The jet glided into Paris’s Charles de Gaulle airport an hour ahead of schedule, which I took as a good sign. On the approach, I’d strained to see out the window, sure that I would catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame or even the winding Seine River, all landmarks that would mark my visit. Instead, all I could see were strangely geometric pastures and a low-hanging mass of dense, gray clouds that obscured everything as the plane approached the airport. It was disconcerting; this was not the France I remembered. Where were the glittering monuments and the picturesque rooftops?
I’d brought my Fodor’s Exploring Paris and my Frommer’s Portable Paris with me on the plane, with the intention of reading both of them cover-to-cover during the eight-hour flight. It had been eight years since I’d been to Paris; I’d taken a weeklong trip there with Poppy at the end of our internship when we were twenty-one. However, between the overweight businessman in the window seat, the airsick woman on the aisle jostling me constantly in my middle seat, and the fact that I was moderately scared of flying, I couldn’t focus on my guidebooks.
Instead, I thought about Brett.
I missed him. And I hated myself just a little bit for feeling that way.
If I was going to be honest with myself (and let’s face it, what did I have to lose at this point?), I’d realize that he and I were probably never meant to be in the first place.
We’d met three years ago during a Saturday ’80s night at Antigua, a club in downtown Orlando’s Church Street district. I’d been vogueing to Madonna with Lesley and Anne when a tall, dark-haired guy leaning against the bar caught my eye. He was cute, he had an enticing smile, and he was staring right at me. When “Vogue” faded and “Livin’ on a Prayer” began pumping from the speakers, I’d mumbled an excuse to the girls and made my way casually to the bar.
“Hey!” Brett had shouted over the din as I landed next to him, pretending, of course, that I’d randomly chosen that very spot to order my vodka tonic.
“Hey,” I’d responded casually, my heart thudding as I noticed for the first time what beautiful hazel eyes he had. Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear, Jon Bon Jovi belted out in the background, his chiseled face giant on the video screens around the room.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. I hesitated and nodded. He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “I’m Brett,” he said.
“Emma,” I said, taking his hand.
He shook my hand up and down slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You’re beautiful, Emma,” he’d said. There was something about the way he said it that made me believe he meant it.
After we talked for half an hour and he met Lesley, Anne, and Amanda, he’d asked me if I’d come next door with him to the rooftop bar Lattitudes. We had stayed there, at a table under the moonlight, sipping vodka tonics (we had the same favorite drink), discussing movies (we both thought Shawshank Redemption and the indie film Primer were two of the best films we’d ever seen), swapping concert stories (we’d both been to the last three Sister Hazel shows at House of Blues), and talking about what we wanted in our futures. We seemed to have so much in common, and the way he gazed intently into my eyes and then smiled slowly made my heart flutter. By the end of the night, I was smitten. We went out on our first date the next night, and a month later, he called me his girlfriend for the first time. It felt perfect.
He was everything I thought I wanted—cute, successful, funny, good with people. My family loved him, and his parents grudgingly seemed to accept me. I thought we went together like peanut butter and jelly. Evidently, I hadn’t considered that one of my best friends would one day worm her way into the sandwich.
“Passeport, s’il vous pla?t.” The gruff voice of the stern-looking customs agent behind the glass cut into my thoughts. Somehow reminiscing about Brett had carried me off the plane and toward the immigration control area, like flotsam on the sea of arriving passengers.
“Um, yes, of course,” I stammered, fumbling in my bag, past the two unopened Paris books, past my pink iPod loaded with Five for Fighting, Courtney Jaye, and the Beatles, past the laptop computer I’d purchased with my holiday bonus last year. Finally, my fingers closed around the thick navy jacket of my gold-embossed American passport, and I pulled it out triumphantly. “Voilà!” I exclaimed happily, hoping the agent would appreciate the use of my limited French vocabulary.
He didn’t look impressed. He simply grunted, opened my passport, and studied it closely. My hair was shorter in the photo, just above my shoulders instead of just below, and since the picture had been taken in the winter, the blond strands were a few shades darker than they were now, in early May, which in Florida meant I’d already had two good months of sun. My current tan was a bit deeper and my freckles were a bit more pronounced. And of course, thanks to four weeks of unlimited cartons of mint chocolate chip (hey, it’s how I cope, okay?), I was a good ten pounds heavier than I’d been when the photo was taken. But my general dishevelment was the same. In the picture, I knew, my lipstick had worn off, my lips were cracked, and my hair looked like I’d been caught in a wind tunnel. I suspected I didn’t look much better today, having just stepped off a transatlantic flight.