“I owe everything to you. And I promise I won’t forget that.” I take in a deep breath. I wasn’t really planning on doing this right now, but maybe it’s a good time. Maybe saying what I need to say before the service starts will give my mom some time to let it settle in. “Sometimes I get the sense that you’re disappointed in me—whether that’s my interest in English, my job teaching it, my lack of motivation to try for the position at Monsieur Garnier’s school, or my dating Madi. Maybe I’m wrong, but if it is because you feel like you might lose me, that I might choose those things over you, I promise you I won’t.

  “I don’t know what’ll happen with Madi and me. I know what I want to happen, but I don’t know what will happen. And if I’m being completely honest, I also don’t know that I’ll take the position at Bellevue even if it’s offered to me. I love where I am now, and I don’t really want to leave. But none of that has any bearing on you and me.” My mouth tugs up at the corner. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

  She squeezes my hand, which, for my mom, is the equivalent of running at me full speed and hug-tackling me. “I just want you to be happy, Rémy. I don’t want you to go through what I went through.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  She looks down at our hands for a minute while we both let things sink in. She starts to fiddle with my hand in hers. “Madison cleaned my dishes perfectly.” She looks up at me and smiles softly.

  My mouth pulls up in a grin because that is a major compliment from Sylvie Fortin—and I know what it means, even if she’s still a bit too proud to say it: she likes Madi a little bit already.

  I take my hand from hers and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into me and kissing her hair.

  “She leaves in a week?” she asks.

  “Eight days.” I’m like a kid who insists on correcting people who say it’s 2:30 when it’s really 2:29. But that one extra day is important.

  “Then what are you doing here, Rémy?”

  I pause, trying to make sure I heard her right, then I pull away enough that I can look at her.

  “Go,” she says with a teasing glint in her eye. “I’ve seen enough of you today.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  MADI

  I’m not usually one to go for long periods of time without looking at my phone, but since coming to Paris, I’ve become that kind of person. And I don’t think Paris has much to do with it. It’s Rémy. I couldn’t care less about scrolling through social media apps when I could be talking with him. It’s not even that I’m resisting; I just forget social media exists when we’re together.

  But now that he’s gone to mass, instinct is back in full force, so I navigate to social media like the tech zombie I am.

  Whoa.

  This tech zombie has a ridiculous number of notifications. I tap on them—an endless line of likes and comments from usernames I don’t recognize, and a ton of new followers. Some are liking the picture Linnae tagged me in, while others are apparently going back through my entire feed and liking my old posts. I scroll and scroll and scroll, stopping when I notice a tag.

  It’s a repost of the same picture Linnae posted, and the account tagged both of us in it. I tap on the account, and my eyes bug out of my head. One million followers. It’s a massive photography account with a feed featuring shots from destinations around the world. And the photo I took is right there at the top of them all.

  Heart racing, I tap on my own profile and stare at the number of followers. Between the post from Linnae and the one from the massive photography account, I have four thousand new followers. Four thousand. That’s four times more than I had to begin with. Not to mention my inbox has a bunch of unread messages.

  I start reading. Every single one is a request for a session, most of them in Paris. One asks if I would be interested in coming to Bruges and another to Barcelona. There’s a request for a date next week, one for a Valentine’s couple’s session, and one all the way out in summer. And that’s just three of the ten.

  My phone buzzes in my hands, startling me out of my dazed state. It’s my mom video calling.

  I hurry to accept it; I didn’t think I’d hear from her at all today. It’s her last cruise day, and I figured she’d have no service.

  “Mom!”

  “Hi, honey! Merry Christmas.” She’s got sunkissed skin and messy, beach hair. It’s very unChristmassy of her. I haven’t seen her glow like this in years, though, and it warms my heart like the end of a cheesy Hallmark movie. So cheesy that my eyes are actually prickling. She deserves this break more than anyone.

  “So?” she says with a huge smile and an enigmatic look. “Do you have some news for me?”

  Oh dear. How many times will this happen? A lot has gone on since I last talked to her.

  “Um . . . yes? But maybe not the news you’re expecting.”

  I regale my mom with a Reader’s Digest version of what’s happened over the past couple of weeks—the rough arrival, the unmet expectations once I was here, the lead-up to the breakup between Josh and me, and finally, the actual breakup. Even after that, she’s still way behind.

  I don’t know exactly how to catch her up on the rest. Things have happened at warp speed, and telling it all in this way only highlights that. How exactly do I explain that, since we last saw each other, I’ve ended the relationship I staunchly defended for two years and started falling for someone new? It makes me sound like a complete loon—more unstable than a French elevator.

  So I hold off on all the Rémy stuff. A few minutes can go a long way to space out all the action.

  “Wow, Madi,” she says softly. “I feel awful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t been there for any of it! All these huge things happening in your life . . .”

  “Mom,” I say, “first of all, it’s expressly forbidden for you to feel awful on a cruise—unless it’s the result of overeating. Secondly, you have been here for the entirety of my relationship with Josh. Despite the fact that you never really liked him, you’ve been patient with me as I figured things out for myself.”

  She straightens, looking mildly offended. “I did like Josh, I just—”

  “Mom.”

  Her shoulders drop, and she relaxes. “Okay. I didn’t like him. At least not for you. But I tried, Madi.”

  I laugh softly. “I know you did.”

  “Tried what?” Jack’s face pops up on the screen as he joins the call. He’s in a living room I’ve never seen before. Behind him is a fireplace with a pine garland draped artistically across the top, two red bows, and a half dozen stockings.

  “There you are!” Mom says. “I sent Jack a text invitation since he never answers FaceTime calls right away,” she explains to me.

  “Never answers them at all, more like,” I say.

  “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

  I pull my clasped hands to my chest and bat my eyes. “Our very own Christmas miracle.”

  Jack shoots me a look—at least I assume it’s for me. “Not all of us want to be at the beck and call of our phones twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “No,” I say, “but five minutes a day, one day a week wouldn’t kill you.”

  “What did Mom try?” Jack asks, ignoring my dig at his lack of connectedness.

  “Liking Josh,” Mom says.

  “Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Jack says without missing a beat.

  I tip my head to the side and plaster a fake smile on my face. “Aw. Poor Jack. And here I thought being a terrible brother came naturally to you.” I don’t really have a spicy side, but Jack sure brings it out of me.

  He smiles widely, scrunching up his nose in the most annoying older brother expression I can think of. “I’m sorry you haven’t had as much success in romance as I’ve had, Mads. But hey, I can’t take all the credit for my success. You’ve got great friends.”

  There is so much history implicit in those stupid words that I want to use the garland behind Jack to strangle him.

  “Enough of that,” Mom breaks in. “Madi already has someone new, and she was going to tell me about him before you joined us.”

  I blink. I kept my references to Rémy as bland and relevant as possible, only mentioning him when it was pertinent to the story of Josh and me. I certainly didn’t tell her I have someone.

  Mom smiles at my reaction. “Motherly intuition—isn’t it a glorious thing? Now, was it Rémy? Did I catch his name right? It’s a great name.”

  “Wait, you’re serious?” Jack asks, looking back and forth between us. “Didn’t you break up with Josh like a week ago?”

  It’s not meant to be judgmental, but given that I’m already worried about how this whole situation sounds, it hits that way. So I snap back, “Oh, because you’re the model of careful deliberation when it comes to relationships?”

  He puts up his hands defensively. “Hey! You won’t ever hear me complaining that you gave the boot to Josh. I just don’t wanna be on this same phone call in two more years because you’ve jumped headfirst into something with an equally dumb dude.”

  “Jack,” Mom says in a warning tone.

  “Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “I didn’t call you today, Jack, and you wouldn’t be the one I’d call in two years.”

  He laughs. “Fair enough.”

  That’s one good thing about Jack. He can take what he dishes out. That’s the only reason I get snippy with him—I know it won’t hurt his feelings.

  “If this is about to become girl talk,” he says, “I’ll leave the two of you to it. I just wanted to jump on to say Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” Mom says, looking at him like he’s the sweetest thing in the world for spending two minutes on a video call with his family on Christmas. “I love you, sweetie.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. And you, Mads.”

  “Love you, Jack,” I say with a hint of annoyance. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas. Oh, and Mads? Make sure Ratatouille is better than the last guy.”

  And then he’s gone. How he manages to balance the protective brother vibe with the couldn’t-care-less-about-your-love-life vibe is truly impressive.

  My mom shakes her head with a smile. “Okay, sweetie. Now tell me about Rémy.”

  So I do. And whether it’s because of Jack’s comments or because I need someone besides Siena to reassure me that I’m not crazy, I don’t hold back—not about how amazing Rémy has been, not about how fast my feelings have developed, not about how scared I am beneath it all.

  “Oh, Mads,” Mom says after I’ve dumped all my words onto her. “He sounds perfect for you.”

  I swallow. He does. Rémy feels perfect for me. Not perfect. But perfect for me. “But, Mom, what if Jack’s right? What if I’m right back here in two months? Or in two years?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “I mean it, Madison. Even if things ended between you and Rémy, you wouldn’t be right back here. You’d have learned and grown. You’d be in a new place. Life’s a journey, and sometimes all we get to decide is who we take with us and for how long. But we’re never back at square one, even if it seems like it.”

  I let that sink in. “I just don’t see a clear path forward for us, though. We live in different countries, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Who said the path has to be clear, sweetie? You think your father and I were skipping along the yellow brick road together? We cleared away our fair share of bushes and debris. It’s not what the path looks like. It’s having someone who’s willing to do the work to clear it with you. Better a dedicated partner on a rough road than someone sleeping at the wheel on a straight stretch.”

  My mom is right. I know she is—she and her Chicken Soup for the Soul wisdom.

  FORTY-FIVE

  MADI

  I’m going through my mental shot list as I get off the metro at the Trocadéro stop. Not only did I come here on my own, I had to make a metro line change to do it.

  It’s wild how far I’ve come in my comfort level on the metro since first arriving. There’s a powerful sense of satisfaction that comes with being able to navigate the system and get where I need to, all on my own. Sure, it took a little (literal) handholding to get me here, but I’ve done a lot of things in Paris that scared me, and it’s shown me that many of my fears are conquerable with the right support and the right mindset.

  Which brings me to Rémy. Every time. Always to Rémy. And to what my mom said about him. We haven’t known each other very long, but Rémy has shown in every way possible that he will stick with things—with me, especially when I need him most.

  I wish he was with me right now. I’m glad he’s with his mom, though. As easy as it would be for me to monopolize him all day, there’s a special bond between a single mom and her child.

  The weather is overcast, which makes it a bit warmer than usual. I’m not complaining. It sure makes my job easier. I’m always a bit jittery before a shoot—you never know what clients will be like—but today even more so. Since talking to my mom, I’ve been thinking about changing my flight. Again.

  But this time, I’m thinking about pushing it back, and the money from these shoots might just make that possible.

  I reach the corner of a wide, open area set between two tall, columned, symmetrical buildings. This is the Trocadéro, and I pause to admire the view. It’s a straight shot ahead to the Eiffel Tower, and I can absolutely understand why Ashleigh Jo would want this location. There are people here, sure, but if I get creative, I can keep most of them out of my shots. Any of the pesky ones I can’t keep out of the frame can be forced out with Photoshop if needed.

  I pull out my camera and take some test shots, using a suit-clad gentleman with his back to me as my involuntary test subject until I’m satisfied with my settings.

  “Madi.”

  I whirl around, sure I’m hearing things. But Rémy’s jogging toward me. My heart does a wacky little dance at the sight of him there, wearing his Christmas mass sweater in a way that, quite frankly, makes it hard to remember the reason for the season.

  “What’re you doing here? I thought mass didn’t start until three.” I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s only 3:30, and it takes about thirty minutes just to get to his mom’s.

  It also means Ashleigh Jo and her fiancé should be here any minute. I try to give my clients a thirty-minute grace window to show up before I call it and leave. I’ll probably give them more today because it’s a lot less skin off my back to hang out by the Eiffel Tower than it is in a studio back at home. Also, I need their money.

  “It didn’t,” he says, a little breathless as he stops a couple feet away from me. “I just . . . I wanted to come help with the session.” He holds my gaze. “I wanted to be with you.”

  Mom said she and Dad cleared away a lot of bushes and debris from their path. As I stare back at Rémy, trying to breathe, I realize I will wield a flipping machete if that’s what it takes to see where the road with Rémy takes me. I’m hoping the road doesn’t require that, though, because the thought of me with a machete is frightening.

  “What about your mom?”

  He smiles slightly. “She’s the one who told me to come.”

  I have no response for that because, even though Madame Fortin and I had that little moment of connection in the kitchen last night, I was under no impression that she was over the moon about my presence at her special dinner—to say nothing of my presence in her son’s life.

  But maybe I did better than I thought I had.

  Somewhere nearby, a violin starts playing. Gosh, I love Paris. It’s as close as real life gets to a musical, with street performers starting up songs worthy of a life soundtrack all over the place.

  “Madi?”

  I whirl around to the sound of the new voice, expecting Ashleigh Jo and her boyfriend.

  It is not Ashleigh Jo and her boyfriend.

  It’s the man in the suit whose back I used as a test subject walking toward me. That suit is a tux, and that man is Josh.

  “Josh.” My voice comes out like a croak.

  He smiles big, and I’m mentally shaking my fist at both Paris and fate who have teamed up to make it so that Josh would have a business function—or maybe it’s a date with Brianne—right here at the same time that I have a photography session. It’s unreal.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says.

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.” I glance at Rémy, who’s taken a step back. I turn back to Josh. “Um, it’s good to see you. I’m actually here for a photoshoot, and it’s supposed to start right now, so I should probably go look for my clients.”

  His smile widens. “Your photoshoot is right here.” He looks over his shoulder and makes a jerking motion with his head. The violinist starts moving toward us, his bow sliding over the strings as he walks, chin to violin.

  Josh puts his hands out and smiles widely. “I’m Ashleigh Jo.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. I have never been this confused in my life, and the confusion emoji is one of my top five most used, so that’s saying something.

  “Ashleigh Jo Wrutton,” he repeats like it should mean something to me. “It’s an anagram for my name. Joshua Elton Wright.”

  My mouth plops closed, and I blink a thousand times. “Like Tom Marvolo Riddle and I am Lord Voldemort?” Harry Potter is the strongest mental association I have with anagrams, and I am mystified that Josh would follow Voldemort’s lead.

  He looks a bit miffed. “I mean, no. Not like that. I wanted to surprise you, but I thought I might leave you a little clue. For fun.”

  I have no words. I’m trying to process the fact that I’m evidently not here to take beautiful pictures of Ashleigh Jo and her fiancé in front of the Eiffel Tower on Christmas Day. I will not be pocketing a few hundred dollars tonight to help me pay for a flight change. But what I don’t understand yet is what in the heck is happening?