5
I let out a long sigh as the cabdriver speeds down a narrow street, barely missing a woman on a bicycle with a bouquet of
tulips in her front basket. “Frankie, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Have you eaten?” she asks, giving me a long and very maternal look in the way that only best friends can—best friends who
also remind each other when it’s time to wax their upper lips.
I shake my head.
“Well, then, no wonder why you’re acting like a lunatic.” She glances at her watch. “You need food. Christian’s down at the
d’Orsay.” She rolls her eyes. “My museum-obsessed husband. He got us a lunch reservation in the restaurant there.”
I laugh, remembering a story Frankie shared a few years ago about one of their first fights as a married couple: His idea
of celebrating their anniversary was a trip to the Guggenheim. Hers? Not so much.
“Guggenheim-gate,” I say, winking. The familiar phrase momentarily quells my anxiety and for a moment, I feel normal again.
I may be in Paris, and apparently married to a perfect stranger, but Frankie is still Frankie... at least, I think she
is.
She groans, obviously just as perturbed all these years later. “I mean, who actually considers the Guggenheim a romantic destination?”
I grin, even though we both know that Christian and I share an affinity for art. In some ways, I’m as close to Christian as I am to Frankie. After all, I was there the day they met. I smile, recalling how I dared her to go talk to the handsome guy sitting at the end of the bar; the rest is history. Yes, Christian has been as much of a friend to me as Frankie has—especially that year when she juggled her full-time job by day and MBA studies by night. Christian and I kept each other company.
“You mean fluorescent lighting doesn’t do it for you?”
Frankie laughs as I rest my head against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her trademark perfume—Chanel No. , a gift
her grandmother gave her when she was in college. Everything about Frankie is, in fact, the same—her chest-length, curly dark
hair, the little scar on her left hand, the way she’s always been able to take one look at me and know . “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whisper, basking in the comfort of familiarity.
“All right, so let’s debrief,” she says, looking deep into my eyes. “Did you have a fight with Sebastian? Is he being rude
to you? Do I need to talk to him? Or maybe you’re just being too sensitive? Remember how you flipped out on your wedding day?”
“I... flipped out on my... wedding day?”
“Do I have to remind you that it took me a half hour to get you out of the bathroom?” she scoffs. “Look, Lena. Whatever you’re
going through, I’m sure it’ll blow over. I know you have a somewhat... complicated marriage , but he adores you, and that’s a fact. Didn’t he just whisk you away to Nice last month?” She makes a swoony-looking face.
“I mean, count your blessings. At least you’re not spending your summer vacation at the Smithsonian.” She laughs. “But, seriously,
let me know if you want me to talk to him. After all, there’s nothing like a dress-down from your wife’s best friend.” She
smiles, flexing her right arm. “Did I tell you? I’ve been doing CrossFit. Look at these guns!”
I don’t know if I’d call Frankie’s petite biceps “guns,” but I can’t help but admire her bravado. She has more strength in her little finger than most people have in a clenched fist. Still, the image of Sebastian’s physique in bed this morning is fresh in my mind, and I know that in Frankie’s hypothetical matchup, she would certainly be the underdog.
“Listen,” I say, searching her big hazel eyes. “Something’s going on with me—something bad.”
She frowns, the bravado disappearing from her face, and in its place, deep concern. “Lena, what’s happening? Are you hurt?
Did someone... do something to you?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just that I... woke up this morning... in Paris, with Sebastian, and...”
I pause, my heart racing. “I don’t know any other way to explain it, but, Frankie, this is not my life .”
She nods. “So, you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“No, no. Not a midlife crisis. I’m not even old enough for that, am I?” I sigh. “But a crisis? Yes.”
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Honestly, I’m not really sure of anything right now.”
“Maybe you got some bad booze last night? Did someone spike your drink?”
“I wasn’t roofied. I told you. I fell asleep at my aunt’s house—on Bainbridge Island.”
Frankie thinks for a long moment. “Well, I’ve heard that absinthe can really mess you up, like, it can send some people into
psychosis. Isn’t it banned in the US?” She nods to herself. “That’s probably it—you’re coming off of absinthe.”
If only it were that easy. I sigh, looking out the window as we motor down a street lined with opulent old apartment buildings. It’s the type of scene
you find on postcards from Paris, complete with a macaron shop on the next corner. Its pale pink sign sways in the breeze.
“Listen, Frankie,” I say, turning back to her. “I know this all sounds far-fetched, but you have to believe me.” I bite the edge of my lip. “This life that’s supposed to be mine?” I shake my head, eyes stinging with fresh tears. “It’s not.”
“Okay,” Frankie mutters, rubbing her forehead. I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. Instead, we sit beside each other
for a long moment, cloaked in a heavy and cloistering silence.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I finally say. “You think I’ve lost it.”
She looks out the window, deliberating for a beat. “Listen, I don’t know what’s happening to you, and yeah, it’s a little
hard to make sense of, but whatever you’re going through, we’ll get through it together, okay?”
I nod, more than a little forlorn as the cab pulls to a stop in front of the Musée d’Orsay. Frankie pays the fare, then slips
her arm in mine as we follow the path to the entrance.
“If I’ve learned anything in all these years, it’s that museums usually have surprisingly good places to dine. And thank God
for that. Do you know how many times I’ve left Christian standing in front of some ancient nude while I slipped off to get
a glass of chardonnay?”
“When you’ve seen one ancient nude, you’ve seen them all, right?” I say, playing along.
“There’s my girl,” she says, squeezing my arm.
I smile, admiring Frankie’s ability to cheer me up and help me find my way. Even now, when I’m spiraling (or possibly concussed,
poisoned, or in a state of psychosis—maybe all three?), the sheer presence of my best friend is like an IV drip of dopamine—with
a side of Xanax and a shot of electrolytes.
“Let’s hurry!” she says when the rain starts, quickening her pace. As she reaches for my hand, it unlocks a memory—of us sidestepping
mud puddles on our first day of college. She’d just finished her first class, but I was lost, and late to mine.
“Didn’t you bring your map?” she asked, referencing the bundle of papers we received in our orientation.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m hopeless with maps.”
Frankie reached into her jacket pocket, the humid air making her curls even curlier. “I’ve got one, and I can read it. Now,
tell me where you’re going.”
With her help, I found my classroom that day, and I was only two minutes late. She was my compass then, just as she is now.
“Come on,” Frankie says, pulling the hood over her head as the rain intensifies. “We’re going to get soaked.” The sky overhead
looks like it was painted by a moody impressionist. When we reach the entrance, she squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t
tell Christian about any of this.”
“You can if you want,” I say with a shrug. “I trust him. Besides, maybe he’ll have some insights on what’s going on with me?”
Frankie nods. “True. My husband may not be a charming Frenchman with a home in Nice, but he is a damn good problem solver.” She grins. “Come on. Let’s hash it all out over a bottle of Sancerre.”
We take an elevator to the third floor, following the mouth-watering scent of roast chicken to the restaurant, which looks
like a page torn from Marie Antoinette’s Versailles, with gilded woodwork, crystal chandeliers, and the enormous fresco on
the ceiling. Christian waves from the far corner, where he’s seated at a window-facing table clad in crisp white linen and
set with handblown glassware in a myriad of colors. I’m grateful to see an open bottle of white wine at the ready. I need a drink.
“Lena!” Christian says, standing to give me a hug. “We’re so excited to celebrate with you two tonight.”
I look at Frankie, then back at Christian. “Okay, can someone please tell me what’s going on tonight?”
Christian laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” He laughs, reaching for Frankie’s hand. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“I’m not kidding,” I say, straight-faced. “Missed what?”
“The hotel opening, obviously,” Christian continues, a little confused.
“Hotel opening,” I mutter blankly, the words triggering zero memories, as we take our seats in the crowded, light-filled restaurant.
Christian looks at Frankie, then back at me. “Have there been any issues?” he asks, pouring us each a glass of wine, which
I immediately sip, well, gulp. “I mean, with the opening.”
“Honey,” Frankie says to her husband. “Lena... isn’t... feeling well .”
Christian frowns. “Oh no! You’re sick?”
“Something like that,” I say as Frankie studies my face. I know she’s waiting for me to take the lead, and I do, telling Christian
what I’d explained to his wife in the cab.
He clears his throat. “So, you have... amnesia?”
“Yeah, it’s like that, but not accident-induced, at least as far as I know.”
He nods, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. Christian is still as handsome as he was seven years ago when Frankie and
I spotted him in that New York bar—tall, with dark hair and a shadow of stubble on his face. I noticed him first, not that
it matters. He flashed a smile at us while sipping his martini. I remember the cheese-stuffed olive in his glass, the song
playing through the speakers: “Summertime Sadness” by Lana Del Rey. I’d have walked over and introduced myself if it weren’t
for the fact that I was in a relationship at the time—a bad one, yes, but still a relationship. Instead, I told Frankie—who
was single—that I’d get the next round if she accepted my dare: walk over to the mysterious hottie at the end of the bar,
introduce herself, and slip him her number. While Frankie was, and is, by no means shy, approaching men at bars wasn’t exactly
her thing. Shockingly, though, she took a sip of her cosmopolitan, squared her shoulders, and rose to the occasion.
In some ways, I lost my best friend that night. Well, not exactly, though she did spend the rest of the evening talking to Christian—and the next evening, and the next, and many more for weeks. Three months later, she told me they were talking about marriage and that she’d be moving out of our Brooklyn apartment and into his très chic loft in Tribeca.
Such is life, I told myself. In fact, after she moved out, I even bought a framed print of the words c’est la vie , which I hung in the bathroom we used to share, right above the toilet. I missed her—oh, I did—especially when I found myself
single again. I had to remind myself that while some things change, others remain the same. In this case, even though I’d
lost Frankie as my roommate and 24-7 sidekick, I didn’t lose our friendship; it just looked a little different. We had a new
plus-one: Christian. I even crashed some of their date nights. “You’re always welcome,” my best friend assured me. She never
broke that promise.
This is why I feel comfortable opening up to Christian. I trust him, of course, but I also respect him. He does, in business,
what emergency room doctors do in triage mode. He’s the guy struggling corporations hire to sort out their messes and save
them from collapse. Can he save me?
“So you remember nothing?” Christian asks, gesturing to the waiter for another bottle of wine.
“Zero,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Maybe I should see a doctor?”
“No,” Frankie says quickly. “You know what they do to people in France who act a little—”
“Crazy?” I say, finishing her sentence.
She nods cautiously, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I watched a YouTube video about it once. They can lock you up here.”
Christian chuckles. “I see we have a professor of YouTube University.” Frankie rolls her eyes.
“Babe, this isn’t funny! I’m just trying to help!”
“Okay, okay,” I say quickly. “So Plan B, then.”
“Did you call your aunt?” Frankie asks.
“Yeah, I tried her earlier,” I reply, pulling out my phone. “But I didn’t get through.” I dial Rosie’s number again, with no luck.
“Let me try.” Frankie keys in the digits, then frowns. “That’s weird.”
I glance down at my phone—which I feel like hurling across the room—when a text notification, in French, pops up on the screen
from someone named... Jacques ? I can’t make out the message.
Frankie looks over and studies the screen. “It says”—she pauses, exchanging a glance with Christian—“good luck tonight, and,
uh... congratulations on the hotel opening.”
I shrug. “What’s with all the heart emojis?”
“You know the French,” Frankie explains. “They’re very... emotive.”
“Wait,” I say, confused. “How do you know French?”
She sighs, looking at me as if I’ve just asked her if Santa Claus is real. “Wow, you really are worse for wear. Honey, remember,
I got my master’s at the Sorbonne?”
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t. You went to NYU.”
Frankie turns to Christian, then back to me, as the waiter arrives with our food. We eat in silence for a few minutes—each
of us contemplating the mismatched pieces of this maddening puzzle.
“Lena, the thing I can’t figure out,” Frankie finally says, looking up from her arugula salad. “When we visited last summer,
you were fluent. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, eyes downcast.
She sighs. “Okay, well, I need to find a restroom.”
After she’s gone, I bury my face in my hands.
“She’s just worried about you, that’s all,” Christian says. “I am, too.” When I remove my hands, our eyes lock for a long
beat, before I turn away and he pushes his half-eaten steak frites aside. “What’s the last thing you remember? Maybe we can start there.”
That look in his eyes—I’ve seen it before, a long time ago. I close my eyes tightly, opening them again as I part my lips to speak, but no words come out. The memories streaming through my mind have no business resurfacing. In fact, I’ve spent many years trying to purge them from my brain: That night in New York, at that little Italian restaurant by Carnegie Hall, when Frankie was pulling an all-nighter with her grad school study partners, and Christian and I met for dinner. She knew, of course. It wasn’t some salacious secret. She loved that we kept each other company. We had her blessing, and yet, each of us knows that she would not have blessed what transpired that night.
I could blame it on the bottle of Barolo, though Christian drank far more, or the hilarious off-Broadway show we stumbled
into later that night, or maybe the dimly lit subterranean bar we slipped into afterward, Christian’s six-foot-four-inch frame
barely clearing the doorway. In any case, both of us knew—and know—that a line was crossed that night. The way he looked at
me, the way I’d linked my arm in his after the show, the brush of our knees under the bar counter as we sat close—too close.
We were dangerously near the edge, that night, and we both knew it.
When the bar announced last call, and it was time to for us to hail our individual cabs, we lingered outside, huddling together
to stay warm. True, it was twenty-two degrees, but it wasn’t the Arctic air that pulled our bodies close, it was something
else—something far more intense. It felt like a force, a magnet, even, and it rendered us both weak.
A part of me wanted to give in that night; to melt into the warmth of his strong arms and surrender, even tell him the truth:
that sometimes I wished it were me, not Frankie, who had approached him at the bar all those years ago. I could have said
all those things that cold night, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead, I got into my own cab and told him goodnight, because
I love my friend.
I always will.
Our eyes meet again, but I don’t let my gaze linger.
“Hey,” Frankie says, slipping back into her seat. “French restrooms are something else. I always forget that you’re supposed to tip the attendant. I mean, what if I didn’t have any euros on me?”
“No soup for you!” Christian says grinning.
Frankie shakes her head, a little annoyed. “Honey, I’m talking about the bathroom, not soup.”
Christian and I exchange a knowing look—obviously she hasn’t seen that Seinfeld episode.
“ Soooo ,” Frankie continues, underwhelmed as she shifts in her seat to face me. “How are we going to get you through this day?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was just asking her what she remembers,” Christian says.
“Good thinking,” Frankie continues. “Lena, what do you remember?”
I plant my elbow on the table, resting my head against my right palm. “Like I said, I flew from San Francisco to visit my
aunt Rosie on... Bainbridge Island.”
“San Francisco?” Frankie asks, shocked.
“Uh, yeah, where I live—and work.”
Frankie looks at Christian, then back at me. “ Oh-kaaaaaay .”
“Kevin, my boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, and I broke up the night before. I thought he was going to propose, but he gave
me Coldplay tickets instead.”
“Coldplay tickets?” Frankie folds her arms across her chest.
I nod. “It was brutal.” They listen skeptically, as I continue. “That night, on the island, there was a full moon, a big rainstorm,
and I... fell asleep there—in the guesthouse.”
“Maybe it was all just a dream,” Frankie suggests.
“Okay, but if it was, does that mean I’m still dreaming?”
Christian shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You’re very much here, and this is very much real.” He points to my left hand.
“See that scratch on your finger? You’re bleeding—that’s proof.”
Proof of what? That I just got dragged across Paris by an enormous dog? I blot my tiny cut with the edge of my napkin as Frankie fumbles for a Band-Aid in her purse.
“Maybe you’re a time traveler,” Christian continues, intrigued. “No, wait! An interdimensional being? Or maybe this is some
kind of simulation!”
Frankie laughs. “Uh, I think someone’s been watching way too many sci-fi movies.”
“Hmm,” I say, doubtful. “What day is it?”
Frankie glances at her phone. “April eighth, 2023.”
“I was on Bainbridge Island yesterday, April seventh.”
Frankie nods. “The time travel theory is officially debunked.” She looks around. “Christian, let’s get the check and take
our lost girl home.”
He gives the waiter his card, then signs the bill, before we make our way to the exit.
“Absinthe,” Frankie says conclusively as we walk out to the street. “That’s the explanation. It’ll pass soon, but we need
to get your head on straight so you can crush it tonight.”
I groan, thinking of this illusive “event.” “Can you, maybe, fill me in a bit more?” I ask. “Talk to me like I’m a five-year-old.”
Frankie nods. “Okay, so, Sebastian is a hotelier—you know, the owner of a hotel chain ?”
“Come on, I’m not a complete moron.”
“Okay, okay, but you did say five-year-old.” She grins. “He owns the La Maison Rouge Hotel Group. They have properties in
the ritziest locations in France—you know, Nice, Saint-Tropez, Avignon, places like that. Anyway, his company just completed
the build-out of their latest location, La Maison Rouge Paris. The opening party’s tonight. It’s why we’re here—to celebrate
with you guys.”
“Right,” I say, nearly tripping on a cobblestone. “And do I work for the hotel group?”
Frankie shakes her head. “No, well, yes, in the sense that you’re married to Sebastian, but no, not in a direct way. You’re an event planner.”
“An event planner?”
“Yeah, one of the most successful ones in Paris, in fact. Last month you threw a party for Brigitte Macron.”
My eyes widen. “You mean, the first lady of France?”
Frankie grins. “That would be the one. You’re a rockstar in the event world, and you’re hosting the party tonight.”
Suddenly my hands feel clammy. “Why do I have a sinking feeling this is going to be a disaster?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she continues. “When we talked on the phone last night, it sounded like everything was set, but, of
course, you don’t remember.”
“I don’t.”
“Anyway, you told me that all the heavy lifting was pretty much done. Think of it like this: The musicians have taken their
seats. Their instruments are tuned and polished. All you have to do is step out on the stage and... conduct.”
“An orchestra led by a tone-deaf conductor?” I mutter. “What could go wrong?”
“Maybe hold a clipboard,” Christian offers jokingly. “People will think you’ve got everything under control.”
Neither Frankie nor I find this funny, even if he’s only trying to lighten the mood. Still, I can’t shake my lingering sense
of dread. “Guys... I just... want to go home.”
“I get it, honey,” Frankie replies, reaching for my hand. “And I know that everything must seem backwards and upside down right now, but I promise, it’ll all be fine.” She glances at her watch. “It’s only two. I bet you’ll snap out of this fog in an hour or two. And tonight, I’ll be right by your side. SOS is our code under normal circumstances, but tonight just touch your right earring twice, and I’ll have your back.” She smiles. “You also have that assistant of yours to pick up the slack.” Frankie’s tone makes it obvious that she’s not a fan. I nod, thinking back to my exchange with Ella earlier today. She seemed nice enough—definitely a go-getter. “Put her
to work, Lena.”
Frankie’s right, I can do this. If I can handle an egotistical CEO just before earnings, I can pull off a party for a bunch
of boozed-up French people. I’ll go through the motions, put one foot in front of the other until this bizarre delusion fades.
And it will fade. It has to.
I glance down at my phone to find an incoming text from Sebastian. Mon amour, I haven’t heard from you. Just checking to make sure that you’re feeling better and that everything’s set for tonight.
Meet you there, okay?
I hand my phone to Frankie, groaning. “What am I supposed to text him back?”
“Here,” she says, typing with her thumbs. “You’ll say, ‘Hello, handsome, I—’”
“No,” I exclaim. “Do not flirt with him.”
She laughs. “Okay, how about, ‘Hey there, I was just thinking of you. Feeling better. Everything is on track for tonight.
XO.’”
“Sure,” I finally say, taking in the absurdity of it all. “Send it, I guess.”
“Sent,” she says, handing back my phone. “Now let’s get you back to your apartment. We’re staying in an Airbnb a few blocks
from you. Why don’t we circle back around five to pick you up? Sound good?”
I nod.
“Okay, now go put on a dress. Get glammed up. And don’t forget red lipstick, and heels—Frenchwomen always wear heels.”
“I hate heels.”
She winks, facetiously. “Well, that’s a shame, because you happen to have a closet full of them.”
“Right,” I say nervously. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit,” Frankie says.