“I think at this point, you should aim a little lower, sweetheart. No use in getting your hopes up again or wasting time over something that will never happen.”
What—and I cannot stress this enough—the actual fuck.
“Can’t wait to see you soon! Really, super excited, but oh shoot, I have to go!”
“Evie—”
I hang up. A firm lump lodges itself in the back of my throat. Our tiny Paris apartment’s close-knit walls narrow, slowly shrinking the space until the walls collapse in on themselves. I pace back and forth between the living room and my bedroom. The wooden floorboards groan under my agitation. I need to get out of here.
The front door swings open. Maria, arms full of reusable shopping bags, enters. “I’ve got—” Her bright face falls. “Oh, dear, what’s wrong.”
“I need to go for a walk.” I pick up my chin, marching into my bedroom.
The bags drop on the floor. “Are you feeling well enough for that?”
I grab the first set of leggings I find and a flowy dress piled in a heap on the floor. Confetti cascades to the ground when I shake it out. “I’m fine.”
“Evie, it’s only been a few days, and it’s awfully sunny.”
“My mom called,” I say, tossing some of the clothes on the floor to the side. Where did I put my jacket? “And I answered.”
“Oh, yes—well, a walk sounds lovely. Do you want me to go too?”
“No, I need to be alone, but thank you.” I force a smile, plucking the coat off the desk chair.
“I’ll start dinner, then. Remember we invited Eli and Liam over along with Declan and Fionn.”
Shit. “Any chance . . .”
“You can’t uninvite him.”
I tip my head back with a sigh. “Hell, this better be a cleansing walk, then. I’ll hurry back soon to help,” I grump, stuffing my feet into a pair of well-loved ballet flats and leaving.
Coat. Shoes. Stairs. Métro. That’s been the natural rhythm of my life for the past six years. A torn, tattered advertisement for a sale at Printemps, heavily graffitied, stares at me on the Métro platform. It’s been here as long as I have. No one’s changed it.
Over the years, it’s lost bits of itself, flaking away, revealing more of the gray concrete underneath. The wording, too, has dwindled away, “soldes” reduced to “lde,” and the “Printemps” turning into “mps,” with graffiti scrawled haphazardly over the remaining poster.
Honestly, mood. That’s whatmy little conditionwill do.
Twelve years with this damn disease now. Weathered, tattered, torn, unchanging, littered with unsolicited graffiti, chipping away into gray.
I was so naive when I moved here, full of hope and false promises, thinking whatever pain I had would remain manageable. Bitterness washes over me recalling my past, how I was so blissfully unaware that my disease would progress over time, and all the blood, sweat, and tears I poured into achieving my pastry chef dreams would be ripped away in a slow, agonizing defeat.
Maybe if I’d known, I would have done something different. Maybe if I’d known, I would have traveled more and spent less time grinding at work. Thewhat-iftalons threaten to shred my guilt-ridden conscience, and I shake my head to free myself from the spiral.
Damn, eight minutes for the next train. Ugh. Not wanting to dwell on depressing existential poster metaphors, I pull out my phone to doom scroll while I wait.
UNKNOWN: Hello, Evie. This is Liam Kelly. Eli gave me your phone number. He told me we were invited over for dinner tonight. Wanted to confirm the invite was actually extended to both of us.
I snort. After Caroline’s phone call, I should be frustrated with him, but seriously, who texts like that? Oh. Actually—
ME: I’m sorry, but who the hell texts like this?
LIAM: A ray of sunshine.
ME: Okay, I didn’t denote a particular part of the sun to you. But if I did, you’d definitely be the sunspot.
LIAM: Because I’m magnetic? Aww, Peaches, I’m flattered.
