And then Audrey Hepburn reminisced over the dance number inCharadewith Cary Grant.
If I could have my own Evie and Nana Center of Paris marker, it would be there.
Unfortunately, as far as this walk is concerned, my endo isn’t a fan.
Sudden flare-ups are all-too-common lately, and I don’t want to risk one striking too far from The Quays.
“Abbreviated would be best.”
A tiny wrinkle settles between Maria’s brow, the only hint of worry she ever allows to show. “Sounds good,” she hums, wrapping her arm around mine. Our legs press together, and she jolts away, experiencing what I attempted to ignore.
My pants are buzzing.
Left pocket specifically.
TheDance of the Bumble Bee.
Except nothing in these rapid-fire text messages is sweet.
All stingers, no honey.
“Why on earth is that on vibrate?”
“It’s only been like this the last two minutes or so.” I sigh, sliding my phone out of my pocket to silence the ringer. “Caroline must have seen the post.”
Early this morning, I uploaded a candid Eli snapped yesterday of Liam laughing while we shared an éclair on the Champs de Mars to my blog and Instagram.
Eiffel for you under Paris skiescaptioned underneath with a smattering of hashtags.
Did writing that caption physically hurt?
Yup.
Does it already have grotesquely more likes than any of my other posts with super exciting tidbits about the history of Paris?
You betcha.
Dimples, corny-ass pun, and the Eiffel Tower in the background for the ultra-filtered high-life social media win and low-key real-life panic attack.
It was, surprisingly, a rather convincing picture of two people in love. A comment on how easy it is to fool the general public on social media, nothing more. Paused for eternity in a little square, Liam’s arm is wrapped around me, his hand falling to my waist and pulling me in. Laugh lines edge his eyes, and his dimples pucker his cheeks.
In my infinite chill, as we were about to pose for the picture, I nicknamed the pastry “Fred Éclair” and made it dance before promptly taking a huge I’m-uncomfortable bite. Liam erupted at that moment with a glorious, genuine laugh. And as he wiped some tears from his eyes, a terrifying realization slammed into me while a wide uncontained smile simultaneously took real estate on my face. I would do just about anything to make him laugh like that again. Unguarded. Joyful. Sunshine.
It was, truthfully, the only usable picture of the bunch. After Liam settled, his body language went rigid with all the signature “I’d rather be touching just about anyone else” signs. Throat mid-nervous swallow. Unbridled terror flashing through his eyes. You name it, he may have been more uncomfortable than me.
I unlock my screen, and notification after notification from my mother mocks me. Total buzzkill.
CAROLINE: Are you still planning on staying here for Caleb’s wedding, or will you be spending your time at Liam’s apartment?
The text sits on top of a good fifteen other questions ranging fromDid you mean to buy a size twelve dress?toI scheduled you a hair appointment for when you’re home. Did you ask for that haircut or was something lost in translation?
I control my own peace,I repeat to the rhythm of Maria’s heels clopping on the concrete sidewalk. My free hand runs through my hair, smoothing down my flyaways.
Dammit. She’s seriously controlling me from over three thousand miles away.
Thanks for nothing, social media.
Flanked by opposing structures of learning, the Sorbonne and the Lycée Louis-le-Grand, I pause, clearing the notifications off my screen and drawing new life from these tale-as-old-as-time buildings.
