“Wow, buddy! Make sure you save it for the tooth fairy.”
“Grandma says the tooth fairy gives extra money if you write her a note,” Noah said, looking all serious. “Is that true?”
Mark laughed. “Sounds like Grandma knows what she’s talking about.”
We talked for another ten minutes—about their first night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, about the dog next door who barked all night, and the construction happening down the street. Normal, everyday things that made me ache with homesickness.
When we finally said goodbye and the screen went black, I felt tears prickling behind my eyes.
“They’re okay,” Mark said gently, putting his arm around me. “They’re happy.”
“I know.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I should get going. Big day today. Meeting with the whole Paris team.”
I watched him move around the apartment, straightening his tie in the mirror, checking his phone, grabbing his briefcase. He looked good—really good. He’d gotten his hair trimmed before we left New York, and he was wearing the navy suit that made his shoulders look broader.
“I have a work dinner tonight,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I’ll probably be late.”
Work dinner. Right.
But he was dressed too nicely for just work. And there was something in his voice—an excitement, an anticipation—that made me sick.
“Oh. Okay.”
“You should download that app I told you about,” he added, pulling on his jacket. “The one for expats in Paris. You could make some friends. Or maybe...” He paused. “Maybe find a date?”
My husband was helping me find a date. God, tell me this was not happening.
“Have you already found someone?” I asked quietly.
“Not yet. But tonight, I’m going to keep my options open.” He came over and kissed my forehead. “I’ll always communicate openly with you, Amelia. I promise. I’ll never keep you in the dark about my dates.”
His dates. Already plural.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I love you.” He kissed me again, this time on the lips. Quick and perfunctory. “See you tonight.”
And then he was gone, leaving me alone in our beautiful, elegant apartment.
I sat at the small kitchen table, a buttery croissant on a plate in front of me, a cup of coffee cooling beside it.
The croissant was perfect—flaky and golden, melting on my tongue when I took a bite. Everything they said about French pastries was true.
I pulled my laptop toward me and opened the browser, navigating to the expat app Mark had mentioned. Maybe if I made some friends, this wouldn’t feel so lonely. Maybe I could find other women in similar situations—expat wives navigating life in a foreign city.
The app loaded, showing various groups and meetups. There was a book club, a cooking class, a hiking group. Several coffee meetups scheduled for later in the week.
But nothing today. Nothing right now when I needed it most.
I scrolled through profiles of smiling women, all of them looking confident and put-together and like they belonged here in ways I never would.
Frustration bubbled up in my chest. I slammed the laptop shut.
“Fuck this,” I muttered to the empty apartment. “Fuck everyone. I don’t need anyone.”
I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor.
