Hopefully I didn’t miss anything important in the bevy of text messages.
CAROLINE: Your bra is supposed to support YOU, honey, not gravity.
These “helpful” tips are why I don’t post photos of myself. It’s a lot harder to criticize an old building. Though I’m sure Caroline would find a way.
“These slabs would pop more if they were a brighter white. And honestly, does this foundation need to be this wide?”
Chuckling to myself, I snap a picture of the limestone lining the Sorbonne clock tower. A group of students lean against the outside of the building, smoking, directing non-descript bored stares my way.
Shut up. Bricks can be funny.
“How’s your mom taking the news?” Maria asks as I swipe away a few more texts and notifications from Instagram.
Migrating_Coconut24: Oh, he’s cute.
Grumpy_Giraffe: Those toned forearms, though.
TheFumblingTraveler: Ugh, yas queen! So jealous of your life! Keep slaying it in Paris.
A quick snort puffs out my nostrils. I doubt they’d say that if they were privy to my reality, but in my experience, social media is 95 percent bullshit and filters anyway. Maybe for some it’s therapeutic? Like controlling your life is damn near impossible, but at least you can manage what other people see? A false sense of security, maybe? Whatever the reason, it’d benefit all parties involved if people could see that no one has their shit together.
“As expected, excited and overly ‘helpful,’ but this version of Caroline I can handle.”
I blink as my thumb hovers over another text.
LIAM: Be honest, how many texts has your mom sent you about us?
ME: Like twenty?
LIAM: Hmm.
ME: ???
I push myself off the building to resume our trek. My eyes anxiously hang on my screen, waiting for his response.
LIAM: Nothing, only she’s sent me a solid twenty too. Thought you would have more. Must be going soft.
ME: I’m sorry. You have twenty texts . . . From MY mom????
Internally, an agonizing scream boils to a whistle as I pass a corner toy store. Board games and a colossal Eiffel Tower 3D puzzle sit in the window. I don’t need to look up to know the rest of the nineteenth-century building is immaculate with black iron balconies twisting into delicate spirals gracing its side. Itshouldlift my spirits, but I’ve grown cruelly accustomed to the little, utterly divine aspects of Paris.
What a pity.
LIAM: Still don’t think she’s really your mom, but sure.
ME: Dude, we’ve been over this. Julia Child is NOT my mother.
Look up,a grumpy voice whispers in my mind.You’re missing Paris.But here I am, eyes glued down.
LIAM: You can’t convince me otherwise. I mean . . . she’s tall, loves French culture and butter . . .
ME: And old AF when I was born.
LIAM: If Julia Child could make the perfect soufflé, she could give birth old.
ME: She would have been in her seventies!
LIAM: Fine just shit all over my theory to give you the best mom ever.
