For some reason, I had almost forgotten Rémy was from an entirely different country and culture than me. It hits me now, though. He lives his life in French. Sure, he speaks English with his students at work, but that’s a deviation from the normal, an exception to the rule. I’m an even bigger deviation from the normal, and a temporary one. I’ll be leaving back to the States with Josh, and Rémy will go on living his life—with his friend Élise. I’ll become a memory that’ll fade like a temporary tattoo.

  The thought is strangely depressing to me.

  They turn, and Rémy’s got his hand out, gesturing to me. “Madi, this is Élise Garnier.” He’s speaking in English again, but his accent is a little more pronounced than usual—the result of moving between languages quickly, I assume.

  Élise meets my eyes, and this time, she’s sizing me up. It’s hard to tell what she thinks because all her expressions are tempered, muted, classy. She reminds me of an Audrey Hepburn picture. This is a woman who has never snorted in laughter.

  “Hello, Madi,” she says with a strong French accent that only adds to her charm. She steps toward me, and I realize it’s time to kiss cheeks. I make sure not to smooch this time, glancing at Rémy while touching my cheek to Élise’s like I saw her do.

  “It’s good to meet you,” I say, pulling back and hoping I didn’t just break a dozen French culture codes with my greeting. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out.

  Josh: I’m here

  “That’s him. I’ve gotta go.” I look at Rémy. “I’m really sorry I’m not going to be here for the delivery. I’ll help you tomorrow if you want to wait. Or even tonight, like I said.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You have more important things to think about right now.”

  I twist my mouth to the side. It’s true. I’ve got a business lunch—it sounds so much cooler than it is when I call it that—and a very big night ahead of me. But weirdly, I still care about this IKEA stuff.

  “I can help him,” Élise says as she steps back beside him. It’s a nice offer, so why does it feel like she’s sticking a flag in the ground and declaring her territory?

  “Oh!” I try to sound totally cool about it, but I can’t help but glance at Rémy. All I see when I do that is how good the two of them look next to each other—and how close they are standing. “Yeah, sure. That’s really nice of you.” It shouldn’t bug me to think of her fixing up my servant quarters with the stuff Rémy and I chose for it.

  Stop being weird, Madi. This isn’t about me. This is about helping Rémy and André, and Élise is André’s cousin. It makes perfect sense for her to pitch in.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Josh: You coming? I’m impatient to see you *wink emoji*

  Me: Yep! On my way down.

  My heart skips a beat or two. Who’s putting the cover on the duvet on my temporary bed should be the last thing on my mind right now. What if Josh really does propose tonight?

  I slip my camera bag on, grab my coat, pick up the folder holding the prints from my portfolio, then head out. Once I shut the door behind me, I can’t help but shoot a text off to Siena before starting down the stairs.

  Madi: I know you’re asleep, but I just had to tell you . . .

  Madi: Today might be THE DAY.

  Typing those words is the weirdest thing ever, and my eyes linger on my ring finger for a second before I slip my phone into my camera bag and head down the stairs.

  TWENTY

  MADI

  Josh is waiting just outside the door to the street, and he smiles when he catches sight of me. He’s a handsome guy, and he looks pretty slick today, with a slim-fit suit, no tie, and his hair combed to the side. He looks the way I’d expect him to look if he meant to do something . . . important.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says, pressing a kiss to my lips and pulling me toward him with a hand on my waist.

  It’s a weird moment, this kiss. I’m just feeling so nervous and jittery that I can’t really enjoy it, despite the fact that Josh and I haven’t done much in the way of physical affection since getting to Paris.

  We make our way to the metro station, holding gloved hands. Josh is checking his phone a lot, so I ask him how work has been going. He can talk about work forever, and I find it oddly calming to my nerves to focus on something other than the big things that might happen today. It seems to calm him, too, since he leaves his phone alone while he recounts all the usual drama from his trainings.

  There’s a violist in the metro, playing “O, Holy Night” as Josh buys us tickets. I try to keep my cool as we head for the turnstiles. It’s a lot less crowded than it was with Rémy last night, but there are still enough people to put me on edge.

  I can’t remember if the tickets have to go in a specific way, so I look at mine, trying to see if there’s any indicator arrow. I don’t wanna stick it in the machine only for it to pop right back out.

  “Come on, babe,” Josh says behind me. He turns and smiles apologetically at the girl waiting. “Sorry,” he says to her.

  He’s just being considerate of her, I know—that’s a good thing, right?—but it still bothers me as I slip the ticket into the machine and push through the turnstile.

  We make our way to the platform and barely slip through the doors of the waiting train. While it moves from station to station, I flip through the portfolio in my camera bag, planning what I’ll say to Dan Vincent about each photo. I chose each one carefully, knowing they’re what he’ll be judging me on—what will decide him on whether to give me the job or not. I’ve taken so many pictures over the course of my life; it’s strange to think my future could be determined by just a few. Not only that, most of these pictures don’t even represent my personal favorites from my work. Those would all be candid portraits, where all but two of these are product shots.

  Thankfully, the restaurant Josh chose is just a couple minutes’ walk from the station we get off at. It’s a nice place, which makes me feel more nervous than ever. If I can’t get it together, I’m going to leave sweatmarks on my portfolio folder. Can’t imagine that’s going to score me any points. No one wants a photographer they worry will drop her camera mid-shoot because of sweaty fingers.

  I look around the restaurant, for what, I’m not sure. I have no idea what this guy looks like. But there isn’t anyone sitting alone, so Dan must not be here yet.

  I feel my camera bag vibrate and take out my phone while Josh is trying to communicate with the maître d’. He’s speaking English to the man but interspersing it with whatever French words he happens to know, all of which are said with a distinctly American accent. The result is slightly embarrassing and, based on the expression of the maître d’, also mildly offensive.

  Rémy: Bonne chance, Madi.

  I smile. For some reason, knowing Rémy thought to text me good luck while he’s busy decorating the apartment with Élise makes me feel like a million bucks.

  Madi: Merci, mon ami. How’s the decorating going?

  Rémy: Slowly. But it’s coming together.

  Slowly . . . do I want to know why it’s going slowly?

  The maître d’ leads us to a table, so I put my phone away after noting the time: 12:40. The appointment we had with Dan was for 12:30. Maybe running late is company culture. If so, Josh is nailing it.

  He immediately starts looking at the menu.

  “Should we wait for Dan?” I ask.

  “He’ll probably be late, so we can start without him.”

  He already is late. “Okay.”

  Josh orders for both of us. I’m pretty easy to please, so it’s fine. Plus, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than choosing between lunch options. And yet, I can’t bring myself to talk about those bigger things. Instead, I keep asking Josh about work stuff. Apparently, it’s my nervous tick.

  It’s not distracting Josh as much this time, though. His leg is bouncing up and down as he waits for our salads, and he keeps sliding his phone out of his pocket just enough to turn on the screen, like he’s checking the time.

  Both of us are on edge, and I’m not sure if for Josh, it’s because he doesn’t think this lunch is going to go well or because he’s nervous about . . . later. Is he hiding an engagement ring somewhere? If so, it’s definitely not in a ring box, because there’s nowhere he could conceal it in the clothes he’s wearing.

  Finally, our waiter brings the salad, sliding the small bowls in front of us and leaving without a word.

  Josh watches the guy walk off and scoffs a little. “Great customer service.”

  I stifle a smile, remembering Rémy saying the French aren’t known for that.

  I glance at the door as it opens and a man walks in. “Is that him?”

  Josh follows my gaze, then turns back to me, frowning. “No. He’ll come, okay? Let’s just enjoy our food.”

  Geez. He really is on edge. Maybe he’s nervous about proposing later. Should he be? And should that nervousness make him short with me? Seems a bit off, but what do I know? I’ve never been proposed to before.

  I pierce some lettuce with my fork and take a bite. My nose scrunches a bit as I chew the bitter leaves.

  “What is it?” Josh asks, fork hovering above his own salad.

  I keep chewing and swallow. “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, Mads. Is it gross?”

  “No. It’s just . . . there’s not very much dressing on it, but it’s fine.” If salad dressing is like makeup, I want my lettuce with the full coverage foundation and contouring treatment.

  Josh gets distracted looking down at his phone. The length of time he spends looking at it and the way his eyes move tells me he’s not just checking the time; he’s reading something.

  “Josh?”

  He looks up at me, but it’s like he’s not even seeing me.

  “Everything okay?”

  He blinks. “Let’s get you more dressing.” He looks around for a waiter.

  “No, no,” I hurry to say. “It’s fine.” I would much rather scarf down rabbit food than have a confrontation with a French waiter.

  Josh stands up. “If I’m paying for a salad for my girlfriend, I want her to like it.” He drops his napkin and goes in search of the restaurant staff. He’s all about the customer being right. Somehow, I don’t think the waiter will share that opinion.

  I shift in my seat, wishing I could just toss the lettuce into the planted pot nearest me and forget I ever ordered it—or that Josh ever did. Maybe I should see this as an endearing way for him to stand up for me, but I just feel uncomfortable. I wish he would have listened to me when I said it was fine.

  Needing distraction, I take out my phone and navigate to my email, opening the one sitting at the top of my inbox. It has tickets that take us to the top of the Eiffel Tower. That’s right. The ones that require you to get in an elevator that takes you up to 905.93832 feet above the ground. Josh doesn’t know I bought them yet.

  It was my way of saying, “I’m on board for the ride,” but right now, I’m thinking of pleading temporary insanity—or telling Josh it was just a mistake. 905.93832 feet up, people! And yes, every decimal place matters.

  My phone vibrates. Wait, nope. Not my phone. Josh’s. It must have slipped out of his pocket when he got up because it’s sitting on the edge of his seat, about to fall off. I grab it and set it in the middle of the table, feeling particularly protective at the moment of anything in danger of falling to an untimely death. Yeah, it’s only a couple of feet, but to an iPhone, it’s the equivalent of falling off a two-story building. Or the Eiffel Tower.

  Gosh, my brain is morbid right now.

  The screen on his phone is lit up from the text.

  Dan Vincent: Sorry, man. I thought I could make it work. Next time, just gimme a little more notice, and I’ll move around my schedule.

  My heart plummets down to the pit of my stomach. 906 feet. I’m rounding up.

  Dan Vincent isn’t coming. Apparently, Josh didn’t give him enough notice. Is that why Josh has been acting weird? He’s been nervous Dan Vincent wouldn’t show? How much notice did he give him?

  I glance up, looking for Josh, but he’s still not back.

  Still down in the pit of my stomach, my heart is racing, and I swipe to unlock his phone. The conversation with Dan Vincent comes up.

  Josh (10:34 p.m. last night): Hey, Dan. My girlfriend is interested in helping out with our marketing photography. Any chance you could meet us for lunch at 12:30 tomorrow? We’ll be at Les Deux Canards.

  Dan Vincent (11:07 p.m. last night): My day tomorrow is pretty slammed, but I’ll try to move things around and make it.

  Dan Vincent (12:58 p.m. today): Unfortunately, looks like lunch isn’t gonna happen today.

  And then, one minute later, the text I already saw.

  I swallow, staring and staring.

  Last night. Josh gave the guy twelve hours of notice for this lunch meeting—the meeting we’ve been talking about for weeks. The one that was supposed to be my ticket into the future. Not only that, but he makes it sound like I’m some high schooler hoping to get some experience for my resume rather than an experienced, degree-holding photographer looking for a career.

  I tap out of the conversation, hoping if I stop looking at it, it’ll stop making me feel like . . . like what? What is this feeling?

  As I set the phone down, my eyes catch the list of text messaging threads. Right under the texts with Dan is Brianne’s name and the last text she sent.

  Brianne (11:47 p.m. last night): You’ve been a great mentor *wink face*

  Weirdly, my heart doesn’t react. Maybe that’s because it can’t fall any farther. I don’t even know what to do with that text. Especially combined with that emoji. And that time stamp. I think back to last night. I’m almost positive I was asleep at that point. I thought Josh was too.

  It just seems late for texts between coworkers.

  It’s entirely possible I’m reading into it too much. Maybe Brianne is just genuinely thanking him for mentoring her. But I’m tempted to tap on the thread to see whether Josh was texting her before that—while I slept with my head on his shoulder.

  I shut my eyes and set the phone down, feeling a bit sick.

  I hate this feeling so much. Even more, though, I hate how familiar it has become.

  Josh comes up to the table, sighing as he sits down and picks up his phone. “With 4.7 stars, you’d think this place would be able to dress a salad.”

  I watch to see if he realizes I was using his phone—and if he’ll see the new texts from Dan. His jaw tightens, and he grimaces. He turns off his phone and sets it aside, picking up his utensils and looking up at me. His eyes grow more intent as they take in my expression. “Is something wrong?”

  I don’t even know what to say. Right now, everything feels wrong. I’m weirdly numb, though, as I meet his eye. Mostly, I just feel tired and disappointed. I don’t think Josh had even texted Dan yet last night when he told me he had a meeting set up for us.

  Josh sets down his hands on the table. “You’re mad Dan isn’t here yet. Look, Mads. I’m really sorry, but he texted me saying he can’t make it. He got caught up with work today.”

  “I know.” It’s all I can say because right now, life feels surreal. “I saw the texts.” I’m also seeing all sorts of moments from the last two years flash across my mind. The subtle shifts that took us from those happy first months to the last year and more where I’ve been waiting for things at work to die down for Josh so we can get back to normal.

  But it finally hits me: this is normal. This rollercoaster. And I am not a rollercoaster person. At all.

  Josh’s eyebrows draw together, and his gaze moves to his phone on the table again. “You read my texts?”

  I nod. Usually, when Josh starts to get frustrated like this, I pull back and do damage control, trying to put out the fire like I’m the one who started it.

  Not today, though. Today, I’m finally seeing through the smoke.

  I take in a full breath, filling my lungs. “Listen, Josh . . .” I bite the inside of my lip. “I hoped we could make this work. I really did.” I hold his gaze. “But I don’t think we can anymore.”

  He blinks. “You’re breaking up with me because Dan can’t make it to lunch? Sheesh, Madi. I didn’t realize our relationship was contingent on my getting you a job.”

  I stare at him for a second, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. Josh is a decent guy, but he’s got his priorities mixed up. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not one of those priorities.

  I shake my head. “It’s not about the job, Josh.”

  “Is it about Brianne?”

  My brows go up. “Should it be?”

  “No,” he says decisively. “I can’t help that she’s into me or that I got assigned to mentor her. It’s part of my job, Madi.”

  I can’t even unpack that right now. And I don’t think I want to. “It’s not about Brianne either. For a long time now, I feel like you’ve been doing the bare minimum to keep me around, Josh. Like a client you’re trying to keep happy enough to stay on board.” I shrug. “For some reason, I thought Paris might change that. Maybe because it wasn’t always this way.”

  Josh looks at me, and I can see he’s thinking through what I’m saying. “No. It wasn’t, was it?” He sighs and shakes his head. “You’re right. I haven’t been handling things right.” He scoots forward on his chair, his eyes imploring. “It can be like it used to be, Mads. It can. My trainings end in a few days, and we can see everything together—do whatever you want. I’ll turn off my phone.” He picks it up and holds the power button until it shuts off.

  I try to picture the image he’s painting, to imagine our relationship like it was in the beginning, when Josh was actively investing in us.