Who is Maud Dixon?(55)

“I don’t know. I always wrote. And then one day I guess I just got lucky.”

“That’s so cool. I’d love to be a writer.”

“Do you write?”

“Not really. I’m super left-brained. Like, really logical and stuff?”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know. My parents really want me to go back to college. But I don’t know if I’m into that. I might want to act?”

“Like movies? Or the theater?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like movies. I don’t know. Maybe. I might also become an actuary? That’s what my dad does.”

“So, an actress or an actuary. Those are really different.”

“I know, right?” Meg said with wide eyes. She took a cigarette from a pack on the table and offered it to Florence, who shook her head.

“So why do you write under a fake name?”

Florence tried to remember what Helen had said when she’d asked her that. Had it involved…tapeworms? “It’s complicated,” was all she could come up with.

Meg nodded. “Totally.”

One of the apartment’s inhabitants ambled out to the balcony swinging his limbs loosely. Nick, he’d said his name was. He was tall and tan and would have been strikingly good-looking if not for his long, blond dreadlocks, which nobody seemed to find as embarrassing as Florence did.

“Got one of those for me, Megs?” he asked.

Florence thought she saw Meg flush slightly as she slid him the pack of cigarettes. He was the first person at the party who’d actually used her name.

After lighting one, he turned to Florence and said, “So you’re the wild woman who drove off Rue Badr a few nights ago?”

“So I’m told.”

“You know, if you’re looking for thrills, I can just lend you my board.”

Florence smiled. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nick shook his head. “Seriously though, that road is a death trap. I wrecked my moped up in those hills a few weeks ago.”

“There’s been like four accidents already this year,” Meg chimed in.

Florence felt somewhat cheered by the news. Maybe the accident wasn’t her fault after all. “How did you guys hear about it again?” she asked.

“I saw it in Le Matin,” Nick said.

“You speak French?” Florence asked, surprised.

“Un peu,” he said in an appallingly terrible accent.

“I’m gonna go get another beer. You guys want?” Meg asked. Nick and Florence both shook their heads. Nick collapsed into the chair Meg had vacated and rubbed the scruff on his neck. “So you’re a writer?”

Florence nodded.

“Very cool.”

Nick reminded Florence of someone, but she couldn’t think who.

“What about you?” she asked. “What do you do?”

“I’m still in school.”

“Really? You look older.”

“I’m twenty-four. I took a few years off. I’ll finish up at UC San Diego in the fall.”

“And then what?” Florence didn’t know why she was playing the role of career counselor. The truth was, she wouldn’t have known how to act in this situation—surrounded by strangers at a small, shitty party in a foreign country—even if she hadn’t been pretending to be someone else.

“I’ll probably go into real estate. My older brother Steve is a real estate agent and he makes bank.”

“That’s what my mom keeps telling me to do.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Her friend’s daughter is some big deal real estate agent in Tampa and has, you know, the husband and the four kids and the business card with her face on it. But basically I’d kill myself if that was my life.”

“Why? That doesn’t sound so bad—couple of kids, house near the beach.”

“But it’s so insignificant. It’s just, like, eighty years of driving to the grocery store and back. Can’t we aim for something higher?”

“No offense, but why is it any better to be a writer?”

“Why is it better to make art?”

“Yeah. Why is that better than helping someone find a home? That’s real.”

“Art is real.”

“I’d rather have a home than a story.”

“Okay, but stop thinking like the consumer for a second. What about your life? Do you really think you’ll be satisfied spending the majority of your time on earth touring people around houses? That’s your purpose?”

“I mean, my purpose is just to, like, be a good person.”

Florence looked at Nick’s face to see if he was serious. He was.

“I guess that’s important too,” she muttered.

Nick shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that has to be everyone’s purpose. I think it’s awesome that you actually think about this stuff and you’ve found your passion. All I’m saying is that no one’s path is intrinsically better or worse than anyone else’s, you know?”

Florence raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Nick laughed. He glanced at the sliding glass door that led inside. “Okay,” he said in a low voice, “don’t repeat this, but there are some girls in there who just want to be, like, Instagram influencers, and yes, I’ll admit that maybe that path is slightly less noble than, say, Gandhi’s.”