The sight takes my breath away in the most unpleasant way. It’s worse than my dad described. The room that used to be mine feels like a mixture of my dad’s junkyard and an abandoned gym.
Back in the cake shop, my dad said the machine he put here was “pretty big,” and he clearly wasn’t exaggerating. If anything, it was an understatement. There’s a treadmill that takes up half the space, blocking the bed, and now that I’m confronted with it, it’s more than I can handle.
As I look at the giant treadmill and the old, piled-up cardboard boxes surrounding it, everything hits me like a bomb.I feel so helpless and lost, and an urge to cry wells up in me. Unable to stop it, I let it happen, and a tear trickles down my cheek, soon followed by some more.
I hate this. There’s nothing here that’s mine except the bed, which offers me no comfort. Reaching the bed will be like a workout, climbing over boxes and that stupid treadmill. I feel like a homeless person crammed into the nearest, poorest available space with nothing of their own except their clothes. It’s not fair. When will I finally have a place that actually feels like mine?
Nothing is going the way it should, and after being hit by one disappointment after another, I’m close to giving up. With everything I try, every move I make, someone blocks my path. Everywhere I go, my motives are questioned, my skills are debated, and my plans are obstructed.
Everything feels wrong. I have a roof over my head, but it’s not the one I want. It doesn’t feel like mine, and I don’t know how to make it so. I don’t have the strength to move that machine, or anyone who’ll help me do it, and it makes me feel so hopeless and alone.
My job doesn’t feel the same anymore either. I no longer see the point in working at the cake shop, because no matter what I do there, my dad will always compare it to how Claire does it. The cake shop—my passion—has been tainted, and I don’t know why I should even bother going to work anymore. Because someone, no matter how nice she seems, is close to taking over, and my dad doesn’t care how I feel about losing what I built there. He doesn’t care how much it hurts me.
And that’s not even close to being everything. I should probably also start questioning all my friendships. It took Maxime next to nothing to kick me out of their house—nothing but a chance for them to get laid. What’s the point of any of it? Why would our visits to nightclubs still matter, those nightsof supposed drunken fun, if there are so many cracks in the foundation? Maxime had some nerve, basically saying, “Let’s go to the club the night before I kick you out of the place you’ve lived for eight months. Oh, and feel free to bring the person who isn’t your boyfriend.”
That brings me tohim. Speaking of everything falling apart, that may be the worst one. Losing Cody is what makes it all too much, the drop that overflows the bucket.
If I try really hard, I can maybe convince myself there’s a silver lining to my other circumstances. I have a roof over my head and a part-time job. It may be far from optimal, but it’s something. Whereas when it comes to Cody, the person I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with, I have nothing. From him, I don’t get anything at all. Only a glimpse of what I could have had through the eyes of a woman I can only imagine is his girlfriend.
It makes me realize that my dream seems so far out of reach now. I want to move back home, to France, specifically to Besançon, the city I love. And deep down, I want Cody to be there with me, living in the same house. It doesn’t have to be big or fancy; it just has to feel like home. Maybe Cody and I would have a dog, a cute small French bulldog or something. And I want to work at a cake shop, one that’s nice and where I can help customers and bake cakes. I think I could truly be happy then.
But I don’t need anyone to tell me it won’t happen; I already know. Even pieces of that dream feel out of reach. I could try going to Besançon alone. Maybe I could scrape up enough from my part-time job for a train ticket or an old car, but then what? I couldn’t afford to stay. Maybe my mom would help—she doesn’t live far from there, and we still talk sometimes—but even if she did, what’s to say I wouldn’t just end up the same? Unhappy, alone, only in Besançon this time.
As I stare at the enormous treadmill that takes up almost half of my bedroom, tears escape my eyes. My dad told me I canmove it if I can put it somewhere out of the way, but I think he already knew I can’t. Even if I were strong enough to drag this thing out of here, it would always be blocking a path or taking up half a different room. So basically, I’m screwed. I’ll have to crawl over boxes and climb over that awful exercise machine to get into my bed. It sucks, but I don’t think my dad did this on purpose. I don’t think it was his goal not to make me feel at home. It’s just that I definitely gave him the idea I was never coming back.
But oh, it has that effect, alright.Rien ne vaut d’être chez soi. Or, as they say in English, there’s no place like home.
It’s funny, but cruel, that I know how to say that in two languages... but that I no longer have a place for myself that feels anything like home.
Chapter 15: Luc
With some effort, I manage to find a way into my bed. I don’t keep track of the minutes I spend here, sobbing in what is now once again my bedroom. There’s no point in getting up; nobody wants me around. Nothing I have is real.
I would have stayed in bed for the rest of the day, were it not for the fact that I don’t want my dad to see me like this when he comes home. That’s the only reason for me to get up. Once I drag myself out of bed, I wash my face in the bathroom and try to pull myself together. My reflection in the mirror causes me to reach a rather depressing conclusion; I can’t take much more of this. Everything feels like it’s crashing down around me, and something needs to change. Fast.
If I want a chance at happiness, I need to try again. My life has taken a wrong turn, but I can’t just lean back and accept it—not without knowing I’ve given it my all. I think about Cody all the time. He’s the only person on my mind when I go to sleep and the first one I think of when I wake up. In between those times, he’s in my dreams. I miss him, I need him... and I need to see him.
There’s still something I can try. Maybe, if I’m lucky for the first time today, the woman I met isn’t his girlfriend. I’m well aware that doesn’t explain why she opened the door to his house, but it could have been just a coincidence, right? I really hope it was.
I’m desperate for some good news. There needs to be some part of my life that’s in control. Otherwise, I feel like I’ll lose my mind and never get out of bed again. It’s probably ambitious that I’d focus on turning around my love life, which is a huge aspect of my life overall, but it’s where I have everything to gain. Not just because it’s what hurts the most, but also because if I getCody back, everything else might automatically fall into place. One can hope, right? Even though it might already be too late.
As I leave my father’s house, locking the front door behind me, I feel like all I’ve done today is walk and mope. Ever since my conversation with Maxime this morning, which started it all, I’ve been walking. I walked from there to Cody’s house, from Cody’s home to the shop, from the shop to my dad’s house, and now I’m walking from my dad’s house to Cody’s again. At least I’m getting a good workout, but I could have done that by working. Being an employee at a cake shop is more physically straining than one would think. I often carry bags with heavy ingredients, like flour and sugar, and sometimes the job requires moving giant cakes into the van. So yeah, I don’t work out a lot; I have my job for that. Although I suppose, if I wanted to, I could now easily use my father’s treadmill. There’s no avoiding that stupid thing.
I let out a dry chuckle and shake my head at myself. The thought might have been amusing if I weren’t so miserable. My chance at a shred of happiness will depend on whether my crush will not only open the door when I stop by his house, but also on whether he’s single and allows me back into his life. He doesn’t owe me any of that; I’m the one who walked out on him.
When I arrive at his house, I ring his doorbell for the second time today. Please don’t have that woman open the door again, I think to myself. I need it to be him.
I stand there and wait, holding my breath in anticipation. Then, just as I think I might die from lack of oxygen and anxiety, the door swings open and he appears: Cody, with his brown hair, his kind face with those soft brown eyes, and his broad physique. God, I missed him so much. For some reason, my stomach flips, and my mind instantly saysmine.
Uh-oh, why am I thinking that? I can’t deny it anymore: I made a giant mistake last week.
Upon finally seeing him, I manage to take a breath, but my stomach has turned into a knot. I take Cody in, and it feels like my turmoil is mirrored in his eyes.
Shock is written all over his face. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, his tone matching his expression.
Mon Dieu, how do I answer that question? My mind travels at record speed, trying to decide where to start, but before I can say anything, the woman from this morning appears again, standing beside him, crushing my hope with her presence.
“T’es de retour?” she says—you’re back?
