I happen to like gargoyles.
They’re badass sentries, fiercely standing guard over the holiest of holy places. As light shines at the top of the stairs, my breath comes hard and fast, my thighs burning from the climb. When I reach the gallery on the north tower, I’m outside at the top of the most famous church in the world, and it’s spectacular. The city unfurls hundreds of feet below me, the river winding through Paris, the Eiffel Tower standing tall at the edge, the Louvre staking its famous claim by the water, the hills of Montmartre rising high.
It’s breathtaking.
I stare off in the distance, delighting in the view, when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I snap my gaze in its direction.
I’m looking at an elephant.
Holy smokes. There’s an elephant perched next to a gargoyle.
It’s a stone elephant, sitting on his big butt.
He’s not grotesque. He’s simply . . . an unexpected elephant.
And that’s exactly what I wanted to see. Something that surprised me. Something that makes me rethink my day, my opinion. I grab my phone and snap a shot of the elephant. This photo isn’t a reminder for my to-do list. This shot has meaning—it signifies the opposite of regret.
I can’t regret the cancelled vacation.
If I’d have come here with Richard, he wouldn’t have ventured up these steps, and I’d have felt bad going without him. That’s on me. I would have wanted to climb them, but I’d have chosen to stay on the ground with him.
Now, I feel sated, because of this elephant. It feels like my reward. Maybe even a reminder to shuck off the guilt that sometimes weighs on me. Let it go, and focus on the future.
Honestly, my only regret so far in my first twenty-four hours in Paris is that I didn’t snag Archibald’s phone number. That man was more delicious than the croissant, and it would have been fun to have a glass of wine or a cup of coffee with him.
I give myself a virtual smack. I don’t have time to let my mind wander to romantic interludes and flirty men. Extricating myself from a toxic relationship had felt like a Herculean feat at times, but I succeeded. Now I’m on the other side of manipulation, of lies, of the huge albatross of guilt that anchored me to Austin for far longer than it should have.
When I reach the ground, my phone buzzes. There’s a text from my sister.
Allison: I miss you so much it hurts, but you look like you’re having a blast! Keep the pictures coming and keep on enjoying life!!
I tell her I miss her with the depth of a black hole, but that I’m loving it here, too. I resolve to keep snapping photos—but to make sure they matter, that I’m both capturing life and living it well. I post the elephant as the fitting first image on my Instagram feed—#firstdayinparis #unexpectedsights #greatviews #lookaround.
When I close the app, I spot a message from the man with the rental company.
Stephen: Bonjour! The flat we arranged for you is all ready for tomorrow’s meeting. The studio is perfect.
I furrow my brow. I didn’t plunk down a security deposit on a studio. I opted for a one-bedroom on the third freaking floor.
Joy: I look forward to it. You mean the one-bedroom on the third floor?
His reply is instant.
Stephen: Yes, the studio on the second. It is beautiful.
I sigh. Call me crazy, but I think Stephen might be trying to yank me around. I want to call Marisol and ask her advice, but I don’t want to be a burden. I sort of wish the sweet little old lady from the plane had given me her business card, since she seemed the fairy godmother type, and I bet she’d know how to magic wand her way out of this mess for me.
But alas, I’ll need to handle this little situation on my own.
Back at the hotel room, I find an email from Marisol. The agency already has a new translator for me. His name is Griffin, and he studied biology in school so he knows the complicated technical lingo for the job. That’s key. Though it’s not necessary for him to understand how chemical reactions work, a scientific background and competence with terms that might flummox other linguists is an absolute necessity. Also, he’s quite good at idioms, both in French and English, Marisol writes. If I approve, the agency can let him know.
I tap my finger to my lip, a plan brewing. I wonder if he’s good at dealing with rental agents trying to screw an American over. I hope this new translator is like Archibald, ready to save a lady about to commit a faux pas.
I call Marisol and tell her Griffin sounds great. “Will you ask if he can meet me tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. He’s ready to start right away.”
I give her the address of the rental. “Nine thirty. I can’t wait to meet him.”
6
Griffin
When someone you love dies, you hear more platitudes than you’ll ever want to hear in your entire life.
When one door closes, another opens.
It was his time.
Someday, this pain will make sense.
As for the last one, what the hell? How does that even make sense in a store selling pillows with stitched-on platitudes? In a shop peddling magnets with sayings? Who buys that, let alone believes it?
But someone must because it’s been served up to me. I’ve heard my fair share of clichés in the last year since my younger brother, Ethan, died in a mostly unexpected way.
And I grin and bear it, every time.
Because ultimately, people mean well when they utter hackneyed sayings in the wake of a loss. What they mean is I’m so sorry.
Yeah, me, too.
Still,
