It’s not perfect.
I’m not fluent.
But I’m good enough to get by now.
After work, I stop by the market to pick up some fruit, and as I head down the stalls, a gray-haired woman asks if I dropped a scarf. She points to a sky-blue silky scrap on the ground.
“That’s mine. Thank you so much.” I pick it up, and toss it around my neck, even though it’s not cold. But it is fashionable, and for that reason alone, I adore this accessory.
I head to the Metro, navigating seamlessly. Later, after I climb the steps to my terrace, I drink in the city at my feet.
I know. I’ve always known.
I miss him fiercely. I miss him wildly. And I know what my heart wants—to have it all.
I call Elise and ask for her help.
32
Griffin
Sweat slicks down my chest.
The sun fires bullets of heat.
No relief is in sight.
I long to tear away from the group of runners and dive into the endless blue sea temptingly nearby. In the first ten days on the Indonesian island of Bali, I’ve already gone scuba diving, seen the waterfalls, and hiked up a mountain at dawn to view the sunrise. Each was enjoyable in its own way, and each was a little bit empty, too.
Because I did them alone.
But every day I’ve run, and now, when it counts, I hit the twenty-mile mark. My feet are screaming at me, shouting that they’ll never permit this crap again. But even so, my heart is pounding strong, and I never let up. I run through the sand, I run through the town, and I run while the sun bakes my shoulders. Another mile, another one more, and I’m nearly there.
As the finish line looms into view, I expect to be clobbered with memories.
With images of my brother.
But those don’t come.
Maybe this makes me selfish, but I’m grinning and muttering, “Holy crap. I’m doing it.” I’m fulfilling the dream I had when I was younger. But life got in the way, and I never got around to running a race.
Now, I’m finishing a marathon.
One foot in front of the other.
Every footfall aches, and every footfall sings.
And when at last, more than a decade after I decided to do this, I cross the finish line, I punch the air. I let out a whoop. I feel like the most selfish prick in the world, but not for long, because it’s too awesome a feeling to accomplish something I’ve always wanted to do.
As I slow my pace, grab some water that a volunteer hands to me, and walk instead of run, my whole life comes into focus.
Everything is bright and clear.
The past, and the future.
Bali is but a whisper.
Joy was right. Everything she told me on the train ride home from Giverny is true. Goose bumps rise on my skin with the staggering realization that the list was never about my brother.
33
Joy
Christian slaps his hands together like a coach, rubbing one palm against the other. “C’mon. You can do this, kid,” he says, adopting an American accent and smacking me on the arm.
Elise rolls her eyes from her perch on her living room couch. It’s seven thirty in the morning on a Monday, but they’re prepping me one last time. “Oh, come on now. You’re not her football coach.”
He narrows his eyes. “You mean proper football, I trust? The world’s greatest sport, right?”
Elise laughs. “Joy is from Texas. I mean the one you despise.” She turns to me. “From the top.”
I take a deep, calming breath. I square my shoulders. I practice once more what I want to say to Marisol when I meet with her in two more hours.
My words aren’t what I’d say if I had Griffin translating for me. I don’t have him to rely on. I have to go it alone. I keep it simple so I can say it myself.
When I’m done, they both slow clap.
“You’re ready,” Elise declares. “Now go convince her to let you have it all.”
I show Marisol the tester bottle. “This is the perfume I made over the past three months. I want to introduce it here in France. I want to keep finding ways to bring innovation to L’Artisan. I want to introduce new products here, and to help oversee them. If you’ll have me, I want to stay. If you like this mix, I’ll do everything I can to make it a success for you.”
Marisol blinks. “You want to stay?” She points to her desk. “Here, in Paris?”
Nerves fly up my throat. I want to stay so desperately. I came to Paris for a new experience, and that experience has changed me. I didn’t just fall in love with Griffin. I fell in love with the city. I fell in love with a whole new language. Paris feels like home.
“I’m not done with Paris. And I hope Paris isn’t done with me.”
Marisol squeals. It’s the strangest sound from such a proper woman. But she actually squeaks, then rises from her chair in a flurry. She strides over to me and wraps me in an unexpected hug. “I accept the continuation of your employment.”
When it comes to chances that don’t come around often, this is the one I’d most regret if I let it pass by —the chance to stay here.
I don’t doubt that it would be wonderful to run a perfume lab in Austin. But here in front of me, I can keep learning a whole new language. A whole new way of living. I might not be overseeing a fleet of scents, but if I can guide one to market, it’ll be more than a dream come true.
She dangles the glass bottle between two fingers. “By the way, do you have a name for your composition?”
I have a name, and I have a story. It is all my bittersweet days when I wander across the
