They nod like they understand, but I don’t mind because I know they love me.
“Besides,” I add. “I’m pretty certain Zach is dating enough for both of us.”
“Your brother does have a new girlfriend,” my mother says as a waiter walks up to us. “She’s cute. A little shy. Was her name Allison? Alice?”
I glance up at the waiter. I’d been focused on my mother, but now I see the waiter is too good-looking to not be one of the many people who come to California to break into the movie business. He’s got that classic Hollywood ruggedness with dark brown hair that’s combed back, but not too perfect. I’d say he’s not my type, but he’s everybody’s type.
“Are you folks ready to order now or do you need a few more minutes?” he asks. My mother glances between the two of us like she’s watching a sports match where I’m losing but I could definitely make a comeback.
“We’re ready,” my father says, oblivious. “I’d like the pastrami Reuben.”
“The grilled chicken salad, please,” my mother says. She turns toward me at the same time the waiter looks at me too.
“And what would you like?” he asks. I have no idea what’s on the menu.
“I’ll get the Reuben too,” I say. He winks or winces—who knows? —before smiling at all of us.
“I’ll put your order in. Thank you, folks.”
After he walks away, my mother smacks my arm.
“Ow,” I mutter.
“I can’t believe you didn’t flirt back!”
“He wasn’t flirting. He’s a waiter. He’s just being friendly.”
“I love you, Zandra, but sometimes you’re a mystery to me.”
There’s not much of a mystery—only an attempt to focus on what I’m good at. When it comes to love, my brain is defective. I choose men who will turn me into a joke—like my brother’s friend when I was thirteen, who kissed me in a way that I thought was genuine and innocent, but when I approached him in school, he acted like I was a delusional stalker—or men who will turn me into a sucker like Aiden from college, who cheated on me so many times that he’d forgotten half of their names. Or they turn me into a bruise that never heals like Mark did.
Bitter hopes and old disappointments cloud my thoughts as I try to keep a smile on my face as I talk to my parents about their bakery, about the cafe’s food, about the airport, and somehow continuously circling back to my lackluster love life.
After the bill arrives, the waiter laughing at my dumb jokes like I wish the 2Resonance interviewer had, my father reaches for it, but I take it. As I fumble through my bag, my phone rings. My father takes the bill as I check it, but I can barely notice because it’s a 650 area code, which belongs to Silicon Valley. I glance up at my parents, who are arguing over the tip.
“Hello?” I answer my phone.
“Is this Miss Zandra Nowak?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes, it is,” I say, clutching the phone tighter.
“Miss Nowak, Mr. Coleman has talked to his colleagues and they love your work. Would you be able to come in tomorrow to begin your employment at 2Resonance?”
My heart could explode all over the maps in this cafe and I’d still be happy. “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to do that. Thank you so much.”
“We’ll see you then, Miss Nowak,” she says. I hear the faint click as the line goes dead. I slowly lower the phone, afraid that any sudden movement could jolt me awake from a dream.
“I got the job,” I tell my parents. Their faces switch from mild irritation to enthusiastic joy, I am almost as happy as I’ve ever been.
But Paris is another story and this one will end better.
******
6 Years Ago
When I was eleven, I started taking French classes. All of the textbooks, the workbooks, and the projects had photos of Paris. I dreamed in French. I drew the Eiffel Tower so many times, it nearly turned into an architecture class. If I'd created a perfect world, it would be Paris. It had all those intricate, stunning buildings from the Gothic era to postmodern architecture. It had cuisine that was elegant and mouthwatering. The people were sophisticated without thinking too highly of themselves. But, best of all, it was a beacon for artists. Throughout history, artists from all over the world traveled to Paris to be inspired or make a name for themselves. The Thinker sculpture is in Paris. Van Gogh, Picasso, Henri Rousseau, and Henri Matisse painted in Paris. If art flourished anywhere, it was Paris, so Paris became a lighthouse for me to guide my life toward.
It became everything to me and right before I turned fifteen, I started doing anything and everything to save up money, so I could go. It took me three years to put together enough money to go.
