VERA

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WHY THE HELL AM I IN PARIS?

The City of Love. The City of Light. The city that I don't belong in, and the city that I somehow ended up in by a twist of fate and bad timing. It's not like I was 'kidnapped against my will', or anything, but I'm definitely questioning my life more than I usually do.

I saw a tweet back in March saying I should 'romanticize my life, because why the hell not?' and it awoke the once-dead spirit of my high school obsession with Hallmark movies. What's wrong with wanting to romanticize your life?

Don't make me answer that.

I found out the answer, and now I'm embarrassed that I was so easily swayed by the words of em0girl69 on Twitter, decided that romanticizing my life was a need, and took a gap-year to accompany my best friend to Paris, France in the hopes that I'd write a bestseller book about Europe—which, in turn, would make me famous and prone to spending nights in large mansions, while drinking wine and glaring at my typewriter poetically.

But clearly I've been fooled.

I'm definitely not drinking wine in a mansion, or doing anything poetic, because instead I'm drinking San Pellegrino in a rented apartment, while Sinatra plays off a Walkman my mom gave me in 2013.

"You should have just left me at the airport," I announced breathily into the small room, "at least I'd know how to get home."

My words should have been that of a spoken thought, but apparently it was enough to deem a response from whoever was listening. A five foot ten, smokin' hot, drop-dead gorgeous, Greek Goddess strode into the room, her curly hair flipping behind her as she sent me a look of disappointment and batted eyelashes.

No, I'm not hallucinating.

There really is a supermodel sharing my apartment, and her name is Toni. My best friend Toni. Legs long enough to be on the cover of Vogue, and well, she actually has been on the cover of Vogue; somewhere in the background pretending to serve Beyoncé a snow-cone, but it still counts.

Toni ignored my previous remark, bending down to dig through the bottom-drawer of her dresser in search of a hairpin.

"You've been here for a week," she noted, her voice humming softly, "not enough time for you to be complaining about the city."

From the waking sunlight streaming in through the window, she could get a good look at my face from where I was sitting lazily at my desk, my laptop half-open with an empty page pulled up onto the screen. One would have thought she'd find the Parisian view of sunrises and Haussmannian buildings to be more interesting than a fresh-outta-high-school teen moping around, but clearly the latter was the choice.

She puckered her (very perfect, very pink, model-like) lips, taunting me to make another snarky remark about how following her was a mistake.

I accepted the challenge wholeheartedly.

"I should go home," I said, placing my hand on the top of my computer and slapping it closed, "I'm chickening out."

Toni narrowed her eyes, the annoyance seeping off her hazel eyes like spiteful molasses. "You don't mean that."

"I do mean that."

"But then your dreams of writing a 'European-love story that would touch the hearts of millions', would perish," she said, shutting the drawer closed sharply, "because, like I've told you a million times, you can't—"

"—write about a place you've never been to," I finished for her, leaning into the back of my plastic chair, "yeah, I know."

"Then stop questioning it."

"I just..." I began, waving my hands around in the hopes it would help me find the words. Spoiler alert: it didn't. "...Why am I here?"

If anything, I should be asking myself that question, and not Toni. She actually had a reason to be here— a glorious, all-expenses paid, job touring with a French designer named Francois D'Jaque. She didn't plan on going to college, because she had the face to keep her working for arguably a good sum of years—but I didn't have 'the face', and I was trying to pursue a career as a writer.

Oh, boy, was this turning out to be a mistake!

I barely speak French, which is already making me sound like a spoiled-brat who didn't bother learning the official language before coming here. I also couldn't pay my share of the rent, considering I'm a poet who hasn't even started the first chapter of a non-existent novel, but thankfully I managed to get a good word in with the woman across the street for a job.

She works at a bakery.

And I don't know how to bake.

But still, she's letting me help take inventory and keep things in order to stay living under a roof for the year I'm staying. God bless her heart. Thank you, Bella, you're a real one.

"I'm not going to be taking any of your whining seriously," Toni said, striding over towards me with her shiny, long legs, "because I remember you running into my house after graduation..."

As she wrapped her arms around me, I felt my life flash before my eyes. It usually did, but specifically even more in this moment, because I recognized the devious look in my friend's eyes, and I recognized the 'hug' she was giving me. Oh, this wasn't a hug. Oh, ho, ho, ho, it's not.

It's merely a cover-up excuse so I can't escape when she starts teasing me.

"Oh, Toni," she mocked, dragging me out of my chair and into the center of the room, "I want to go to Paris with you!"

See? I called it.

"Utter rubbish," I hissed, trying to wriggle my way out, "total blasphemy!"

Toni continued (horribly, might I add) impersonating me, swinging me about like I was a rag doll in her ineluctable grip. "I want to write a book about what it's like to fall in love in the City of Love!"

"I didn't say that!"

"Don't leave me in Chicago! Take me with you!"

"I will snap your nail off!"

At the mention of that threat, Toni instantly hurled away, barely suppressing a noise that sounded like a cat hiss. Whenever discussing the girl's nails, you were discussing a very sensitive part of her life. She praised her nails. She worshipped them. One time, she even wore gloves for three months straight in Sophomore year, because she didn't like the idea of accidentally chewing her nails during a math test.

"Hey, I was just repeating what history showed," she frowned, her curls bobbing around her shoulders, "no need to get violent."

I pursed my lips, returning to my chair. "Says the instigator."

"Me? The instigator? It was Emo-Girl-Sixty-Nine who told you to romanticize your life!" She accused, "did that tweet mean nothing to you?"

Yes, actually, because it's not like I build my life on Twitter. I don't check my explore page in the hopes it would tell me what to get for breakfast, and I don't see what scandal some YouTuber got into to know what I should talk about at school (although this gap-year is a break from that terrible place).

It was that one tweet. That one, stupid, chaotic, 'I wish they never wrote it', tweet that caught me drunk in sadness on a Saturday midnight, made me too unstable, and too spontaneous, to actually think any of this through.

And I knew who to blame for it.

"I will dropkick Emo-Girl-Sixty-Nine through a wall for tricking me into this," I muttered under my breath, plopping into my chair with a huff, "then shove them down the stairs in spite."

Toni was now digging through her purse, "hm, sounds like a plan."

"And then I will deactivate their social media account."

"Sure, babe."

"And make them pay for influencing me so easily."

"Alright, and what's next?" Toni said. She had found her thin tube of chapstick at the bottom of her bag, and was now swiping the balm across her bottom lip rather seductively. Then again, everything that model did was seductive; sometimes she made me want to risk it all. She sighed, "put them on a raft, and send them drifting into the Atlantic without food and water?"

I cocked a brow, "what a wonderful suggestion."

"You're welcome."

That was the thing about Toni. If I did end up murdering someone (which I am not going to do, mind you), she'd be there to cook up a plan to hide the body. And then she'd help me execute it. Grim stuff, I know, but what I'm trying to say is that Toni trusts me to a far extent, and I trust her. That's why I love her.

That's why I ended up tagging along with her to Paris, because, while I won't admit it, I'd rather go with her than go alone. That's why she knows all my dark secrets, because I trust she won't use any of it against me when we fight. She trusts me too. Cause' we've been through hell—and high school— together, and I was there when her parents threatened to kick her out for becoming a model, I was there when she accidentally came out as bi in front of half the school, and I was there when Yasmine O'Connell broke her heart in junior year and left her crying in a Panera Bread at 9pm on a Monday.

So if she really, really, really thought coming to Paris was a good idea, maybe I should believe her. Just maybe.

"Damn it!" The girl squealed, sending surprised jolts through my body, "where did I put my earrings?"

I stifled a laugh, amused that I had been dwelling on our friendship a moment before, just for it to be cut off by her panicked flailing about the room. I raised my had towards the yellow door to my left. "Bathroom sink, under your makeup bag."

"Mwah, darling, what would I do without you?" She mused, blowing me a makeshift kiss, before shuffling off towards the bathroom in haste.

I turned back towards my laptop, giving it a glare. While momentary conversation was able to distract me from the haunting of writer's block, it always came back to bite me. This was madness. Here I was, with an open window in front of my desk, the sights and smell of Paris at my very fingertips—and yet, I couldn't figure out what to write.

That's why I came here! I'd fallen under the illusion that my life would somehow become full of romance, scandal, and fun, but I still can't seem to translate any of that into words. The only eventful thing I've done in the past week was complain and get a job at a bakery. I won't admit it out loud, but I'm feeling like...a failure.

Toni came striding back into the room, this time with two golden feathers hanging off her earlobes. I gave her a half-smile.

"You look pretty," I nodded, "you always do."

She waved her hand bashfully, "stop, you'll make me blush."

"I'm jealous of you."

"Maybe so, but I don't understand why," she poked, crossing her arms against her chest, "there's so much about you that I would kill to have, and yet somehow you say you want to be like me. Life is unfair and confusing."

I sighed dramatically.

"But at least you know what you want in life," I sighed, rubbing my forehead in envy, "ever since you had that major glow-up in Freshman year, you were getting scouted by talent agencies left and right while I was trying not to fail my PSAT."

"At least you didn't fail your PSAT."

"But you have it better."

"Says who?"

"Oh please, you get paid to be photographed, Toni."

"And I love the women I meet along the way," she said, "it's called a double win, babe, and I'm winning."

"You never let me forget it."

Envy between us seemed more like an inside joke than an actual reality. While she had the things I could only dream of having, I knew I was lucky enough just to have her as my best friend. I didn't need anything more. I didn't need to be her to have anything more, which was why Toni flashed me a pearly grin in humor.

"That's the point," she said, "you're merely a side-character in my coming of age LGBTQ-plus bestseller book, so everything that happens in my life, I make sure you're aware of it."

"Oh, a bestseller?"

"Yes, well there's an idea. Your book should be a biography about me."

I didn't even pretend to think about it. "I'll pass."

"I'm just saying," she mused, heading towards the exit of our apartment, "you've been stuck finding a story, and I've got a whole lot of story to write about."

"Still passing," I smirked.

"At least think about it, darling," she said, before shutting the door.

Her voice could still be heard through the door, as she yelled out a muffled 'don't forget you have work!'. I chuckled under my breath, listening to the sound of her footsteps echoing away from where I sat.

Life sucked.

➢

Bella Lavinge was probably the most beautiful French woman I had ever met.

Then again, I haven't met a lot yet, but she would definitely beat them regardless. When I first walked into the small boulangerie, the first thing that caught my eye was the bright yellow apron the woman had tied around her waist, and the opening of her arms as she engulfed me in a suffocating hug.

She was a short woman, slightly taller than me at best, but the block heels she was wearing made her seem just a little more intimidating than she was already coming across as. Anyone could tell this woman was a baker if they took one glance; apart from her chestnut hair piled into a pun on top of her head, she kept a certain posture and hand placement that would make anyone think 'yes, she is a chef'. Something like that, at least. She was a woman of power, who had a collection of rolling pins underneath the Plaisirs De Bella's sign pinned to the wall—which, by a hard take on Google Translate, meant Bella's Delights.

And oh, was her food exactly like that.

"These are called Cannelés," the woman said, watching as I took a bite out of a small pastry, "the insides are made with the finest rum and custard."

Man, I could barely understand a word she said with her thick accent, but the complete sensory-show happening in my mouth was distracting enough. The pastry she had given me was enough to set fireworks off in my tastebuds, the creamy filling melting onto my tongue and balancing the crunch of the dough.

I love food.

Mmmmmmm.

I had been given a tour of the small boulangerie the day I was offered the job, and now that I was finally present for my first day working, I was proud I remembered where everything was. As Bella went on explaining the busy schedule, I made a list in my mind of all the things I could discern: the two ovens opposite the glass counter, the rows of pastries basking underneath the sunlight, a small, chubby gnome with a chef hat collecting dust behind the latte machine. I wondered why that was there.

Somehow I had drifted off in thought, but I was promptly pulled back with the snap of the woman's thin fingers.

"Ecoutez," she said, waving her hand by her lips, "when I speak to the customer, you should try to listen. It will not only help you learn the language, but it will keep you on your toes."

This moment was oddly reminding me of that scene where Colette was furiously chopping celery as she explained to Linguini how to survive in the kitchen in Ratatouille. Gosh, I loved this woman.

She told me to start off easy on the first day, only doing minuscule tasks that didn't require any person-to-person interaction. Tasks like counting the Euros in the tip jar from yesterday. Not only would it help me practice counting in French, but would provide suitable entertainment and help. Woohoo. Reminder to self—become fluent to avoid counting money for the rest of the year.

At first, the customers that walked in looked just like any other people I'd see back in Chicago, with that flurry of morning rush and exhaustion, phones tucked by ears as they ordered their usual and scurried off. Or it would be the occasional kid, that would stroll in with a paper euro clutched in their hands, asking what had the most chocolate filling (which Bella would then respond with something along the lines of 'où est ta maman?'). I'd think the welcome bell at the top of the door would have been worn out from all the ringing if it was alive.

Then the crowds dwindled down towards the afternoon, and it was just me and Bella; the sounds of clinking coins, and rolling of dough captivating the small shop with a homey warmth. It was like that for a few hours.

Until the bell rang again.

And in came a man. Maybe that's a rather unfitting term, considering he was too old to be a boy, but too young to be a grown-up. I'd take the risk and call him around my age: not exactly 'fresh outta high school', but definitely close to it. Maybe he was twenty. Or twenty-one. Something close to that.

But guessing his age was the last thing on my mind.

He was something rather perfect, although the term should never be used to describe someone, and yet he seemed completely untouchable at first glance. Perhaps it was the way his hand grazed against the handle of the door as he walked, the cool, metal rim sliding under the pads of his fingertips like he was hesitant to let go of it. Or maybe it was the way his sunglasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, reflecting the soft glow of the afternoon glares, but hiding his eyes away from anyone watching.

Nevertheless, there was something entirely ethereal about him.

And in that moment, I felt my body tense up with a feeling I couldn't describe. I don't think I could describe it if I wanted, because I had never felt it before. Felt any of this. But this couldn't be right, could it? He was a stranger, a boy who happened to walk in this afternoon, and someone I could hardly figure out from where I stood—but yet, I felt entranced by him. As if he was the kind of boy who'd make heads turn without trying, and in all fairness, he already made mine do exactly that.

"Allo, Bella," he murmured, coming to a stop in front of the counter, "sa va?"

His voice wasn't deep, but it felt heavy with something written under his words. A kind of breathy way of speaking, yet still managing to feel thick with all thought. I had to draw away from the trance. If not for the sake of the coins in my hands, but for the sake of not letting myself fall in too deep with curiosity.

As he and Bella engaged in what seemed to be friendly conversation, I lost the feeling of the metal coins in my fingers. He knew Bella. Bella knew him. But who was he? I didn't understand a word he was saying, yet the slight husk to his voice made it seem like I was indebted to know what he spoke about. Maybe I was just curious. Maybe he was just something to be curious about.

He lifted his fingers up to the side of his black sunglasses, sliding them slowly down the bridge of his nose and revealing the bright glint of his eyes.

Which were staring right into mine.

Oh.

As soon as we locked gaze, my fight or flight kicked in, and I felt like I had been slapped in the face with the cold hard truth. I hadn't been able to see his eyeline from behind his tinted shades, so I couldn't tell how long he had been looking at me. Or how long he had realized I had been looking at him.

In the brief panic, I felt my hands jolt, and the Euro in my hand went tumbling out of my fingers and towards the tiled floor beneath my feet. The metallic clatter sounded more like a gong in the silent bakery. Desperate for an escape from my embarrassment, I crouched behind the counter to find the missing coin I had dropped.

As I reached under the dishwasher, I heard the sound of the boy's voice continue talking to Bella.

"Ah," he said, "quelqu'un de nouveau?"

I didn't know what that meant, but I assumed it had something to do with the clumsy display I had just put on. The conversation was muffled by my attempts to scan the dark underbelly of the blackened stove, but my perseverance was that of satisfactory gain. Ahah! I felt the cold euro over by the gas pipes, and snatched it up as quickly as I could.

But as soon as my head appeared back over the counter, I felt his gaze return to where I was standing.

You know the phrase: 'hair raising'? Yeah, well I always thought that was a load of crap, but now I can confirm that your hair definitely does raise when you feel someone's eyes watching. Specifically when you don't want to be watched. And in this case, specifically when you don't want to be watched by a beautiful boy that happened to walk into the very shop you worked at.

Just...count the coins, Vera. Don't embarrass yourself further.

Bella seemed to take notice, and she muttered something under her breath. "Laisse la pauvre fille tranquille," she said, slapping her towel onto the marble counter, "elle ne parle pas encore français."

In response, the boy said, "c'est pourquoi je parle anglais, Bella."

I desperately needed to learn French. Not just for my personal benefit, but for the benefit of knowing what they were saying—which was, now that I'm thinking about it, also for my benefit.

But Bella's words apparently meant nothing to the boy. The sounds of shoes tapping unevenly against the checkered floor, followed by the outline of his figure approaching me, and the soft ring of the zipper of his leather jacket, made me want to squeal like a boiling teapot.

I tried to focus on the coins in my hand even as he came to a stop across from me, his hips leaning up against the glass counter. No. Euro. Just count the Euros. Number them up, pretend that the boy isn't staring, and that he's not in front of you, and breathe; that would help too. Un Euro, deux Euros, trois Euros, quatre—

"Ah," his voice said suddenly, "American?"

I looked up to see a pair of blindingly green eyes staring at me. They belonged to the boy, and so did the twitching smirk creeping up onto his thin lips with each passing second that he kept his gaze on me. He had asked me a question. Just a simple, one-word question, but I was hesitant to open my mouth.

I didn't know him.

He didn't know me.

Yet, the inquisitive smirk on his face was inviting me to speak. I didn't owe him a response, considering we were strangers, but the curious look glazed across his olive eyes was enough to make me want to tell him an answer. And it just slipped out:

"How did you know?"

With only a foot of counter space separating us, I noticed there was a lot more to his futures than I had previously noticed. Tiny freckles were balanced over his cheeks, some hidden by the stray, brown curls falling over his face. And his eyes had golden specks in them. He had pretty eyes.

A glimmer of pride seemed to wash over his expression as he realized his guess had been correct. Out of his mouth came that slowly familiar french accent; a heavy, nasally sound, that somehow managed to feel bright. "How I knew you're American?"

Ah-mare-ih-kehn. That's how the word rolled off his tongue.

I nodded my head, "yeah."

"Many things," he noted, leaning closer over the glass, "but telling you would ruin the fun of guessing."

He spoke English surprisingly well, not even stopping to hesitate when I made my response. Bella hesitated. So did many of the people I had the pleasure of meeting during the first week here. He somehow didn't.

"Comment tu t'appelle?" He said, cocking a thin brow, "what's your name?"

His intense stare almost made me forget. What was happening? I lived with my name for eighteen years, yet it escaped my mind as soon as a stranger like him asked for it. Nice going, nerves.

It came back to me a pause later, "Vera."

He didn't hesitate to reach over the glass, extending out his hand in greeting. "Timothée."

I paused before taking his hand, because that burst of curiosity that had previously consumed me seemed to be holding me back this time. I had heard him speak, I had seen his eyes, but here he was—enticing me to touch him. I shouldn't care for such things, should I? To care so much about a simple handshake, and to wonder how it would feel. But there was something about him. Something that I couldn't figure out, but felt indebted to.

I took his form of greeting moments later, pressing our hands together for a second of pure elation. I had figured it out. What it felt like to touch him. And now he seemed a lot more human than I had made him out to be, shaking hands with a stranger in nothing but pure decency.

I felt a cold stripe stand out from the warmth of his palm, tingling against the bone of my middle finger like an itch. Glancing down quickly, I noticed he was wearing a glass ring. Plain glass. Modeled into a circle, but left smooth and translucent. He wore it on his right hand, the ring finger, and I wondered if someone had given it to him.

I let go of his hand, just as he muttered the word 'echente'.

"So, American," he said, bringing his arm back to lean against the counter again, "what brings you to Paris?"

Toni. A ridiculous tweet. Bad planning, and lack of self-restraint. Those were all the truthful answers, but I wasn't' going to tell a stranger that. Not him. Definitely not him. He didn't seem like the type of person to find the humor in that response, and something in my chest told me not to scare him off too soon. Or at all, although my track record with boys isn't all too great.

"I'm writing a book," I murmured instead, giving him a half-truthful answer, "I haven't found the story yet, but I'm hoping I'll find it here."

A sparkle twinkled in his eyes. "You're a writer?"

"Well, as of now, I'm not as much as a writer as I am writing," I said, "but I do write on occasion when I find the inspiration to."

He paused, an amused grin written on his lips. "I don't understand a thing you just said."

"Oh."

"I'm sure it makes sense in your head."

I couldn't tell if that was meant to be an insult, or a sign of reassurance. What did he think was in my head? Empty thoughts? Clumsy coin-dropping? An empty, white room with a sign that had I THINK YOU'RE CUTE plastered all over it? Side note: I hope that's the last thing he'd think.

"I only meant that I've reached a struggle in the case," I explained, tapping my finger against the glass, "writer's block."

Yup. The silent curse to all who aspired to write. It's hard enough to have it for a week, but try having it for three months. It's like I lost all creativity, all motivation, and whatever I used to have when it came to writing. Page blank. Head blank. Nothing.

"It's normal," Timothée shrugged, tilting his head to the right. I noticed a stray curl graze over his eyebrow as he did so, a few rebellious strands lingering by the middle of his forehead. "Nothing to be ashamed of."

Who said I was ashamed of it?

"Are you a writer too?" I quizzed.

He let out a breathy laugh, "I've never looked into the skill of it." There was a slight pause, where the only sound was his glass ring hitting the counter beneath him, before he spoke again. "But I wish you luck on your book, American."

And just as quickly as we had met, he began to leave.

It was all happening in a blur; his hand running through his hair, the exhale he let out under his breath, the shoving of his hands into the pockets of his navy chinos as he sent a smirk to Bella. A flip of a single euro in his palm, the clink of metal hitting glass as he placed it in the tip jar, and the sound of his voice as he muttered a quick 'tu en as choisi un joli' before exiting the shop with a soft ding of a bell.

I barely had time to register our conversation.

"He's a menace, that boy," Bella chuckled, her palms pressing against the counter in amusement. She had heard the entire interaction, one that left me confused, but the look on the woman's face implied she'd seen it happen before. The smirks, the striding, the way he started a conversation but seemed uninterested to continue it. Bella glanced at my frozen expression, tapping her fingers against the marble, and bobbing her head, "back to counting, Vera."

Back to counting.

I nodded my head, turning back to my box of Euros slightly dazed. Whoever he was—Timothée, as he said—and whatever he tried to be, was completely unreadable. He was a puzzle that kept lingering in my mind even moments after he had left.

I looked out the window for a brief moment, only to see the now familiar head of brown curls slipping through cars as he crossed the street.

Soon he was out of sight.

_

I know this chapter was long, but I really hoped you guys liked it. 

I'm trying my hand at novels, eheh?
But I can't wait for you to see what Timothée is hiding...