CHAPTER ONE
LAURA
Dad’s voice reverberates through the room, “It’s him or me.”
Breathe, Laura. Inhale. Exhale.
It takes all my willpower not to say the answer on the tip of my tongue. I spin around and dart to the exit. My mind is made up. But before I tell my parents that it’s him, I still hope to find a way out of this deadlock without burning the bridges with the people I love dearly.
As I step out of my parents’ bubble tea shop, Belleville hits me with an explosion of summertime smells, sounds, and colors. I’m in a weird mood, angry and elated at the same time. Dad’s ultimatum was devastating—but also liberating. It pushed me to make a choice.
The scent of sizzling skewers from a street vendor tickles my nose. That aroma, combined with the tang of the rain-soaked asphalt, is the smell of my childhood summers. This stretch between our building and Aunt Mei’s shop was my turf. It’s been two years since I moved to the Left Bank to be closer to my place of work. But Belleville, the “little Asia” of Paris, will forever be home.
Calmer now than five minutes ago, I weave through the crowd on the narrow sidewalk with my messenger bag bumping against my hip. There’s a file inside that I must read when I get home tonight for the meeting tomorrow morning. I’m just a lowly bank teller, but our branch manager insists that everyone at the agency be familiar with the main files and take part in important meetings.
While his intentions are commendable, I wish he had a more classic top-down approach. Those files—especially those meetings—suck out all my joy and energy faster than a Dementor ever could.
I catch Line 11 at the Pyrénées station. As I stand on the platform, Mike’s face floats into my brain.Laura, babe, you should worry less and chill more.He often says that. And he leads by example.
The one thing he isn’t chill about is calling him by his given name, Michel. Personally, I like how the old-fashioned sound of it clashes with his hip personality. But he prefers Mike, so that’s what I call him.
I whip my phone out and send him a text:
Can I come over? Is this a good time?
The train screeches in, brakes wailing. I squeeze into a corner and grab the pole. Vitry isn’t that far, but this ride always feels endless because of the change at Châtelet, the Métro’s busiest and messiest stop. The guy next to me smells like socks. I inch as far away from him as I can and stare at the ad between the car’s windows of a grinning woman no older than me holding a jar of wrinkle cream. According to the ad, it can turn back time.
I roll my eyes and look away.
My mother’s voice rings in my head, “You’re twenty-eight, Laura! If you really want three kids as you claim, then youmustn’t waste your time on this guy. You’ll be forty before you know it and then what? Loneliness and regret!”
I clench my teeth.You’re wrong, Mom. Mike and I love each other. He’s my soulmate!
The train jolts, throwing me sideways. I grip the pole harder and plant my feet wide. My phone vibrates. A reply from Mike:
What’s up, babe? We’re jamming.
I don’t respond. If he’s jamming with his band, then he’s in his parents’ garage where they’ve set up a studio. It’s vital that I talk to him today, face-to-face.
The change at Châtelet has me pushing through the crowds and treading endless corridors and is about as exhausting as one would expect. Finally, I resurface in Vitry. The streets here are much quieter than in Belleville on any given Sunday afternoon. I navigate the cracked sidewalks until I’m in front of Mike’s garage studio. The bass line greets me as I reach for the handle.
I swing the pedestrian access door open and walk into the furnace inside.
Mike, his brow beaded with sweat, is gripping the mic stand. His body is swaying to the beat. His bandmates shoot me looks, some friendly, some annoyed. I wave to each of them. There’s Timmy on guitar, and Seb on bass. And Tiphaine on drums—braless, teeny-weeny shorts, and smirking. As always.
Yeah, I get it. You’re skinny and hot. Congratulations!
Mike catches sight of me. “Laura!”
“Hey!” I smile. “Can we talk?”
Tiphaine’s drumsticks clatter as she drawls, “Oh, come on, Mike. Don’t let her steal you away now. We’re on fire!”
He waves her off. “Guys, take five. This won’t take long.”
I step aside to let Tiphaine pass, a cig already stuck between her lips. Her shoulder barely misses mine as she sweeps towardthe door. Timmy and Seb follow close behind her, rummaging through their pockets for their packs and lighters.
Mike wipes his face with a rag, then flops onto an old ottoman by the wall. “Everything okay?”
