"Okay, I'll stay." She kisses me softly. "But I’m making the coffee. We both know it'll be terrible, but you’ll drink it anyway."
I laugh, relief and joy flooding through me in equal measure. "Deal. You make the coffee, I'll make breakfast."
"Now that's a partnership I can get behind."
Later, we're lying in my bed. Avery curled against my chest. She falls asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out into the gentle rhythm of rest. I stay awake a bit longer, watching the fog roll across the city, listening to Avery breathe, thinking about the future we're building together.
I remember my father's words:That woman is worth fighting for.
I plan to spend the rest of my life proving it.
Chapter eleven
Avery
Two weeks later, I stand in Charles de Gaulle Airport with a backpack and a heart full of complicated feelings. The arrivals hall buzzes with French voices and rolling suitcases, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm alone in a foreign country for the first time in my life. The realization should scare me. Instead, it feels like freedom.
Dylan drove me to SFO this morning, kissed me goodbye at security, and told me to have the trip I've been dreaming about for almost two months. He didn't ask to come with me—didn't push or pout or make me feel guilty for wanting this time alone.
He just said, "Go enjoy. I'll be here when you get back," and then added with that devastating smile, "And I'll join you in a week if you still want me to."
If I still want him to. Like there's any question.
But I need this first. I need to prove to myself that I can be happy without needing anyone. That Paris—the city that was supposed to be my honeymoon with Oliver—can belong to me alone.
I take the RER train into the city, watching the Parisian suburbs give way to beautiful Haussmannian buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and mansard roofs. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, and I press my face to the window like a child, drinking it all in. Other passengers scroll through phones or read newspapers, comfortable with the magic they see every day. I can't stop staring.
My hotel is a small boutique place in the Marais that Jessica helped me find online. Nothing fancy, but the photos showed exposed wooden beams and a cozy balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard. When I finally navigate the narrow streets and find it tucked between a bakery and a wine shop, relief floods through me.
The woman at the front desk speaks English with a thick accent, handing me an old-fashioned key attached to a brass tag. "Fourth floor, no elevator," she says with an apologetic smile. "But the view, it is worth it."
She's right. By the time I haul my bag up four flights of narrow stairs, I'm breathless and questioning my packing choices. But when I unlock the door and step onto the small balcony, when I see the Parisian rooftops stretching in every direction and hear the sounds of the city below—conversations in French, a distant accordion, church bells marking the hour—something inside me settles.
The first croissant changes everything.
I wake up the next morning without an alarm, which feels revolutionary after months of pre-dawn coffee and early meetings. The room is bathed in soft light filtering through gauzy curtains.
For a moment, I just lie there, listening to Paris wake up below me. No conference calls to prepare for. No contracts to review. No expectations except the ones I set for myself.
I try the bakery next to my hotel—a corner spot with tiny round tables spilling onto the sidewalk. The waiter barely speaks English, and my French is embarrassingly rusty, but somehow I manage to order a café crème and a croissant. When he brings them, the croissant is still warm, flaking everywhere when I tear into it, butter melting on my fingers.
It's the best thing I've ever tasted.
I sit there for over an hour, watching Paris move around me. Women in effortlessly chic outfits hurry past with baguettes under their arms. An old man readsLe Mondeat the next table, his espresso long forgotten. A couple argues in rapid French, hands gesturing wildly, then laughs and kisses like the argument never happened.
Nobody knows me here. Nobody expects anything from me. I could be anyone.
The realization feels like taking off a coat I didn't know was too heavy.
I spend that first day just wandering. No plan, no map, just following streets that look interesting. I get lost three times and don't care. I find a small park where old men play boules, their voices carrying across the gravel. I discover a bookshop with stacks piled to the ceiling and a cat sleeping in the window. I eat lunch at a place where I'm the only non-French speaker, pointing at menu items and hoping for the best.
Everything tastes like possibility.
By evening, I'm exhausted but buzzing with energy. I text Jessica:Made it. Paris is perfect. I'm perfect. Everything is perfect.
Her response:You sound drunk. Are you drunk?
On freedom, maybe.
