Besides, I’m only being helpful, I tell myself.
I nearly believe it, too.
Griffin: Scale of 1–10. How was your first official week as a Parisian? Obviously, your mornings were excellent since they were spent with me.
Once I’m on the train on the way to meet Christian, I open her quick reply.
Joy: My mornings were indeed a highlight, though I’m still hunting for the best chocolate tart in the city. Also, I’m hardly a Parisian. More like a transplant-Parisian.
Griffin: Ah, yes. I’ve heard of that species of foreigner in my marine biology studies. Very dangerous if you don’t know how to handle them.
Joy: And I bet you do! Anyway, it was great and awful at the same time. A bus was obnoxious enough to spew its fumes on me this evening, which caused me to knock out a contact lens, which meant I had to go to the pharmacy to buy contact lens solution.
Griffin: That sounds not ideal, but not exactly awful.
Joy: Oh, trust me, it was six ways of awful when I tried to tell the pharmacist what I needed. I butchered the language like it’s never been sliced before.
Griffin: I highly doubt you slaughtered words. You could have called me. I would have been happy to help.
Joy: That’s kind of you, but I need to be able to function as my own errand girl.
Griffin: Sure. I get that. Don’t forget we’re friends, and friends help friends buy solution pour lentilles de contact.
Joy: Show-off.
I laugh as the train rumbles underground, nearing my stop.
Griffin: Anyway, it takes years to learn the language. Don’t beat yourself up over contact lens solution. Are your eyes better?
Joy: Perfect. I’m using them now to enjoy the fabulous view from my rooftop. Thank you again for helping me snag this place. It’s truly beautiful.
Griffin: You scored it with your swift decision-making, hatred of smoke, and love of pink doors.
Joy: You helped immensely. Just as you’ve been immensely helpful at work, too.
Griffin: Well, you’re one of my favorite clients. But shhhh. Don’t tell the others.
Joy: It’ll be our secret.
Briefly, I wish we had other secrets. Or really, I wish that we could. And I kind of wish we were having this conversation in person. Before I can think better of it, I send another text.
Griffin: What are you up to tonight? A group of us are going out for drinks and general carousing in Le Marais. Have you been there yet? You should join us. We don’t bite.
Joy: Thanks for the invite! But this wine has gone to my head. I think I might call it a night. I have a busy weekend buying nail scissors and laundry-drying racks. Also, biting isn’t always a bad thing.
On the spectrum of inappropriateness, Joy appears to have joined my team. I grin as I write back.
Griffin: Biting can be a very good thing. Anyway, the night is young. If you change your mind, call me. Otherwise, good luck with the scissors and laundry.
Joy: Good night, friend.
Griffin: Good night, friend.
When the metro slides into the station, I step off the train and ring my parents. My mum answers on the third ring. “Griffin, good to hear from you. Are you okay?”
“Mum, I’m fine. I promise,” I say, wishing there was a way I could ease her worries. I don’t think she’ll ever answer a call from me without expecting the worst.
“Oh, good,” she says, relief in her voice. “How’s work?”
“It’s fantastic. I have a new client,” I say, then I tell her briefly about L’Artisan and Joy, and she enquires about my marathon training. I tell her I’m improving my times then ask how Dad is doing with his effort to learn how to cook, since he decided to take cooking classes a few months ago—I suspect to keep occupied.
“He made me bangers and mash. It was dreadful.”
“Naturally. Tell him to make you something good, like coq au vin,” I say, since she likes her French food much better than the English fare.
“No. I can’t let him ruin my favorite dishes.”
We chat for a few more minutes, then I say good-bye, finding a welcome measure of peace because I’ve managed, on a regular basis, to fulfill another one of my brother’s wishes.
It’s probably the easiest one of all.
P.S. Be nice to Mum and Dad. It’s hard for them.
My brother was a runner, a cross-country standout in primary school. With his blond hair, blue eyes, happy-go-lucky spirit, and success on the field, he was a magnet. At lunch, guys and girls alike flocked to him. After school, he always hung out in the center of a crowd.
Since he was younger than I was, I had free rein to put him in his place. Make sure his success didn’t go to his head.
“I bet you can’t catch me,” I’d told Ethan one morning while he was lacing up his trainers. He was fifteen. I was sixteen.
He laughed. “Seriously? You’re seriously thinking I can’t catch you? You twat. You’d never be able to keep up with me.”
I scoffed. “You’d be huffing and puffing and have no clue what just happened when I passed you,” I’d said as I parked my hands behind my head on the couch at our home. “Just last night I dreamed I ran a marathon. Came in first place. And it was my first time running it. No doubt that’d happen.”
“Then get on your shoes and let’s go see how that dream becomes your nightmare.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
He was right.
He did kick my arse.
But I was right, too.
I was faster than I’d expected. I enjoyed it more than I’d thought I would. Or maybe I simply enjoyed the competition. We were only thirteen months apart, so we found ways to compete in nearly everything—sports, girls, school, video games, even ridiculous things like who could clean
