I should’ve snuck through.
That’s the only thought looping in my head as I step out of the airport into the chaos of Charles de Gaulle. The shuttle is waiting out front like always, engine rumbling, exhaust curling into the crisp Paris air.
Economy was as miserable as first class had been peaceful. No wonder Stephanie miraculouslyfoundher antihistamine; I’d risk choking to death over that mess too. I shoot her a dirty look as she hands her suitcase off to the driver, but it’s not really her fault.
It’s mine.
Matthew wasn’t at baggage claim. I’d practically sprinted through the terminal like an idiot, half-expecting him to be there, smiling, waiting, saying something. But he wasn’t. And why would he be? He probably has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or some impossibly sophisticated Parisian waiting for him in the city.
I pout as I stand at the curb, watching the blur of people crisscrossing the drop-off zone, couples laughing, businessmen glued to phones, families corralling overtired toddlers. Paris airport is just like any other: crowded, chaotic, and utterly annoying.
I hand over my luggage and climb onto the shuttle with the rest of the crew. It’s a routine I know by heart. Our airline usually books us at one of two hotels in the city, this time, it’s Hôtel Mistral, a mid-range place that caters to flight crews andbusiness travellers. Clean sheets, free breakfast, decent Wi-Fi. Nothing fancy, but I’m not exactly in the mood to appreciate it.
The drive into the city usually calms me, the sight of Parisian streets, the Seine glinting in the afternoon light, the old stone buildings crowding together like they’re whispering secrets. Today, though, I barely notice any of it. My mind is stuck on Matthew.
On how it all started.
It was during my first semester. I’d just dragged myself back from an overnight flight and all I wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and not wake up until next week. But for some reason, maybe guilt, maybe caffeine, I changed into clean clothes and hauled myself to class. My first classthat entire month, if I’m being honest.
I wasn’t the academic one. That was always Stella. My sister had her nose in a book before she could walk and could ace exams without studying. Me? I barely scraped by. The only thing I was ever really good at was cheerleading.
Thank God for my high school guidance counsellor. He didn’t waste time pushing me toward a degree I couldn’t afford. Instead, he helped me find a job with a small airline straight out of high school and even mapped out a career plan for me. That job kept me afloat. I worked flights, saved money, and eventually realized that if I wanted to move up, I needed a degree. Cue college. Cue Matthew.
In hindsight, I should’ve started school during COVID when I was stuck at home like the rest of the world. But that wasn’t an option. I had to move in with Stella and her kids, and the least I could do was babysitting while she clung to the job that kept us fed.
Anyway, there I was that morning, exhausted and cranky, walking into class with zero intention of talking to anyone. I picked a spot in the very back, next to a guy in a hoodie with his head down and a notebook open.
It was perfect. Quiet. Peaceful.
At least until I leaned over and asked if I could borrow his notes.
The guy stared at me for a full minute, like I’d just spoken another language, before muttering something that sounded like,“Sure… Matthew.”
I laughed, agreed, and that was our arrangement for almost a month. I’d show up, sit beside him, borrow his notes, and leave. It was transactional, simple.
Then my friends found out.
They teased me endlessly aboutusinghim. I denied it, obviously, but one of them asked, “Okay, then tell us one thing about him.” And I couldn’t. Other than the fact that his handwriting was atrocious, I knew nothing.
That bothered me more than I expected.
So, one day, after class, I asked if he could help me study. He seemed surprised but said yes, and we met at a little coffee shop off campus. And for the first time, wetalked.Really talked.
That’s when I found out he was an only child, raised by a single mom. That he loved old sitcoms and hated small talk. And that, to my absolute shock, he was funny. Like,reallyfunny. I didn’t tell him that, of course. I just laughed a little too hard at his jokes and pretended it was no big deal.
After that, things changed. I started inviting him along whenever I was going somewhere, study groups, parties, late-night dinerruns. It didn’t take people long to see what I was starting to see too: that he was incredible. Soon enough, it wasn’t me inviting him anymore, it washimpulling me along to new places, new people.
And all through that, if I’m being honest, I kept waiting for him to ask me out. I don’t even know what I would’ve said if he had. I liked him, of course I did, but I also liked the help. And deep down, I knew that once we crossed that line, everything would change.
So, I did what any other self-sabotaging idiot would do: I introduced him to someone else. Someone just like him, quiet, loyal, smart, and pretty in that understated way that made sense with who he was.
And, of course, they hit it off.
And, of course, I wanted to hit myself.
Because watching him fall for someone else, someone Ihandedto him, hurt far more than I’d prepared myself for. And the worst part? I couldn’t even be mad about it. I’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.
I enjoyed their breakup way more than I’d like to admit.Waymore. It shouldn’t have made me as happy as it did, but there it was, the selfish little thrill I couldn’t smother no matter how hard I tried.
