My chest tightens as tears collect in the corners of my eyes.
I sniffle and try to lean back, but she tightens her grip for a split second.
“You know I adore you. I’d keep you with me forever if I thought it was for the best,” she says, patting my arm and then releasing me so I can slyly turn back to the Seine and wipe my tears with my napkin.
Our first week rolls into the second, and we journey out of Paris to explore Versailles and its surrounding gardens. We stay too long, admiring Marie Antoinette’s “cottage” as our guide walks us through what life was like for her at Louis XVI’s court before the French Revolution. At first glance, it would be easy to compare her to Cornelia considering they’ve both experienced what it feels like to have the world at one’s fingertips, but I can’t imagine Cornelia ever acting in line with the late French queen. The guide explains to us that the popular phrase Qu'ils mangent de la brioche, what we know as “Let them eat cake”, isn’t an indulgent anthem, but rather an example of how little regard Marie Antoinette might have felt toward her subjects who were enduring a famine and had no bread to eat. Her flippant disregard for their suffering isn’t at all how Cornelia feels toward the struggles of others, and I’m a prime example of that.
The next day, Cornelia needs to rest, so I stroll through the city on my own, venturing into the Musée d'Orsay early enough that I’m alone in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s haunting self-portrait. His intense gaze seems to pry into me, digging beneath layers as I stand in the quiet room studying him studying me. In other rooms, I stumble upon people with sketchpads and easels, set up in front of famous paintings by Monet and Degas, recreating them in their own way. I wish I had even one artistic bone in my body so I could do the same. It’s inspiring to be in a city like this, and it makes me miss the piano at Rosethorn. I’ve gotten so used to having it at my fingertips whenever the mood strikes.
As I’m leaving, a flash of dark hair catches my attention, and I think for one wild moment that Nicholas is here, at the museum. He’s come to Paris. I whip around to get a better look, lips parted in shock, and then my heart sinks when I find it’s just a man, slightly shorter than Nicholas, whose pale features look nothing like his. My wave of shock gives way to a confusing crash of disappointment. I’m left with residual butterflies that work themselves into knots in my stomach as I walk across the bridge over the Seine, back toward our hotel.
Cornelia and I spend the next day getting pampered at Institut Dior. After we relax in the serenity room, they place us in separate treatment rooms so we can each get a massage and a facial. From there, I’m whisked into the salon so I can get a much-needed haircut. I’ve never actually had someone give me a styled cut. When I was young, my mom trimmed my hair every so often, and as a teenager, I just had Ariana do the same. I’m surprised how long it takes. I guess it takes time when you actually know what you’re doing. When the stylist is finished and I glance up at myself in the mirror, I see what I was missing. My long hair has been trimmed a few inches on the bottom so it looks healthy and shiny, and there are subtle layers to help better accentuate my features.
When we’re done, Cornelia asks me where I’d like to go for dinner, and I tell our driver to take us back to the Mandarin Oriental.
“When’s the last time you put on a hotel robe, ordered room service, and watched a wildly overpriced pay-per-view movie?”
She considers the question with a laugh. “Never.”
“Then tonight will be a first for both of us.”
I know two weeks abroad can’t rewrite who I am. Solo walks in the early afternoons through the streets of Paris and explorations inside landmarks like the Musée d'Orsay and the Eiffel Tower don’t rearrange my biology, but I do feel like the experience has given my self-consciousness a much-needed shakeup. I was a complete stranger in a foreign place and no one cared. No one asked if I belonged there. There was a sense of freedom, and in that freedom, growth. On the drive back home from the airport back in Newport, I realize I’ve never felt more comfortable in my own skin.
It doesn’t fade either.
In the days that follow, I finally feel like I belong at Rosethorn. It’s a subtle change, the courage to lift my head and speak my mind and gain a real foothold in day-to-day life there. I’m no longer relegating myself to the sides of the halls, worried to get in anyone’s way. I walk Louis in the mornings, I confirm Cornelia’s appointments for the day with Diane, I sit in on planning meetings and lunches and teas, I meet Tori at the club and I manage to play, if not great, at least mediocre tennis. I exist in a way that feels loud and confident and resolute, because for once, I’m not apologizing for being who I am.
Nicholas arrives on Friday evening, three weeks after I last saw him. When I hear his car stir up the gravel drive, I rush down the stairs and fly through the kitchen and out the back door. It’s impulsive and out of character. I’ve never shown this much excitement at his arrival. I’ve never come out to greet him like this and I know he’s about to come inside, but everyone will be in there and how will we talk when there’s such a crowd?
I don’t have a plan as I walk down the stone stairs and wait for him on the gravel. He’s preoccupied as he reaches in to grab a brown leather bag from his back seat, but when he closes the door and stands to his full height, he finally turns toward me and stops.
Three weeks haven’t dulled him in the least. He’s as sharp and handsome as ever.
He’s wearing his clothes from work, I think, though he’s rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and undone his top button. If he’s had a long day—and I’m sure he has—I can’t tell. Everything about him still looks so perfect. But no, that’s not right. When I look closer, I see his hair is a little mussed up and his shirt is untucked. His eyes are narrowed as they take me in. He’s not perfect; he’s just Nicholas.
“You’re back,” he says by way of greeting as he finally starts to walk toward me.
I nod and wring out my hands as he draws near, aware of every inch that disappears between us. “Yes. We got in on Tuesday.”
He stops when he’s only a few feet away from me, his height blocking some of the landscape lighting so that I’m thrown into shadow.
“Did you come out here just to greet me?” he asks with a bemused tilt of his head.
“I was looking for Louis,” I say suddenly, narrowing my eyes and glancing around as if in search of the dog. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No.”
I swallow forcefully, aware that he’s studying me curiously. I let my gaze make its way back to him, and I venture to ask a question I’m curious about.
“Did you miss us while we were gone?”
“Newport didn’t feel the same,” he replies, not giving me the answer I wanted.
I huff out an annoyed laugh and step to the side, giving him the opportunity to walk past me, up the stairs, and into the house.
He doesn’t move. “You’ve changed.”
“I got a haircut,” I say, as if that explains everything.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”