TWENTY
After I packed my weekender bag, I headed downstairs to wait for my uncle. He pulled up in a new Audi. He’d upgraded since my last visit. He parked and got out, placed his hand on his forehead dramatically. “C’est comme voir un fantome! You look so much like your maman.”
I laughed and hugged him. “C’est bon de te voir, tonton. Thanks for picking me up.”
My uncle Jacques was one of my favorite humans. He’s the perfect mix of fun and serious. I tossed my bag in the backseat and climbed into the front next to him.
My phone buzzed with a text. It’s from Lena. I smiled, expecting something light or funny, but the moment I read it, my heart sunk a little.
Lena: My parents flaked. Again. They planned to come to the gallery tonight, but they texted saying something about a festival. It’s always a festival.
I stared at the screen and frustration on Lena’s behalf. I knew how much she wanted to love her parents or be loved by them. Part of it seemed cool, these free-spirited, creative souls who lived life on their own terms. But I knew the other side of it—the disappointment, the letdowns, the endless stream of broken promises. They never intended to hurt her, but they did, over and over again.
Me: Oh, Lena…
Me: I’m so sorry.
Me: I know you were looking forward to a visit.
Lena’s always been the strong one, the one who brushed off the hurt with a laugh or a shrug, but her parents continued to keep that childhood wound open. It took work not the loathe them for that.
Me: I love you.
Lena: I know you do. I love you more.
Lena: Tell me something fun.
Me: I kissed the Italian guy
Lena: SLAY
Me: He’s really hot
Lena: Need details later—I have class.
The countryside just outside Paris felt like a different world to me—a place where time moved slower. Every time I visited my aunt and uncle’s home, I’m transported back to my childhood, where the simplest moments held the most magic.
This weekend, I decided to escape the city and spend a few days with them, soaking in the tranquility of the rolling hills and vineyards. My aunt and uncle lived in this old stone house for as long as I can remember. It’s the kind of place that smelled faintly of jasmine and carbs. I loved carbs of every variety. At their home, you heard the birds singing before the sun came up.
We arrived with the crunch of gravel under the car tires as we pulled into the driveway. That familiarity brought a smile to my face. The front door swung open before I even have a chance to get out of the car. My Aunt Vivienne came out with her arms held wide ready to crush me into a hug.
“Charlie!”
she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around me tightly. “It’s been too long, ma chérie. Come in, come in! Everyone’s out back waiting for you.”
“Merci, Tante Vivienne,”
I said, hugging her back. “I’ve missed this place. And you, of course.”
“Well, you’re here now, and I’m so happy,”
she said. She took my hand and led me through the house. It’s just as I remembered—cozy, with mismatched furniture that somehow all goes together, walls lined with family photos, and the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.
We stepped out onto the terrace, and there they were—my cousins Camille and Mathieu, plus a spread of food that looked like it could feed a small army. The table was loaded with everything from freshly baked baguettes to homemade paté, and of course, a few bottles of wine from the local vineyard.
“Charlie!”
Camille shouted, running over to give me a hug. She’s a few years younger than me, but we’ve always been close. Mathieu followed suit, a bit more reserved, but still happy to see me.
“Look who finally decided to visit,”
Mathieu teased. “What, Paris isn’t glamorous enough for you anymore?”
“Hardly,”
I laughed, taking the glass of wine Aunt Vivienne handed me. “But I needed a break from all the glamour. And who could resist a weekend here?”
The evening unfolded the way it always does when we’re all together—laughter, good food, and stories that seem to get more exaggerated with each retelling.
After dinner, as we’re all sat around the table with the last dregs of wine in our glasses, Uncle Jacques leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. “You know, Charlie, your mother and I used to get in loads of trouble together.”
“Oh really?”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Well,”
he began, glancing at Aunt Vivienne, who’s rolled her eyes, “When your mother was 12 and I was only 15, we decided we were old enough to take our dad’s car out for a little joyride. His red Renault Caravelle which he loved substantially more than any of his children, but that didn’t stop us.”
“Jacques,”
Aunt Vivienne warned, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, let me finish,”
he said, waving her off. “So, we sneak out late one night, steal the car keys from dad’s coat pocket, and drive down to the river. We thought we were so clever—until we ran out of gas halfway there.”
I bursted out laughing, already picturing my mother’s face in that situation. “What did you do?”
“Well, we had to walk back home, of course. And when we got there, your dad was waiting for us on the porch, arms crossed, looking like he was ready to send us straight to boarding school.”
“What happened?”
Camille asked, clearly as amused as I am.
“Your mother burst into tears,”
Uncle Jacques said, laughing at the memory. “She was so sure we were going to be in trouble. But then dad just shook his head, gave us the spare gas can from the garage, and told us to get back out there and fill her up.”
“That’s not the version Maman tells,”
I said knowingly. “She claims she was the one who wanted to turn back and you convinced her to keep going.”
“Of course she does,”
Uncle Jacques winked at me. “But between you and me, she was the one pushing me to keep driving. She had a wild streak in her back then.”
Aunt Vivienne chuckled, taking a sip of her wine. “Your mother was always the adventurous one. I’m not surprised you take after her, Charlie.”
I thought about how much of my mother was in me—her love of adventure, her determination, her fierce loyalty to family. But I also thought about how different we were in some ways. She was always so grounded here in France, while I’ve always had this restless urge to explore, to see the world.
As the night wore on and the conversation drifted to other topics, I found myself lost in thought. Being here, surrounded by family and memories, I’m reminded of all the things that shaped me. I realized how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve grown into my own person.
The next morning, as we’re all gathered around the breakfast table, Aunt Vivienne brings up something that surprised me. “You know, Charlie, your mother’s been talking about moving back to France.”
I nearly choke on my croissant. If she was talking about it with them, she was serious about the move. “She’s talked to you about it?”
“I think she’s ready,”
Aunt Vivienne confirmed, “She misses this place. And with Amelia and you both adults living your own lives, she doesn’t feel as compelled to remain in Boston anymore.”
I sat back, processing this. This is where she grew up, where her roots were.
“Does she want to live with you?” I asked.
“She’s considering it,”
Aunt Vivienne stated. “But she’s also talked about getting a place of her own in town. Something small, where she can live quietly and enjoy her retirement. It’s a big decision,” Aunt Vivienne paused. “But she’s been through a lot these past few years. You all have. Maybe it’s time for some change.”
The rest of the day was spent in a bit of a haze as I tried to wrap my head around the idea of my mother moving back to France. If that’s what she wanted, I supported it completely. I loved it here. I could see myself here at some point. Not now, but one day. Being here, I really envisioned my mom being here. She fit here. She had a great and full life in Boston—but France is her home. I know I’m not ready to settle down in one place yet. There’s still so much I want to do and see. And while the idea of my mother moving back to France felt bittersweet, I can’t deny that it might be exactly what she needs.
Early in the evening, my aunt and uncle prepared a massive meal. The smell of sautéed meats and vegetables mingled with the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. My cousins, both Camille and Mathieu, always the most accommodating, had invited all their friends over. We laughed so hard our sides ached, swapping stories and catching up on all the gossip.
As the night grew darker, the party moved out to the swimming pool. The water was cool against the summer heat, and we splashed around like kids. The poolside was illuminated with string lights, casting a warm inviting glow. Music played from a nearby speaker, a mix of old classics and new hits, creating the perfect soundtrack for our antics. I couldn’t remember the last time my life felt so care free.
Our laughter continued late into the night. We ran around in the yard, playing the same games we did as kids. After several more drinks, one of my cousin’s friends, Laurent, pulled me aside. We wandered off to some dark corner in the yard. The night air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, and the sky above us was a blanket of stars. I freaking summer. I loved the smells, the sounds and the warmth that never lasted more than a few months. We talked, flirted, and eventually kissed. By the time we stumbled back to the main party, my cheeks were flushed.
The second day was even more fun. We didn’t even wake up until the middle of the afternoon after such a long night. My cousins and I decided to have a cooking competition, each of us trying to outdo the other with our culinary skills. The kitchen turned into a chaotic but joyous mess, filled with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and laughter. The aromas of different dishes blended together. After we declared a winner (me, of course, thanks to my perfectly cooked coq au vin), we settled down for a feast. The food was incredible, and the wine flowed freely. We ate, drank, and just talked. Every bite, every sip, every laugh felt like a celebration of life itself.
As the sun set, we moved outside again. This time, it was for a bonfire. The warmth of the flames against the cool night air was comforting, and we told stories about all the terrible things we did over the summer but never were caught. Some of their friends stopped by again, everyone looked a bit rough from the night before—we probably did too.
Laurent, the guy I kissed last night constantly made eye contact with me or touched my arm during the conversation. Fun is fun, don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed kissing him, but every time I felt him brush my body or reach to touch me, I only thought of Luca. Did I love that I had this crazy crush on him? Absolutely not! No matter what I told myself, it didn’t change that I wanted Luca to be the someone who touched me. I am a very single woman and completely support a vacation hookup. I actually anticipated them on this trip. Mostly due to Lena’s prompting and threats… Those moments in my hotel room left a very definitive impression that Luca would be more what I knew. I wanted to experience that more! The magnetism I felt made me feel insatiable. I was never attracted to anyone like this. And right on cue, my phone vibrated with a text from Luca. Due to my alcoholic consumption, it probably wasn’t responsible for me to have a conversation with him. Especially, since I kept thinking about…
Luca: Will you be back in Paris tomorrow?
Me: I’m great. Thanks for asking.
Me: Yes. In the afternoon. You?
Luca: You are such an American.
Luca: Yes.
Luca: How’s the visit?
Me: Look at you…making small talk.
Me: So much drinking…
Luca: Really?
Luca: It is summer.
Luca: I can do small talk.
Me: What else can you do?
Can’t unsend that. This is why we don’t drink and flirt. I did warn myself.
Me: Ignore that. Too much wine.
Luca: Have you been thinking about me?
He’s too confident. Or I am just not confident enough to meet his energy. I should be. What would Lena do? She would have walked over to him the first time she saw him to tell she arrived. Bold. Always bold. Sometimes she was my hero.
Me: Have you been thinking about me?
Luca: Yes! Constantly.
Me: I haven’t been thinking about you.
Luca: Brutal
Me: You probably think about yourself enough for the both of us.
Luca: Valid point.
Luca: I don’t believe you.
Luca: Can I see you tomorrow?
Me: This sounds like an HR violation.
Luca: I’m planning on it.
Me: I will text you when I’m heading back to the city.
I ended there before I wanted to start walking back right now. I refused to appear desperate. I wasn’t at all. I very much wanted the lips that kissed me the other night to touch every part of me.
The next day, we said our goodbyes and drove back into the city. Uncle Jacques and I called Mom in the car and talked to her on speaker during the drive. The countryside whizzed past, a blur of green fields and quaint houses, and I felt a deep sense of contentment. We talked about our plans for the next family gathering, promised to make it happen sooner rather than later. The drive flew and before I knew it, we were back at the hotel. I hugged my uncle tightly, already looking forward to the next visit. I thanked him several times. I never took kindness and generosity for granted. I knew how lucky I was to have a family that went out of their way to spend time with me, including driving to pick me up and bring me back.
As I watched him drive away, I contemplated my next move. I wasn’t sure yet where this journey would lead me, but I felt a pull, a sense of excitement for what was to come. Some inspiration blooming.