on mending our relationship.
“I think it’s finally time. I’m ready to move on and close this chapter of grief in my life.”
“Are you sure?” She gives me a hopeful look.
“Yeah.” I nod my head, reassuring myself as my fingers wrap delicately around my cup of tea. “It’s been almost two years now. I’ve allowed myself time to fully grieve and I’ve worked through a lot of my emotions and feelings in therapy. You and my therapist are both right; it’s time I get back to living my life.”
I’ll admit that after so much loss, I felt like I was slowly slipping away too. I couldn’t comprehend it for the longest time. When they talk about the stages of grief and one of them being denial, they aren’t wrong. I tried to just act normal for as long as I could, and I think even Xana was worried that when it all came crashing down on me it was going to be catastrophic… and it was. I always managed to keep my job, but I became a recluse, losing friends and motivation. I lost weight, became depressed, and was practically a shell of the person I used to be.
“That makes me really happy for you.” She reaches across the table and clasps my hand with hers after I place my cup down. “I never meant to rush you before you were ready, but I did worry I was losing you along your grief journey. You’re only twenty-seven and I do think you deserve to be happy and even find love again—when you’re ready.” Tears threaten to fall from the brim of her dark eyes.
“I know. I never felt that you did, but truthfully, love is kind of the last thing from my mind at the moment.”
She glances at her watch. “I have to meet Ryann in fifteen to look at a new apartment. Please, please, please, if I don’t see you before you leave, text me every day, send me photos from Paris, and whatever you do, don’t make any rash, off the cuff decisions. Seriously consider calling your administrator and seeing if you can get your job back. Okay?”
“I’ll consider it,” I say, reassuring her. “But for the record, it wasn’t a rash decision to quit. I thought I had that other job and I rebounded with the Paris idea. It was a calculated decision. I’m just apparently really bad at calculations.”
We say our goodbyes and I put my earbuds in, Édith Piaf’s voice flooding my ears with “La Vie en Rose.” “Paris is always a good idea,” I quote Audrey’s famous line from Funny Face to myself as I imagine dancing down cobblestone streets with Fred Astaire.
1
DAPHNE
I let out a sigh, my shoulders falling as I stare up at the Eiffel Tower.
I can’t believe I’m actually standing here right now. I’d give anything to experience this with my mom or Carson. I know that Carson wanted to go to some place tropical for our honeymoon and honestly, I loved that idea too. But after my mom passed, he surprised me one night by showing me the two tickets he had bought for us to Paris for our honeymoon. He didn’t say a word and I burst into tears, throwing my arms around his neck and sobbing as he held me.
I close my eyes, soaking in the moment as I clutch my latte in one hand, my buttery croissant in the other. I don’t care if I look like a cliché, an obvious tourist. I want to soak in every possible second I have in this magical city. I imagine what it would be like to have this be my view every single day as I walked to work or looked out my apartment window.
My phone rings loudly in my pocket, jolting me out of my fantasy and back to reality. Before I fully open my eyes again, I rapidly attempt moving my latte and croissant into one hand and reach into my pocket to grab my phone. I feel the phone tumbling from my hand and I step back, attempting to catch it, but I’m unsuccessful. The phone falls and my body twists unexpectedly.
“Oh shit!” I stumble, jutting out my hand to catch myself when I smash my cup right into the very broad, very firm chest of a complete stranger.
“What the—ow!” he yelps as my hot coffee soaks his pristine white shirt. I stand frozen for a second, completely shocked at what just happened.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” I feel my face already burning with embarrassment as I struggle to right myself. “Here, let me—” I look through the pocket of my cardigan for a tissue before seeing my now deflated croissant on the ground with the napkin nearby, a large footprint marking both. “Oh no,” I mutter as I bend down to grab the napkin. “Here.” I attempt to dab at the large brown spot now taking over his shirt.
“Sidewalks are for walking, not pictures,” he snaps.
“Oh, a fellow American.” I snap my head up when his accent registers. “Or Canadian?” I correct when he doesn’t respond. “I swear I am not one of those clumsy people who does stuff like this.” I shake my head, laughing to ease the tension when I look back down at my hands. “Sorry,” I gasp, realizing I’m clutching his arm, my other hand flat against his chest with the soggy napkin as his arms jut outwardly with no attempt to help me.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief, brushing my hands away. “Are you okay?” He dabs at the large brown stain on his shirt but it’s no use.
“Uh, yeah, yeah, I’m just a little discombobulated.” I laugh as I straighten out my skirt that has twisted a little, my eyes traveling up the stranger’s long suit-clad legs. His head is turned down as he focuses on his shirt, his dark hair falling over his forehead obscuring my view. His hands are large, his fingers long. I don’t know much about fashion, but I can tell that his suit is not an off-the-rack Calvin Klein from Macy’s and his watch probably cost more than my childhood house. “Are you okay?”
He dabs at his shirt once more, giving up before slowly lifting his eyes to meet mine. He stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket, the sun catching his blue eyes that look piercing surrounded by his long, dark lashes. My breath actually catches in my throat as I take in the beauty of this man. His clean-shaven face has a jaw that looks carved by the gods, just a hint of gray at his temples. I feel like I physically choke on my own tongue looking at him.
“Christian Grey?” I whisper, completely taken aback by this man’s appearance.
This is it. This is that moment in the romance novels where we meet and fall in love. Paris really is a fantasy. Even the men are a cut above.
“Excuse me?” He looks confused, probably frightened actually by the Cheshire cat grin that’s plastered on my face.
“Uh, are you okay?” I repeat a little louder, hoping he buys it.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
“Again, I’m so sorry. I was trying to take it all in.” I gesture with my arms toward the tower. “First time in Paris and all.” I laugh nervously, practically tripping over my words as I blabber on. “I was supposed to come here on my honeymoon or well, I guess I should say with my mom first and then my honeymoon, but unfortunately life gives you lemons sometimes and man, did it give me le—”