I stared hard into my glass of sangria as if it were a wishing well that would give me the answers, if only I looked hard enough. But the fact was, I already knew the answers I needed, didn’t I?
“No,” I said again. Maybe I just needed to look inside myself and stop placing blame where it didn’t belong. Maybe I needed to be a little more like Poppy and learn to take control of my own life instead of letting myself be a doormat. After all, I could do it at work—and I had been doing it since I got here. Why was I so seemingly unsure that I deserved to be respected in my personal life?
“But I’m going home in a few weeks anyhow, right?” I asked softly. Maybe all this Paris-driven self-discovery was for naught.
Poppy paused. “Well, I was going to wait to tell you this,” she said slowly. “But I’ve talked to Véronique. And based on all your good work these last few weeks with Guillaume, we’d really like you to stay.”
“What?”
Poppy smiled. “KMG would like to offer you a longer assignment,” Poppy said. “That is, if you can stand Guillaume Riche for the next year.”
“A year?” I asked.
“A year,” Poppy confirmed. “So will you do it? Will you stay?”
After Poppy went to bed that night, I sat in the living room for a long time, staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower until the lights went out and the tower faded into the shadows, making me feel all alone again. I looked at my watch. It would only be 8 p.m. back in Florida. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone to call Brett.
“I’m going to stay in Paris for a while,” I said when he answered.
There was silence for a long moment on the other end of the phone. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.
“No,” I said. I tried to put into words how I felt. “I’m really happy here. I’m finally part of something important. I finally feel needed.”
Brett was silent for a moment. “So I guess it doesn’t matter if I need you,” he said. “I guess that’s just not important?”
“I didn’t say that,” I said. I took a deep breath and thought about Poppy’s words tonight. “Besides, if I’m so important to you, why don’t you come over here for a while? I’m really happy here. Maybe we could give it a try in Paris.”
“Are you crazy?” Brett asked. “I don’t even speak French.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “But maybe you could just take some vacation time from work. Take the time you were going to use for our honeymoon, even. Come stay with me for a few weeks and see how you like it.”
I was testing him, and I knew it. I was holding out my hand, and if he took it, I was willing to give things a try and admit that Poppy may have been wrong.
“Haven’t I been clear with you about the fact that I intend to stay in Florida?” Brett said after a moment, “If I wouldn’t move to New York, why would you think I’d come to France?”
“Because I’m here,” I said right away. There was silence on the other end of the line. I struggled to fill it, because that’s what the insecure side of me did—rushed to fill in words when the silence between them felt too heavy. “Besides, you wouldn’t have to move here. Just come for a little while to see where I’m living. This is my life now, Brett. And I still want you to be a part of it, if you want to.”
I wasn’t sure if I meant that last part or not. I felt terribly torn. But I owed him at least that, didn’t I? I owed him a chance. It was more than he had given me, but I was trying to live by my rules, not his. At the end of the day, there was comfort in that.
“Emma,” Brett said slowly, as if talking to a child or someone whose mental comprehension was in question. “I thought you told me you were coming home.”
I looked out at the darkened silhouette of the Eiffel Tower and felt a sense of calm settle over me. “I know,” I said. “I think I am home.”
Chapter Fourteen
The thing about Paris is that it’s seductive. It’s not the men or the dates or even the perfect kisses that have the power to seduce you, as Poppy would have me believe. No, it’s the city itself—the quaint alleyways, the picturesque bridges, the perfectly manicured gardens, the rainbow of flowers that bloom everywhere in graceful harmony in the springtime. It’s the way the sparkling lights illuminate everything at night, the way the stars dangle over the city like someone placed them there by hand, the way the Seine ripples softly like a supple blanket stretched between the banks. It’s the hidden cafés, the tiny, self-righteous dogs, and the cobblestone streets where you least expect them. It’s the bright green of the grass, the deep blue of the sky, the blinding white of the SacréCoeur.