Epilogue—Somewhere Over the Atlantic
I’m back in the same cramped airplane seat I left four days ago, but it feels like I’m returning from a completely different dimension. Like I stepped through some magical archway into the version of myself I was always meant to be. A little messier. A little braver. A little more kissed.
Most of the French Club is asleep. Nneka’s sleep mask is tilted on her face like a drooping tiara. Gaston’s mouth is open wide enough to swallow a baguette whole. Even Mademoiselle Alvarez is out cold, her crossword puzzle folded neatly in her lap like a flag at half-mast.
And Tyler is next to me in the window seat, his head tilted back, one headphone in, eyes closed. We haven’t said much today. We haven’t had to.
In the three days since we got locked out of the hostel, we’ve snuck more kisses than I ever imagined possible while surrounded by gossipy French Club members, an eagle-eyed chaperone, and aggressive Parisian pigeons.
A stolen moment on the top deck of a Seine boat cruise. A whispered laugh behind a giant sculpture at the Rodin Museum. That kiss in the mirror room at Versailles? I don’t think I’ll ever recover.
As for London Boy, there was no other spotting of him and his henchman brother, but I’m not bothered—karma is my other boyfriend.
My black-butter eye has healed to a barely-there greenish-yellow tint. Just as expected, Mademoiselle Alvarez had no trouble at all accepting my explanation that I’d fallen out of my bed. She just sighed and said, “Explain this to your mother, please.”
I will.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my new phone—courtesy of Mom, who found a way to overnight one to the hostel with the speed and fury of a CIA operative. Mom would never make me pay her back, but I vow to anyway. Even if I’m picking up dog poop around our apartment complex until I’m thirty.
Although I am so relieved to have a phone again, it was kind of nice being “offline” for most of the trip. I haven’t even caught up with Ashley yet. It’s wild to think that she doesn’t know about me and Tyler.
No one knows.
Tyler and I haven’t told anyone about us yet. Not even Gaston and Nneka, who have dutifully kept our night out secret. They definitely suspect something, though. At least Nneka does. Gaston is too oblivious. I chuckle and glance at him now as he snores away.
Then I turn back to Tyler. There’s something delicious about whatever this is—love, maybe?—being just ours. A secret in plain sight, tucked between postcards and museum tickets and the way our shoulders now tilt inward toward each other instinctively.
Under the scratchy Delta blanket we’re sharing, our pinkies find each other like magnets. Just the pinkies. Just enough.
Tyler opens one eye and murmurs, “Hey, remember when we got locked out of the hostel and spent an entire night out together?”
“Shhh!” I hiss, looking around at our fellow French Club members. I can’t help but grin. “I’ll probably be thinking about that night when I’m ninety,” I whisper, when I’m sure everyone is either asleep or watching their in-flight movies.
He laughs softly. “Same.”
There’s something so easy in this—his voice low and warm, his smile real, not performative. This is the Tyler only I get to see now. And maybe used to see, back then. Before everything happened that took us apart.
“But let’s not advertise it,” I whisper, throwing another glance at Mademoiselle Alvarez, just to be sure. Is it my imagination or is she stirring in her seat?
“Well, your mom sort of knows,” Tyler points out. “And she hasn’t disowned you, right?”
“True.” Mom doesn’t know all the details, but I did call her again that second day in Paris, after Tyler had charged his phone, and told her that I’d done some adventurous things but I was safe and I’d tell her more when I got home. She seemed to accept that. For now.
“Good,” Tyler says. Our pinkies are still linked under the blanket. Tyler gives mine the faintest squeeze.
I turn my head to face him. “We’re going to have to talk about this, you know. Us. When we get home.”
“I know,” Tyler says, meeting my gaze. “And I think we should tell everyone.”
I grin. “Should we tell our moms first, or have Nneka broadcast a TikTok Live press conference?”
“Either works.” Tyler smiles. “Or, you know, we could do a hard launch on Instagram with a picture. Like this.”
With his free hand, Tyler takes out his phone from his pocket and pulls up a photo.
I lean even closer to him to see. It’s a photo of me from that night. Standing on Pont Alexandre III. I know he took a bunch of photos of the Eiffel Tower, but until now, I hadn’t realized he’d snuck one of me.
The Eiffel Tower is behind me, glowing like it knows something. I’m caught mid-laugh, my blazer collar slightly crooked, my hair a little windswept. The tower is glowing in my eyes. The photo is taken by someone who really sees me. Who wanted to capture every pixel of my joy.
“You took this?” I ask, barely above a whisper. My heart quickens.
Tyler nods, his eyes bright. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“I look like …” I want to say Dad. And that makes my heart feel full.
“You look like yourself,” Tyler says. “And that’s a huge compliment, by the way.”
“Merci,” I say, laughing.
I remember that moment at Les Deux Magots—the Proust quote Tyler showed me, the one he said was me. He was right.
“Can you text that to me?” I whisper. Tyler obviously has my new number already.
“I emailed it to you,” Tyler reminds me. “That night.”
“Oh, right!” I’d totally forgotten about that.
I’d asked him to email the pictures to me and Ashley.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of strange that I never heard from Ashley about her getting a random email from Tyler Travers.
As soon as I got my new phone from Mom, I texted Ashley with the new number, but all she said was that she couldn’t wait to hear everything about my trip, and I promised that I had a lot of stories for her.
Hmm. Maybe she just didn’t check her school email while on break?
I’m on Wi-Fi on the plane so I scroll through my school email inbox.
There are a few reminders about a calculus test I have as soon as school starts again—I almost can’t believe calculus still exists and I have to do more of it—and a few updates from Monsieur Higgins about his health.
(He’s made a full recovery, thankfully.)
Then I see the email from that night.
12:02 a.m.
FROM: TYLER TRAVERS
I open the email and see a bunch of stunning photos of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night—including the one of myself that Tyler just showed me. My cheeks flush with joy—and then I notice something that turns my blood into a full-body Popsicle.
The email is addressed to me. And cc’d to: [email protected].
“TYLER!” I hiss so loud that the sleepy emotional support French bulldog three seats over turns to glare at me. “What the HELL?! You sent these pictures to Mademoiselle Alvarez instead of Ashley Alford?”
Tyler’s eyes are closed with his neck pillow cradling his face, but they pop open. “Oops. I guess the person I’d been emailing the most leading up to this trip was Mademoiselle Alvarez. And typing on a phone has never been my strong suit. Also, fat thumbs.”
“Tyler!” I hiss again. “That means Mademoiselle Alvarez KNOWS. She knows we broke the rules and were out all that night!”
“But does she?” Tyler asks. “Maybe she thought that was a picture of you from earlier, when we had the solo exploration time.”
“Except the Eiffel Tower only does that at midnight,” I remind him through clenched teeth.
“Actually, it happens after sunset,” he adds unhelpfully.
Worriedly, I glance at Mademoiselle Alvarez again. She is awake now, and she glances back at me and gives me a small smile, raising one eyebrow.
I am so confused. What does Mademoiselle Alvarez know or not know?
Has she seen that email? Has she put the pieces together?
Maybe she knows, and she’s choosing to protect her peace—and ours?
If Mademoiselle Alvarez wanted to use that photo evidence to get us expelled, she would have done it already. Right?
I sigh and lean back in my seat. Tyler strokes my hand with one of his fat thumbs. I can’t stay mad at him. And I realize it’s okay not to know things.
Feeling happier than I can remember, I open my Notes app and start typing away with my normal-sized thumbs.
NEW LIST—”After Paris” (Remy’s Version)
1. Call Ashley and tell her everything.
2. Eat croissants with Mom and cry a little. Tell her everything. Beg her not to ground me.
3. Talk about Dad more. Write about Dad, maybe?
4. Convince Tyler to watch The Princess and the Blog.
5. Go slow. But don’t hold back.
6. Forgive Lucas and let him go.
7. See what happens when you believe in enchantment again.
8. Try to read Proust. Or at least the SparkNotes version.
I glance over at Tyler. He’s fully asleep now, lips parted slightly, hair flopped into his eyes. And yeah, maybe I do gently brush it back. Maybe I do let myself imagine what comes next.
Paris may be behind us, but our story is just getting good.