The Design(71)

“I didn’t ask for your help!” I yelled. “I never asked for a big brother!”

“Because you’re too proud,” he protested, his rage boiling over. “You wouldn’t ask for help unless you were seconds from drowning. And even then, you’d probably resent the life preserver! Fuck.” He gripped his head and bent down, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation.

I gritted my teeth so hard that my jaw ached.

“Please get out of my apartment, Grayson.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, pulling on his jeans as quickly as he could. He turned back to me as he grabbed for his shirt. “I would have shown you the folder soon. I would have explained to you what I’ve done and you’d see my reasons. You’d understand why I stepped in when you had nobody.”

I shrugged, digging my heels into my anger so much so that I couldn’t find any bit of reason in his words.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, holding back the flood of tears. “All's forgiven, because now it looks like I still have no one.”

He glared back at me before tugging his shirt over his head. “And whose fault is that? You’re running away to Paris, Cammie. Stay and fight with me. This is nothing. This fight,” he said, pointing between the two of us, “it’s nothing compared to how I feel for you.”

I turned away from him and my gaze found its way to my black computer screen. If I turned it on, his email would pop up. I’d be confronted by the overwhelming proof that he’d overstepped his place in my life time and time again. Maybe he would have told me about the folder, but maybe he would have kept it a secret forever.

“I need to pack,” I whispered, unable to look back to him.

He growled, grabbed for his phone on my floor, and slammed my bedroom door shut on his way out. I squeezed my eyes closed until I heard my apartment door close and then I waited and wondered if he was truly gone—if that fight had been the end of us. In the romanticized version of my life, Grayson would have stormed back in and forced me to talk to him. But ten minutes later, when the apartment was as silent as when I’d first returned that morning, I began to pack up my things.

The plan was still on. I was going to Paris.





Chapter Thirty-One


Amount saved for Paris: After purchasing my ticket, I had about $5300 left to hold me over until I found temporary work, which wouldn’t be easy to do considering I only had a tourist visa.

Items I have: a backpack filled to the brim, a carry-on purse, and a good book to get me through the flight.

Items I need: enough confidence to get me on the actual flight…

French phrases that I know: Pourriez-vous me diriger dans la direction de l' auberge la plus proche? et également un bar?…which translates to “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest hostel? And also a bar?”




“Where to, ma’am?” the cab driver asked as he loaded my heavy backpack into the trunk of the cab.

“LAX. Passenger drop-off, please,” I answered, sliding into the backseat.

I had everything I needed clutched in the palm of my hands: my passport, my boarding pass, and my to-do list. I would have preferred to leave the states with a better plan, but in the end, life had forced my hand and I just had to make the best of it. I’d written down all the major things I had to get done.

Beneath “FIND A SUBLEASE ASAP, YOU FOOL,” I’d written, “Tell Brooklyn you’re in Paris.” (There was a very real possibility Brooklyn would get on a plane to Paris and kick my ass once I’d told her I’d left the country. Either that, or she’d hire a French assassin to kill me for her.)

There was only one more item on my to-do list after that: find a hostel in Paris. I’d begun looking into my options weeks ago, but I had no clue if there’d be any vacancies or what kind of shape the hostels would be in when I actually got to one. It was too late to call ahead, so I’d just have to try and find one once I arrived. Worse-case scenario: I could stay in a hotel for the first night and find a hostel in the morning. It’d deplete my savings a little bit, but it was better than sleeping on the streets of Paris.

“Here’s your stop, ma’am,” the cab driver spoke, drawing my attention away from my list. A quick glance out of the window confirmed that we were at the airport.

I’d come to the finish line.

I pocketed my things and climbed out of the backseat just as the driver finished pulling my backpack from the trunk. He handed it over and I lugged it onto my back, cursing the weight. I’d packed up everything that was too important to leave behind in my apartment. There were photos and memories shoved between socks and underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d work until I arrived in Paris and had a little space of my own.

“You paying in cash?” the driver asked, subtly reminding me that I’d yet to pay for my fare yet.

“Ah, yes, how much was—”

“Cammie!”

I turned at the sound of my name, reached up to shield the sun from my eyes, and saw Grayson hopping out of the back of a cab a few yards down. He slammed the cab door closed and threw cash through the passenger side window before beginning to run toward me.

“What the hell, man?!” his cabdriver yelled back at him, but Grayson was already halfway down the sidewalk.