Suddenly, it sounds like the most peaceful thing in the world.
I shake that thought away and walk to the front door, punching in the code. It’s a weird bit of modern technology in the face of a stone wall and concrete floors, but when the dead bolt clicks under my fingers, I push inside.
The cleaning service has definitely beenhere. Everything is shiny, and I can smell the lingering scent of lemon cleaner in the air.
The door opens right to the kitchen, and there’s a covered cheeseboard and a fresh baguette waiting for me on the counter. The kitchen table is tiny but scrubbed clean, and when I open the fridge, I see something that looks like a tiny roast and a small bowl of unwashed vegetables.
I guess I won’t be starving so long as I’m willing to cook.
Though I also think I won’t be doing much besides sitting in bed and tearing into that baguette with my bare hands like a barbarian before falling asleep in crumbs.
Letting my bag knock against the kitchen counter, I do a quick little tour. There’s not much to see. Three small bedrooms and a narrow hallway. My dad loved reminding us he grew up in a tiny bedroom with three brothers crammed into one bed.
But he’s not here to tell me this, and the relics of his childhood are gone, replaced by modern furniture and floral comforters. He usually rents this place out for expats on temporary visas, but I catch little signs of his presence in tiny, square-framed photos of him and my uncles tucked away on cabinet tops, and bookshelves with LSF dictionaries and study guides, and a copy ofThe Boxcar Childrentranslated into French. My dad used to read those to me when I was little. I can remember the expressions on his face and the classifiers he used to make the story come alive.
It was so much easier back then. So much softer. Life hadn’t quite developed all its sharp corners and jagged edges.
I’m in no mood to be this melancholy though. I’m exhausted, my back is sore, and my head is aching. I’m starving and need to eat and hibernate like a bear getting ready for winter.
I peer into the bathroom—a claw-foot tub with a ring shower curtain and a showerhead that comes down from the ceiling. It’s not as nice as mine back home, but it’ll do.
The biggest bedroom has a soft mattress, and when I flop over on it, I get a whiff of lavender laundry powder. It’s oddly soothing. I breathe in, feeling a slight breeze from a cracked window, and realize that for better or worse, this is my life now.
At least for as long as the office here needs me.
It’s strange to realize that everyone back home will move on without me. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone except Robbie. I just sent a few texts from the airport, which reminds me…
I pull out my phone and tap open the text message folder that I’ve been ignoring since I landed. As expected, it’s full.
Denver: You’re a dick. Have fun, eat cheese, send pics.
Robbie: * middle-finger emoji*
Quinn: Viva la Revolution!
Theo: French dick! * drooling emoji*
Then, in another thread is a text I wrote. A text left unsent to Dex.
Me: Sorry can’t come. Flight to France early in morning…
My thumb hovers over the little triangle, tempting me to send it now, but instead I highlight the text and hit Delete. It’s gone.
As if last night never happened at all.
With a sigh, I tap the Instagram logo and my feed bursts to life.
The first few videos show songs in ASL. I’ve attempted to train my algorithm away from those signing students and their weird attempts at interpreting rap, but it seems impossible at this point.
So, I scroll and scroll. There’s a video of Thom doing squats in one, and although I hate him, I can at least appreciate that peach-perfect ass as he bends and lifts. At least, until I scroll down once more and am confronted with a photo of him and Robbie kissing. My stomach roils, and I swipe away quickly, unthinking.
Suddenly, my thumb stops, and my heart threatens to as well, because there he is.
On my screen.
Dex.
He has a dimple when he smiles, like his brother, except it’s only in one cheek, not both. He’s grinning wide enough for me to see his crooked eyeteeth, which I fucking love. His lips are thick and pink, and goddamn, I want to bite them, lick them.
