"Then we'll both survive. And we'll figure out the rest when I'm there."
"Okay. I love you."
"I love you too. So much."
After the call ended, Lucy looked out at the Paris night and felt something shift. They'd had their first real fight. Had admitted things were hard. Had been honest instead of performing.
And they were still together.
That had to count for something.
March arrived with the promise of spring and Jake's trip to Paris.
The week before his flight, Jake was a mess of nervous energy. He booked his hotel (Lucy's apartment was too small for two people), planned an itinerary of things he wanted to see, even attempted to learn basic French from the app Lucy had used.
"You're really doing this," Marcus said at practice. "Going to Paris."
"I'm really doing this."
"How are you feeling?"
"Terrified. Excited. Worried that we won't have anything to talk about in person."
"You've been together for six months. You'll have plenty to talk about."
"Six months, but only one month actually being together. The rest has been long distance. What if we've changed too much?"
"Then you'll deal with that. But Jake—stop catastrophizing. Go to Paris. See Lucy. Eat croissants. Have sex in a French hotel. Figure out the rest later."
"That's your advice? Have sex in a French hotel?"
"It's solid advice. I stand by it."
The flight to Paris was long and uncomfortable. Jake didn't sleep, too anxious about seeing Lucy. What if things were still weird? What if the distance had changed them too much?
He landed at Charles de Gaulle at 8 AM Paris time (2 AM Vermont time) and immediately wanted to die. Jet lag was brutal.
Lucy was meeting him at his hotel at noon—she had morning classes but promised to skip the afternoon to spend time with him.
Jake checked into his hotel, showered, changed, and tried not to fall asleep. At 11:45, he went down to the lobby to wait.
At 11:52, Lucy walked through the doors.
Jake's heart stopped.
She looked different. Her hair was longer, falling past her shoulders in waves. She'd lost a little weight—probably from all the walking in Paris. She was wearing clothes Jake had never seen—a long coat, stylish boots, a scarf tied in that effortlessly French way.
She looked beautiful. And also like a stranger.
"Jake," Lucy said, and then she was running across the lobby.
Jake caught her, and suddenly she felt familiar again. Same height, same smell (flour and vanilla), same way she fit perfectly against his chest.
"You're here," Lucy said into his shoulder. "You're really here."
"I'm really here."
They stood in the hotel lobby, holding each other, both trying not to cry.
