Page 64 of Come Back To Me

Ethan is a bloody mess. You’re a real arsehole, you know that?

I am. I know that. I’ve never let it get in my way.

I didn’t want to hurt Ethan. I just panicked at the last minute, per usual. I send Posey an e-mail telling her I’m fine, not mentioning anything about Ethan or where I am. It’s none of her business anyway, she just wants a reason to chew me out. I write Ethan a letter, handwritten on the pages of a notebook I bought at the station. I’d intended to write it on the train, but I spent the whole trip crying and staring out the window. I tell him that I thought I had changed, that I was ready to stay in one place, with one man and grow with someone. I tell him that I’m a coward and a fool, and that he deserves more than some broken runaway. I tell him that my life would have been better with him, in our little flat, but that in my heart I really didn’t believe I deserved that type of life, so I kept running from it. It’s not an excuse, I tell him. It just is. I ask for his forgiveness and sign the letterYara—no love, no sincerely—just Yara. That’s all I am, isn’t it? Yara without love. I decide that I’m a sociopath.

I arrive at Celine’s little flat late in the afternoon. She’s at work, but she’s left the key with her neighbor. I’m to knock on the door and ask for Pierre. Pierre is an older man, he silently hands me a key and closes the door in my face. Celine warned me that the French aren’t initially warm—they make you work for it. I respect that. I didn’t feel like talking to people anyway. I’m in love with her flat as soon as I walk in. She’s decorated everything with only black and white. There’s no other color, I search for it. I welcome this monochrome existence.

My first task is to find work. So I set up my computer and search for jobs. I don’t want to be a bartender anymore. There is a family looking for an English-speaking nanny for their son. They want him to learn the language. I have no experience with taking care of children, but I send them my resume anyway, and say I’ve spent two years in America and can speak with a southern drawl as well. It’s a joke, but the woman, the mother, e-mails me right away and asks if we can meet the following Monday. Her name is Celeste. I picture her as being tall, and blonde, and…well…celestial. Her son is Lucifer, I think. They can’t find anyone else to take care of him so they’re desperate. Then I wonder if Celine’s monochrome flat is making me feel these extremes of good and bad, heaven and hell. I will fall in the latter in my mind, always.

Celine comes home around nine p.m. I’ve heard this is normal for the French who work long hours, then sit at cafes and drink wine until they have to work again. She is different than she was in college, which is no surprise, yet I am still surprised. In college she was mousy, she wore beiges, which melted into her beige skin. Now her hair is cut into a sleek bob, and she wears makeup and elegant clothes. I hug her, which we also never did in college.

“It’s so wonderful to see you,” she says in her perfectly accented English. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

I need so many things: a new personality perhaps, a lot of perspective, a time machine, a mother—but I shake my head and take the wine she offers.

“I eat wine for dinner,” she says. “You’ll feed yourself, yes?”

“Yes.”

I love it here already.

On a sunny morning four months after I move to Paris, I’m just leaving a cafe that I frequent every Thursday morning. I have a bag of croissants and a black coffee in my hand, and my plan is to take them to the park before I have to work. A few stolen moments of peace and nature before a four-year-old uses me as a human jungle gym. On Thursdays Henry has his Spanish and maths lessons with a snotty tutor who always looks like he’s been sniffing sour cheese. I think he’s too young, but his mother is raising a prime minister, as she tells me. Far be it from me to curb young ambition.

I’ve just pushed through the door of the cafe and stepped out onto the sidewalk when I look up and there he is. A jolt runs through me and I stop abruptly. I see his face everywhere nowadays. Last week I stepped off the train and he was right there on the back of a bench, smiling at me. There are posters of him all over the city and in store windows. But right now, he’s standing on the sidewalk looking at me. I see someone, a woman, turn her head to look at him as she passes. Something crosses her face and she nudges her friend. They shake their heads like it couldn’t possibly betheDavid Lisey. He’s still just David, my David. Petra’s David, I correct myself. I threw off love like it was a blanket in the middle of summer. Irritating, stifling.

I say his name as someone bumps into the back of me. I stumble forward. For a moment I think David is going to step forward to catch me, but he stops himself. I’m fine anyway, just a little jostle. He’s wearing a beanie—that does something to my heart.

“Hello, Yara.”

I think that’s what he always says when he shows up like this.Hello, Yara. Just another day of running into you.

“What are you doing here?” I look around like I’m expecting someone else. Maybe Petra. What would I do if I saw Petra? Shady ass cow. I’d slam her damn face into the sidewalk.

“You know why I’m here,” he says softly.

I nod. The business of divorce. Yes. Solemn, but necessary.

“Did you bring the paperwork?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“No.”

I stare at him, confused.The fuck?

We stay like that for a few minutes, just staring and being confused. I think he’s playing games with me, just showing up like this every few months with no explanation. People walk around us, but neither one of us moves.

Finally he says. “Would you like to get a drink?”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.” And then I add, “I have to work.”

“Later,” he says. “When you’re done.” The shade on his jaw is dark. He hasn’t shaved in at least a week. He looks like the first time I saw him, when he pulled the splinter from my finger.

“Okay.”

“Where?” he asks.

“I know a place.” I rattle off an address and I know he’ll remember it. He’s like that. You only have to say something once.

“Is Petra here?” I ask.

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