“I do,” I admit. “Or, I did. Before the bleeding on planes and vomiting in buckets.”
“You’ve found your adventure, and are going to chase it,” she says, and I hear sheets rustling in the background, the familiar sounds of Harlow curling onto her side on her bed. “And why not? I’m super proud of you, and I hope you have the time of your life out there.”
“I’m terrified,” I admit in a small voice.
She reminds me I have savings, she reminds me I’m twenty-three. She reminds me there is nothing I have to be doing here other than enjoying myself, for the first time in . . . ever.
“It doesn’t really have to be about fucking Ansel all summer,” she says. “I mean it totally could but there’s more to do than worry about what he’s thinking. Get out of the house. Eat some macarons. Drink some wine—just not yet because you are officially banned from barfing until September. Go stock up on experiences.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit, looking out the window. Beyond our narrow street the world outside is an almost blinding intrusion of greens and blues. I can see for miles: a cathedral, a hill, the top of a building I know I’ve seen in pictures. Rooftops are tile and copper, gilded golden and stone. Even from the window of Ansel’s little flat, I’m convinced I’ve just stepped into the most beautiful city in the world.
“Today?” she says, thinking. “It’s Saturday in June, so the crowds will be ridiculous; skip the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. Hit Luxembourg Gardens.” She yawns loudly. “Report in tomorrow. I’m going back to sleep.”
She hangs up.
NOTHING IS MORE surreal than this, I swear it. I eat at the window, staring out at the view, and then move into the small, tiled shower, where I shave and wash and shampoo until I feel like every inch of me has been sufficiently scrubbed. When I step out, the steam begins to clear and in a rush, it hits me that I can’t just go home and grab the things I forgot to pack. I have no blow-dryer, no flatiron. I can’t meet up with the girls tonight to tell them everything. Ansel is gone for the day and I have no idea when he’ll be back. I’m alone, and for the first time in five years I’m going to have to dip into the savings account I’ve watched grow with pride. Every one of my paychecks from the coffee shop I worked in throughout college went directly into that account; Mom insisted on it. And now, it’s going to allow me to have a summer in France.
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.