The Design(74)

On my third day in Paris, my bunkmate, Kiki, told me about her job teaching English to adults in the evenings. She said the program was constantly looking for new teachers, especially people who knew American English well. I agreed to accompany her to the program’s offices that afternoon. After a short interview process where they confirmed that I did in fact speak English, they hired me and set me up with a preliminary class schedule.

It wasn’t my ideal job. I wanted to design and use the degree I’d worked so hard to get, but teaching in the evenings left me with plenty of time in the mornings to take my sketchbook out and wander around Paris. I dreamed of perfecting my French, applying for a work visa, and trying to land a job with a Parisian architecture firm. If I found a large enough firm, chances were they’d need to have architects fluent in English.

So I settled into a simple routine. The hostel was great, but roommates came and went every few days. I was constantly surrounded by people—sleeping in a room with six bunk beds ensured that fact—and yet, I always felt alone. As soon as I’d get to know someone in the hostel, they’d jet off for their next destination. Kiki stayed in Paris for the first two weeks I was there before she packed up and headed off to Germany. She had plans to meet up with her boyfriend there and then the two of them would travel together through Europe, teaching English as they went.

About three weeks into my stay, I realized that the hostel couldn’t be my permanent home. It encouraged a transitory lifestyle, and I was in Paris for the long haul. A part of me yearned to find a Parisian apartment of my own. Nothing special, just a small, one-bedroom place where I could start to lay down my roots.

Though I dreamed of an apartment, I was in no rush to actually find one. The hostel let me pay per week and I had the freedom to leave at any time. That freedom helped me sleep at night. When homesickness threatened to break my resolve, I’d tell myself that I was just on vacation and it seemed to help a bit.

One day, about a month into my stay in Paris, I found a small cafe and sat outside, sketching and reading off and on. I was midway through a sketch when the wind whipped the pages of my notebook, flashing back to the sketch of Grayson on the first page. I slapped my palm onto the pages, overpowering the wind and forcing the pages to lay still, but the damage was already done.

My dream, the idea of being in Paris and living on my own, was starting to fray. I loved being in the City of Light. I loved exploring the ancient buildings and structures I’d studied for hours on end in my architecture classes. Yet at the same time, in the back of my mind I was starting to wonder if Paris was really where I belonged.

I’d wanted to break the chains I’d felt in LA and leaving for Paris seemed to be the best way to do it.

Well, I was standing on my own. I was in Paris, completely isolated from everyone I loved, and most of the time, I felt depressed and scared. It was a humbling thought to acknowledge and the first few times it surfaced in my head, I’d quickly squashed it.

Paris was my dream.

I belonged here.

But, didn’t I belong with the people I loved?

Those people held me back. They were my crutch.

But maybe that wasn’t their fault.





Chapter Thirty-Three


I waited another two weeks before I called Brooklyn. I counted down the days, stubbornly believing that the longer I waited, the more independent I was. In the end? the moment I heard her voice, I broke down into sobs.

“I don’t speak the language. I don’t know how to use the subway. I hate most of the people in this dumb hostel. My bunkmate hasn’t showered in two weeks. Do you know how smelly someone is when they don’t shower for two weeks?!”

I rambled on and on and Brooklyn silently listened.

“I thought Paris was your dream?” she asked quietly.

I sniffed. “I thought it was. I really thought I’d be happy here. Happiness for me is a moving target, I guess.”

She hummed, mulling over my confession. “Were you happy in LA?”

I didn’t even have to think about her question. “Of course I was happy there, but that’s because you were in charge of every difficult thing in my life and Grayson was paving and paying the way for me. I never had anything to challenge me. How could I not be happy?!”

“Wait,” she interrupted, “What are you talking about with Grayson? Just because he was your boss doesn’t mean he paved the way for you.”

I laughed, a cruel, sarcastic laugh.

“Oh, yes he did.”

I told her about everything Grayson had done, about all of the emails I’d found and the way he’d gone behind my back. I relished getting to talk about him, even if it was in negative light. For the last month and a half I’d had no one to discuss him with. He’d been secluded away in my thoughts. And boy, did I think about him. The good. The bad. The ugly. The beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking of him.

“You know this is very similar to what happened with me and Jason. When our relationship got tough, I left Montana with things still in limbo with us. I should have stayed and listened to him. Just like you should have stayed and listened to Grayson.”

I scoffed, wiping residual tears from my cheeks. “This is nothing like that. I left because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with Grayson. I had a dream of coming to Paris and I knew I wouldn’t forgive myself if I never actually did it.”