I throwmyself into the work, into the endless carousel of hair and makeup chairs, press junket seats, plane cabins—anything to keep the ache of missing from clanging too loudly. Asher and I text, FaceTime, swap late-night voicemails like thirteen-year-olds, but after two whirlwind weekends together and then five days apart, my nerves are frayed, each pulse a reminder of the gap between us.
A week later, wind-tousled and terminally under-slept, I land at Charles de Gaulle with Lena and Jessie. We’re greeted by a pearl-white SUV and a driver named Gérard, who nods once, hauls our matching roller bags through tunnels lit with soft amber light, and says almost nothing. Lena sinks into her seat, reclines it halfway, and scrolls with rapid thumb strokes. I gaze out the window, feigning that perfect movie-star nonchalance. Paris in April feels like a waking dream—cherry blossoms dusting the sidewalks, plane-trail clouds drifting in a pale cornflower sky. The Seine’s banks hum with the promise of new leaves, and I love it instantly.
“Does ‘décadent’ have a good spin in French?” Lena asks without looking up.
“I think it just means you’ve arrived in Paris,” I say, and she cackles, mimes lobbing her phone at my face.
Jessie, for once commanding the front seat, swivels around to beam. “Let’s get settled, then you can take the longest nap in recorded history. Marie Claire moved your interview to tomorrow, so tonight?—”
“—We dine,” Lena interrupts, “and not in some cavernous hotel buffet. I want duck confit, a crisp glass of Sancerre, and something scandalous for dessert.”
Jessie blows her a kiss. “On it. But first, Em’s got with the director. Jean-Paul is over the moon to meet you.”
At his name, I groan. “I know he’s French cinema royalty, but he always looks at me like I’m about to volunteer for a root canal.”
“That’s standard Bressard,” Lena says. “He once made his wife wear sheer lace to their own wedding. To him, you’re a goddess.”
“Gross,” Jessie snorts. “Em, the only man you should care about right now is the one who opens blockbusters at number one, then comes home to read Mark Twain to his dog.”
She means Asher. But also Clark Matthews, the studio’s crown jewel, whom I’m due to meet next week for a photo op. I stay silent, pushing a curl behind my ear, watching a cluster of pastel blossoms float past the window like confetti I’ll never touch.
Lena sits up. “Actually, Jess, tell her my Blake news.”
Jessie winks. “Blake Reed personally requested you for a private table read in Hong Kong. ‘Strictly confidential,’ his team stressed.”
“Isn’t he a recluse?” I’m impressed. “Or dead?”
“Neither,” Jessie replies. “He lives somewhere above the clouds, and only does press in perfect twelve-minute bursts. The rest of the time, he’s tinkering with vintage cars or forgingsamurai swords—or ghosting Europe entirely. But he wants Lena.”
Lena’s lips twitch, a tell I rarely see from her. “It’s like being asked to prom by the quarterback after four years of him not knowing you exist,” she says, fidgeting with her bracelet. “I haven’t been in the running for anything this big since 2019.”
“Maybe he loves a challenge,” I say, nudging her knee. “Or he saw you in that Nike spot and fell head over heels.”
She smiles, but her eyes flicker like a candle in front of a drafty window. Jessie senses it and squeezes her shoulder, fingertips pressing into the cashmere of her sweater. It’s nice, how we orbit each other like satellites in a careful dance, never letting a wobble go unchecked, never allowing one of us to drift too far into the cold vacuum of doubt.
We check into the Ritz-Carlton by Place Vendôme. My suite overlooks a courtyard where café terraces are dotted with early-blooming wisteria vines, and passersby sip espresso under pastel umbrellas. I pace, fling open the sash windows to let in the mild spring breeze, then flop onto the bed and scroll.
A text from Asher appears.”
U up?
I snap a selfie with an exaggerated pout and type:
Have you left yet?
In the air. They’re serving me airline chicken.
We volley dumb photos the rest of the afternoon—him seated on a private jet’s plush bench, me lying in bed, pulling faces. The missing pain softens when his face lights my screen, even across eight time zones. I catch myself grinning like a fool.
I try working but drift in and out of sleep beneath a down comforter so light it might as well be clouds. At 5:00 p.m., Lena’s knuckles rap at the door.
“You’ll be late to not one but two parties,” she calls. “I won’t let you tank this chance.” She bursts in with an entourage—two stylists wheeling racks of couture, a makeup artist balancing cases like a Jenga tower, and an assistant juggling bottles of chilled champagne.
In the suite’s softly lit bathroom, I surrender to practiced hands. My stylist cinches and pins while Lena’s makeup artist transforms her three chairs away. “This isn’t a drill,” she says as someone wraps my hair in thick spirals. “Jean-Paul Bressard will try to seduce you at least twice. If you say no, he thinks it’s a game. If you say yes, you become a legend.”
“Why do I feel terrified?” I eye the champagne.
“Because you smell weakness,” Lena declares. “And I know beneath that sweet exterior, you know how to bust balls.”
