Chapter 15
15
ALEXA
The Eiffel Tower sparkles outside my window, but all I can think about is how Jace would say it looks like a giant fairy wand. I'm supposed to be writing about romantic getaways—Paris's most intimate corners, its hidden gems, its perfect date spots. Instead, I'm calculating what time it is in San Francisco. Eight hours earlier? Or nine?
My laptop mocks me with its blank screen and blinking cursor.
Paris offers couples an unparalleled romantic experience...
So freaking boring.
Delete.
A Goldfish cracker falls out of my purse while I'm searching for my phone. Then another. They're everywhere—tucked into pockets, hiding in my makeup bag, somehow multiplying like little orange reminders of my time in San Francisco. I never even liked Goldfish until Lukas insisted they were "the best snack for hockey watching."
My first article draft sits unfinished on my desk.
The City of Light dazzles with possibility...
Except it doesn't . Not really. Not when every corner café reminds me of pancakes. Not when every park makes me think of impromptu hockey lessons. Not when every sparkling light makes me remember tiny faces watching for magic.
"You look terrible," Lucy announces during our weekly video call. She's eating ice cream for breakfast because time zones are weird, and apparently this is an intervention. "Like, worse than that time you got food poisoning in Bangkok."
"You’re lucky you’re my BFF."
"You're wearing his jersey."
Busted.
"It was laundry day."
"It's been laundry day for a week, according to your Instagram. So what about your San Francisco family?"
"They're not my family."
"Really? Because there's an empty wine bottle next to you and it’s only six p.m.”
"It's for research."
"For what? How to Break Your Own Heart in the City of Light ?"
I throw a Goldfish at the screen. "I hate you."
"No, you hate that I'm right." She takes another bite of ice cream. "You know what else I hate? Your recent articles. They're terrible."
"They are not?—"
" Paris offers sophisticated travelers a chance to escape family-friendly drudgery . Really? That's your lead? I fell asleep reading it."
"It's technically true."
"It's technically boring. You're not writing about Paris—you're writing about what you're running from. Badly."
Ugh.
“Every article draft reads like a love letter to what you left. Every "romantic spot" is a place the kids would love,” she scolds.
"I made a choice," I remind her. And myself.
"Yeah, well, how’s that going for ya? You're miserable. Your writing's miserable. Even your outfit is miserable—is that one of Jace's hair clips? And when was the last time you washed your hair?"
I touch my hair automatically. It is getting kind of gross.
"A ghost is haunting your Instagram," she continues, merciless. "Three posts about family-friendly Paris spots this week. Two articles about traveling with kids. One very drunk tweet about how French children don't eat dinosaur-shaped food."
"I was jet-lagged."
"You were homesick,” she sing-songs.
A text pings—Ryan wondering where my latest piece is. Then, another asking why my latest submission reads like a "divorced dad's guide to Paris."
"I'm just... adjusting."
"You're just hiding. In an expensive apartment. Writing crap. Missing your family."
"They're not?—"
"If you say 'they're not my family' one more time, I'm hanging up and calling Jonas myself."
I throw another Goldfish at her pixelated face.
Outside, Paris glitters with all the romance and sophistication it’s famous for. Couples stroll hand in hand, and people sit outside at cafes no matter the weather. Everything is exactly as glamorous as I dreamed.
And something about it is freakishly... unsatisfying. Not what I expected. Not at all.
"You know what's funny?" Lucy asks, softening the edge in her voice. "You finally got everything you wanted."
I look around my perfect Paris apartment. My dream job. My sophisticated life.
I step on a Goldfish that falls off my desk and stare at the little pile of orange crumbs.
"Yeah," I say. "Funny, isn’t it?"
Lucy slurps down the last of her ice cream, fixing me with a look that says this intervention isn't over. "You know what's not funny? How many times you've ‘liked’ the San Francisco Aftershocks’s Instagram posts."
"Are you stalking my social media use? And by the way, I haven't?—"
"You know those ‘likes’ are public," she smirks.
"I hate you. Again.”
It feels good to talk like a temperamental teenager.
"No, you hate Paris." Lucy grins. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"
I look at my unfinished articles. My unpacked suitcase. My perfectly organized life that feels completely out of whack.
"I have to go," I tell Lucy. "I have a deadline."
"Yeah, a family deadline." She raises her empty ice cream container. "Don't make me stage another intervention. I can’t handle this many calories on a regular basis. Now I have to go to the gym for five hours. Plus, I feel sick."
After she hangs up, I find another Goldfish in my coat pocket. I’d eat it if it weren’t covered in fuzz.
Wonder if they sell them here?
Maybe this what rock bottom looks like in Paris—orange crackers, hockey jerseys, dirty hair, and wondering where you took a wrong turn.
There's something deeply sad about watching hockey highlights in a Paris café at three a.m., but here I am, hunched over my phone while the waiter speaks only French, of course. Jonas's game stats flash across the screen as the worst performance of his career. The commentators are being diplomatic about it, throwing around terms like "personal matters" and "family situation."
"Perhaps madame would like something stronger than coffee?" The waiter’s accent drips with judgment when he finds out I know about five French words.
Regardless, I would certainly like something stronger than coffee. But I have work to do that I should probably be sober for.
"Your coverage lacks your usual... spark," Ryan said during yesterday’s video meeting. He was being kind. What he meant was your articles read like someone who'd rather be anywhere other than where you are . “Where's the Alexa Minty flair? The sophistication? The—" he asked.
"Sorry, what?"
"Exactly my point. You're physically in Paris, but where's your head?"
I knew I forgot something in San Francisco.
My phone lights up again. Mom this time, even though she’s just five Metro stops away:
How’s your day going?
Meh
You don’t sound so good
Living the life
You seem miserable
I'm fine
If you insist
Want to know something? I didn't leave your father for adventure
What?
This is new. The story's always been about escaping suburban life. Finding herself. Chasing dreams.
I left because I was scared. Scared of loving people who could leave
You still left
I ran. Called it adventure. Called it dreams. Called it anything but what it was—fear
Like mother, like daughter.
My mom's words hit hard:
Running isn't adventure. It's just running
I'm not running. I'm living my dream
Are you?
The waiter swings by, more out of obligation than anything. Everyone around me is having late night—or should I say early morning?—cocktails. And I’m drinking coffee.
"More coffee, madame? Or perhaps a tissue?"
I'm not crying. I just have allergies. And maybe jet lag. And possibly regret.
Ryan’s final note:
Either write about Paris or go home. This in-between is helping no one.
Home.
When did that word start meaning a big, buff pro athlete who happens to have two cute mini-me’s.
Whose touch I can’t stop dreaming of.
Mom continues:
You know what real adventure is? Staying. Choosing love even when it's scary. Being brave enough to risk happiness
That's terrible advice from someone who left
That's perfect advice from someone who knows exactly what running cost her
Want to know what real fear is? Realizing you ran from the wrong things toward the wrong dreams
A find another Goldfish at the bottom of my computer bag.
Even Paris can't compete with that kind of reality check.
Next day, I call Jonas at what must be midnight in San Francisco. Not because I've been drinking expensive French wine all night and now it’s morning here, but because I can’t stop thinking about his messy but adorable bedhead and how each morning’s first glimpse of his crystal blue eyes made my heart go wild.
"Hey." His voice sounds tired. Wary. Like he's not sure which version of me is calling. "Everything okay?"
"No." The wine makes me honest. "I hate Paris."
A pause. Then, "That's not what your articles say."
"My articles are terrible. I just wrote five hundred words about how the Eiffel Tower looks like a giant phallus. Like that hasn’t already been done before. My editor actually suggested I take a break. I think he meant from writing, but I'm considering Paris in general."
He yawns. "What are you talking about? Paris is awesome.”
"I saw a little bit of your game."
"Oh. Yeah. Well."
We both sigh, remembering we're not supposed to be doing this. Not supposed to be talking like nothing's changed. Like I didn't run away to chase a dream that's starting to feel more like a well-dressed let-down.
"The kids miss you," he says finally.
"Only the kids?" I take another sip of wine, staring at my perfectly organized Paris apartment.
There’s silence for a moment. Too long to be comfortable.
“Hey look, sorry for calling so late. I should let you go. I’m sure you have an early call in the morning.”
“Wait—”
I hang up.
He calls me right back.
“I wasn’t finished,” he says sleepily.
“I’m sorry I hung up. That was rude.”
"I thought I wanted this," I tell Jonas. "The dream job. The sophisticated life. The freedom to write about overpriced restaurants, too-expensive wine, and the joys of being child-free."
"And?"
"I actually walked around today seeing if I could find Goldfish crackers anywhere. It’s insane, but I couldn’t help it. Lukas got me hooked on them. And then, I keep finding myself researching San Francisco school districts during meetings."
"What are you saying, Alexa?"
"I don’t know. But I miss the kids. I do.”
"And?"
"And you. I miss you. I miss us. I miss everything I thought I didn't want."
Through my window, Paris sparkles with all the dreams I’ve always had. All the dreams I’ve endlessly chased.
"The kids have a school thing next week," he says carefully. Like he's afraid to hope. "Some kind of art show."
"I know. It's in my calendar. The one I'm not supposed to be keeping. Lukas is showing his hockey series, isn't he?"
"Among other works. He's branched out into mixed media. Lots of glitter."
"Jace's influence?"
"Obviously. She's very proud."
"And hockey?"
A pause. "He might play. If someone promises to film it."
"Jonas..."
"I'm just saying."
I look at my Fashion Week passes. My dream job contract. My perfect Paris life. Then at my laptop, which has a tab open to the airlines, specifically flights from Paris to San Francisco.
"I have to go," I tell him.
"Paris calling?"
"Something like that."
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the window. At my somehwhat put-together Paris self. At everything I thought I wanted.
I look up flights online.
Not because I drank wine all night. Not because I'm failing at my dream job. Not because Paris isn't everything I thought it would be.
It is, and more. It’s just not what I want any longer .
I text Ryan:
Need to cover San Francisco family spots. For contrast.
Finally. Your Paris pieces read like a cheap travel brochure
Ouch.
Then I text Lucy:
I might have done something either very brave or very stupid.
If it involves booking a flight to SF, it's about time.
I glance around my perfectly curated Paris apartment. At the dream life that’s suddenly starting to feel a little overrated. At the things I thought I wanted, neatly arranged and whispering, stay.
I think about packing, which won’t take much time, considering I never really unpacked.
Maybe bravery isn’t some grand, sweeping moment. Maybe it’s just admitting when perfection isn’t cutting it anymore.
Besides, Paris will survive without me.
Probably.