Page 6 of The Good Girl Effect
For the rest of my lunch break—and then some—I delve into this woman’s life. I manage to scroll far enough to see past the in memoriam comments and see tidbits of her real life. Pictures of her with her daughter, an adorable toddler with bright blue eyes and brown hair set in bows on either side of her head.
And then I find what I’m really looking for. It’s a photo of the beautiful woman, adorable little girl, and a dashing man standing together on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur. They are bundled in wool jackets and hats, and like the small photo on the table in front of me, they look happy. They look like they’re in love.
Even without reading the letter, I feel some sense of comfort in knowing this happy couple stayed together. Even if she passed away. Even if the ending wasn’t exactly happy. Even if I still have no idea what that entire letter says, I’m glad to know they got married and had a child.
After my lunch, I try to put my little obsession away, but I still carry it with me for the rest of the day. When my shift ends at four, I leave work and stop by the market to pick up some food and a bottle of wine. My roommate doesn’t cook or bother me much when I’m in the kitchen or dining room. She does,however, hog the TV in the living room and plays her nauseating reality TV shows far too loud.
So I pick another playlist and keep my earphones in as I cook, this time listening to ’90s grunge. Nirvana shouts through “Heart-Shaped Box” as I doodle on the wine label and wait for my pasta to cook.
All the while, I think about the couple. How do people find love like that? What did that woman have to do to get a handsome, seemingly successful, and, from what I can tell, normal man to give her so much attention? The only men I can get to look my way are creepy old men or chauvinistic young guys who only see tits and ass and fail to notice I have a face and a personality.
My dating life has been abysmal, to the point now where I turn down every single advance, even if the other person seems halfway decent. Every date I go on lacks connection. I won’t settle for a life of contentment with someone else just to have a partner. I want fireworks and magic. I want to stare into someone’s eyes and feel seen. I want to find a soul that matches mine.
I’m glad my pretty woman in the photo found love. Good for her.
After my dinner is done, I take it to the dining room table and browse more photos of the woman’s social media. It’s out of boredom and curiosity. This isn’t an obsessive stalker thing. I’m not a creep. I'm so entranced, though, that I don't even hear when Ingrid comes in from the living room.
“What is that?” Ingrid asks, nodding toward the letter under my phone.
“Nothing,” I reply, tugging it closer.
She takes a step closer and tries to reach for it. In a panic, I abandon my phone and fork to rescue the letter and photograph, spilling my wine in the process.
Ingrid rolls her eyes and chuckles to herself as I check to make sure the letter is intact. It’s at that moment that I realize I might be a little too obsessed with this random piece of mail I found in a book today.
But I feel like I know Emmaline and Jack.
Not to mention I am in possession of something that once belonged to her. Something special. What if he’s been looking for this letter? It’s silly of me to think this way, to think that some strangers in a photograph mean anything to me.
What if I could return this letter to him? It may seem insignificant to most, but he clearly loved her enough to write it. He must be sick with grief, and this letter could be one small token of remembrance.
It’s a wild idea, but my life is so boring and mundane that wild ideas feel like a lifeline. Wild ideas feel like hope. Because why not? Why can’t I take the train to Paris and give this man a letter I found?
Why wouldn’t I?
If he were mine, I’d want someone to do the same for me.
Rule #2: Get out of town once in a while.
Camille
“The train to Paris departs in fifteen minutes.”
I’m buzzing with excitement, standing on the train station platform. I’ve latched on to this wild idea as if it’s a hot air balloon taking flight. If I let it go, I’ll drift off into space. Instead, I hold tight and try not to look down.
The letter is tucked safely away in my pocket. Every few moments, I shove my hand in to make sure it’s still there, sometimes rubbing it softly with my thumb or picking at a corner as if it’s a safety blanket.
When the train doors open, I climb aboard and find a quiet seat in the back. I called into work this morning at the bookstore, telling Marguerite I had a bad case of food poisoning. It’s a one-hour train ride to Paris, and my plan is to arrive in the city, go straight to the apartment listed on the envelope, and return the letter. Perhaps I could spend a couple of hours around the city before boarding the train tonight and coming home.
Still, after much deliberation, something about this plan feels off. It’s as if I can’t fully commit to it because part of me doesn’twant to come home at all. This is the first time I’ve properly left home in years. It feels like a taste of adventure when what I really want is a lifetime of it.
Papa used to say I was like a little hummingbird, constantly flitting from one place to another, and that someday I would fly too far if someone didn’t hold me down. I was always running off, sneaking out, staying out too late, and ditching school. I certainly didn’t make it easy on him. But he was never too angry. He’d shake his head with a tsk, but he was never one for punishment.
The memory stings my eyes. I don’t feel much like a bird anymore. Ever since he died, it’s like my feet have been glued to the village. That part of me died with him. The Camille he once knew, who had enthusiasm for life, perished the moment he did. Would he be disappointed in me if he knew how much I’ve changed? That I lost my luster. That the responsibilities and weight of adulthood without him tied my feet to the floor. Would he be let down by the woman I’ve become?
During the train ride, I pull out my phone and browse some more about my mystery couple. I’ve done so much research on the woman, Emmaline, that I’ve barely done any research on the man. Suddenly realizing that I might see him today, I decide to try to find something about him.
In the photos with her, he’s not tagged.
