Chapter Three #7
“I just wish he would have said it earlier. We could have laid out guidelines… but,” Flora said, looking at the croissant in front of her, wondering if two in one day was too many, “he’s a good guy, and I’m still me. It’s not like he took me with him.”
“You’ve changed so much,” Camille said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I remember when you first came, you couldn’t even look us in the eye, and now you don’t care that the hottest guy in the Vogue office broke up with you.”
“He didn’t break up with her,” Amandine corrected. “He liked her too much. It was the opposite of a breakup.”
“He broke up with me,” Flora said, snorting.
Alexandre hadn’t talked to her since he’d left her balcony two weeks ago, but she’d expected that.
Remaining friends wasn’t going to work, and she’d told him as much.
He did look injured though—he could barely pass her in the hall without flinching.
Flora tried to smile politely, but it had mostly been ignored. What else was she supposed to do?
So life went on.
With barely two months of her internship left, she was going to continue living, not worried about what Alexandre was doing or if he was dating someone new.
Besides, she was becoming increasingly successful at Vogue.
Clemence couldn’t bully her anymore—mostly because she now spoke French—and Mariam had even started asking her opinion on things.
She stayed late some days, poring over photos and colors, dreaming up new ideas. She knew she was born for this.
After work, she’d run to a market, stock up on bread and cheese, and watch a show or go to a café with Les Fauchées. Weekends meant trips to the coast or escaping to Italy on a whim.
She wished Alexandre would have just stuck it out, but there was too much ahead of her to sit around and wallow.
Sometimes she caught her reflection and noted that the old Flora was long gone, replaced with real Flora.
Toward the end of March, she stood in the back room of the office, trying to organize a coat rack. She looked up briefly. The mirror on the wall stared back at her.
“Yes, I am quite different,” she whispered. “I feel so much more like me. And yet less like me than ever before.”
As she stared, someone crossed the threshold of the door.
Unfortunate timing. Alexandre had just walked in with a bunch of belts.
“Hi,” she said, turning back to the mirror.
She expected him to leave, so she was surprised when he said a very quiet “hello” back.
She didn’t say anything else.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking at how much I’ve changed.”
Without another word, he walked over and stood behind her.
“You have changed,” he agreed.
“My hair is shorter,” she replied.
“I meant in deeper ways. You’re more confident now. More you.”
Silence settled.
They both stared into the mirror for a few seconds. Flora was about to ask him what he was doing.
Then he opened his hand.
A gold necklace sat in his palm: an antique gold chain, a tiger charm, a sun, an emerald, a torch, a sparkly golden stone, and a fox head.
“Alex… what is this?”
“I saw it at a vintage market last weekend. It reminded me of you. I couldn’t leave it.”
“Oh gosh, Alex. It must have cost a fortune. It’s so beautiful…” she said quietly. “Why would you—we haven’t talked. We haven’t spoken.”
“But that hasn’t changed what I think about you.”
Flora understood.
She moved her hair and turned. “Put it on.”
He slipped the necklace around her neck and clipped it in place. His hands settled on her shoulders, turning her back toward the mirror.
Flora felt her jaw drop.
It was perfect.
The most gorgeous piece of jewelry she owned.
They turned toward each other. The space between them became smaller—closer now than they had ever been.
For a second, it felt inevitable.
And then…
They both stepped back.
Alexandre let out a breath, shaking his head. Flora felt herself sigh and laugh at the same time. So close.
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“I wish you all the best, Flora Fairchild,” he said quietly. “If you decide to come back to Paris, you must promise to tell me. You will find me here. Always.”
“I will. And if you ever come to California, you must promise to tell me. You will find me at the Woodhouse Estate. Always.”
Alexandre pulled her into a hug, tighter now, like he was trying to commit it all to memory, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“I will miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you.”
***
April
On a beautiful Sunday, only a month before she was supposed to head home, Flora ran into Mariam at the farmers market near her apartment on Rue de Varenne.
She was grateful to see a familiar face and waved. They joined each other on the sidewalk, passing vendors, and chatting about work.
“You are leaving soon, no?” Mariam asked.
“About a month,” Flora said. “I can’t believe it’s been eight months. I’m not ready to leave.”
“Paris suits you,” Mariam remarked, smiling. “I was sure Clemence would kill you at one point, but I think now she will miss you.”
“I think she’ll survive,” Flora replied, laughing.
“You don’t want to stay? You have a good life here, why leave now?” Mariam asked.
Flora sighed. “I want to go back and see my dad. I don’t know if I will stay in California, but I have to know what’s what. Get some perspective.”
“You will know what you should do, believe me. Life clears up faster than we think it will. And you always have a place at Vogue if you decide to come back. Clemence will not argue, I think.”
Flora smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Mariam. You’ve been a great boss.”
Mariam squeezed her shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you,” Flora said quietly and watched Mariam fade up the cobblestone streets.
She sighed. There was no denying she’d miss her life here.
But Paris belonged in Paris.
Flora had to find out whether she belonged in Paris too or if California was her rightful home.
And there was only one way to find this out.