Page 30 of Meet Me in Paris

A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I started fumbling at the back for the zipper. “Never mind. I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you are. You deserve it.”

“No, I’m not. Even you think I’m . . . I’mlookingfor it. Which I most certainly am not.”

“Maybe not, but who knows where it could go? You’re inParis.”

“Jillian Travell,” I said sternly, turning on her. “I don’t see how far it could goon the first date. Not even in Paris.”

Jillian sighed and took a seat in the corner of the dressing room. “Look, I know I’m a few years younger than you, but let’s face it. You’re a bit lacking in the boyfriend-experience department.”

That stung. “Thanks for that?” There had been a short fling in high school and a monthlong romance a few years ago, but I broke off both before they grew too serious.

She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll put it this way. Some rivers run deep, steady, and slow. They might last thousands of years. The Seine, for example. Those are the ones we write songs about and build cities around. But, Kennedy, not all rivers need to be that way. Some rivers are smaller, quicker, and less predictable. They’re fast and exciting, with rapids that make you feel alive. They may not influence civilizations, but they serve a purpose. Both are worthy, and both should be explored. Trust me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you did so much exploring.”

She threw the hanger at me, and I ducked with a laugh.

Jillian finally stood and wrapped her arms around me. “Look, if Hunter isn’t what you’re looking for, that’s fine. Butyou won’t find what youarelooking for unless you allow yourself to open your eyes.”

Open your eyes.

In an instant, the memory of Hunter’s fingers fumbling at the knot of a blindfold behind my head and his soft voice in my ear returned in full force. So much of that night remained a blur, but this moment, even eight years later, felt crystal clear. What happened next was even sharper, and I found it hard to escape the memory of his hand on mine, his breath filling the night air, his lips slightly parted.

I flung the thought across time and space so it wouldn’t bother me again. Jillian was right. I had every right to experience the romantic side of Paris, just like Hunter. Let him stew with his disapproving glares. Tonight was about me, not him, or Claude, or anyone else.

Jillian ended the hug, pulling away. “I’m so proud of you for finally leaving home. Mom would be proud too. You made it.”

My eyes got a little warm, and I sniffed. It didn’t feel right, us all being here together without her. “I know.”

“It may not be perfect,” Jillian said. “But it’s yours. Now, it’s up to you to enjoy every second.”

“Your pick tonight,”Mom said, handing me the remote. “Anything you want.”

I took it, trying to ignore the clamminess of her pale hand. “It’s your turn. I pickedAn American in Parislast week.”

She looked thoughtful, then shook her head. “Can’t think of anything, and I’m sure you’re bursting with ideas.”

Our Wednesday movie nights were a new tradition since Mom couldn’t leave the house much besides treatments at the center. Together, we had watched every English movie under the sun that contained references to Paris, many with subtitles. Mom’s way of making it up to me.

With each one, I hated Paris more and more.

“We can switch things up tonight,” I said casually. “Maybe a blow-’em-up movie or mystery this time. It doesn’t have to be about Paris.”

“Yes, it does.” Her voice sounded firmer than in a long time.

I sighed inwardly. “What sounds good, then? We can try a movie that only references Paris or has a few scenes there, likeCasablancaorAnastasia. It might be easier if . . .” If we both weren’t constantly reminded of what could have been.

She gave me a firm look. “No, baby. I wantus to be immersed in Paris, like you will be someday. Something wistful and romantic.”

My throat tightened, and I locked the pain away in my mental vault. “Midnight in Paris, then?Before Sunrise?Marie Antoinette? Or we can do something older, likeCharade. Ooh, we haven’t seenHow to Steal a MillionorParis When It Sizzlesin a while. You love Audrey Hepburn.” Maybe I could nudge her toward a lighthearted flick, likeThe Devil Wears Prada. Or something with romance andaction, likeThe DaVinci CodeorInception. I’d even watch the Pink Panther series.

Mom gave me a long look that nearly gutted me. I knew that expression all too well. The look of a woman facing her own mortality, a woman who’d given up on her own dreams but desperately wanted to preserve the dreams of those she would leave behind.

In a moment, I knew. She didn’t care about Paris. She probably didn’t even like movies about Paris. The mini Eiffel Tower Christmas ornament from last year and the Paris T-shirt she’d given me for my birthday the year before and even the trip—it wasn’t a shared passion. It was love for her Paris-obsessed daughter. And now that her life had an expiration date, she had a lifetime of support to cram into the months that remained.

She must have seen my expression because I could see her scrambling for a happier subject. “How is Hunter these days?”

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