Chapter 14
Paris was overwhelming.
Lucy's tiny studio apartment in the Marais was charming in photos but claustrophobic in reality. The shower was the size of a phone booth. The kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a mini-fridge. The bed folded down from the wall and took up the entire living space when deployed.
But the view—the view made it worth it. From her fourth-floor window, Lucy could see the rooftops of Paris, the distant Eiffel Tower lit up at night, the narrow streets below full of bakeries and cafes and life.
Her first week was a blur of jet lag and logistics. Setting up her phone for international service. Finding the nearest grocery store (an absolutely overwhelming experience with all the French labels). Learning the metro system. Buying basics like sheets and towels and dish soap.
She texted Jake constantly.
Lucy: The toilet and shower are in separate rooms. This is so weird.
Jake: That's a French thing. Supposedly more efficient?
Lucy: It's inefficient. I have to walk to a different room to pee while showering.
Jake: First world problems.
Lucy: I miss you.
Jake: Miss you too. How's the apartment otherwise?
Lucy: Small. But the view is incredible. I'll send photos.
Jake: Can't wait to see it. It's 2 AM here. I should sleep.
Lucy: Sorry! I keep forgetting the time difference.
Jake: Don't apologize. I like hearing from you. Even at 2 AM.
The time difference was brutal. When Lucy woke up in Paris, Jake was just going to bed in Vermont. When Jake had his morning, Lucy was in the middle of her afternoon classes. They kept missing each other, playing text tag across six time zones.
Culinary school started on Lucy's eighth day in Paris.
Le Cordon Bleu was intimidating in ways Lucy hadn't anticipated.
The building was beautiful—classic Parisian architecture with modern kitchens inside.
But the other students were intimidating.
Half of them had been cooking professionally for years.
Most spoke French fluently. Several had trained in Michelin-starred restaurants.
Lucy felt like a fraud.
Her first class was Basic French Patisserie with Chef Laurent, a stern man in his sixties who looked like he'd never smiled in his life.
"In France, we do not simply bake," Chef Laurent began in heavily accented English. "We create. We honor tradition while pushing boundaries. If you are here simply to learn recipes, you are in the wrong place. We teach art."
Lucy frantically took notes, trying to keep up.
The first assignment: perfect a basic croissant.
Lucy had made croissants a thousand times. She knew the lamination process, the butter ratio, the folding technique. She'd made them in her grandmother's kitchen since she was sixteen.
She made them at Le Cordon Bleu, and Chef Laurent took one bite and said: "Adequate. But pedestrian. You must learn to feel the dough, not just follow the recipe. Again."
Lucy wanted to cry.
Instead, she made them again. And again. And again.
By the end of her first week of classes, Lucy was exhausted, homesick, and questioning every decision that had led her to Paris.
She tried to video call Jake, but the time difference meant catching him was nearly impossible. When they did connect, the calls were rushed—Jake heading to practice, Lucy needing to prep for the next day's class.
Jake: How's it going?
Lucy: Hard. Really hard. Chef Laurent is terrifying and I feel like I'm failing.
Jake: You're not failing. You're learning.
Lucy: Tell that to my croissants. I've made them six times and they're still "pedestrian" apparently.
Jake: Your croissants are perfect. That chef doesn't know what he's talking about.
Lucy: He's a French pastry chef with 40 years of experience. I think he knows what he's talking about.
Jake: Fair. But you're still amazing.
Lucy: I miss you. I miss home. I miss pork buns and Wednesday mornings and your couch.
Jake: I miss you too. So much. But Lucy—you can do this. Give it time.
Lucy: I'm trying.
Life in Timber Falls without Lucy was strange.
Jake threw himself into coaching. Tommy was officially retiring at the end of the season, which meant Jake was learning everything—roster management, parent communication, budget planning, the endless paperwork that came with being a head coach.
"It's not as glamorous as playing," Tommy said one afternoon as they reviewed next season's practice schedule.
"I'm starting to realize that."
"But it's rewarding in different ways. You're building something. Creating a legacy beyond your own playing career."
Jake nodded, but his mind was on Lucy. It had been two weeks since she'd left, and he'd talked to her exactly four times. Actual conversations, not just texts. The time difference made it nearly impossible to connect.
When they did manage a video call, Lucy looked exhausted. Overwhelmed. Like she was barely holding it together.
"How's culinary school?" Jake asked during their third video call.
"Intense. Chef Laurent is this terrifying French guy who thinks everything I make is 'adequate' which is apparently French for 'terrible.'"
"I'm sure that's not—"
"He made me remake croissants six times in one day, Jake. Six times. And they still weren't good enough."
"That's harsh."
"That's French culinary training, apparently." Lucy rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I'm complaining. How are you? How's coaching?"
"Good. Tiring but good. We won our last three games."
"That's great!"
But the conversation felt forced. Artificial. Like they were both performing "being okay" for each other.
"I miss you," Jake said.
"I miss you too. So much." Lucy's voice cracked. "I have to go—I have early classes tomorrow. Can we talk this weekend?"
"Yeah. Saturday? I can stay up late Friday night so it's Saturday morning for you."
"That works. I love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended, and Jake stared at his blank phone screen.
Two weeks. She'd been gone two weeks and it already felt impossible.
Marcus found him at the rink the next day, staring into space during practice.
"You okay, man?"
"Yeah. Fine."
"Liar. You're spiraling about Lucy."
"I'm not spiraling. I'm just—" Jake ran his hand through his hair. "It's hard. Harder than I thought it would be. We barely talk. When we do, it feels awkward. Like we don't know what to say to each other anymore."
"It's been two weeks. You're both adjusting."
"What if we can't adjust? What if six months is too long?"
"Jake. Stop catastrophizing. Lucy is overwhelmed and homesick and probably terrified. You're lonely and missing her. That's all normal. Give it time."
But time felt like the enemy. Every day without Lucy felt longer than the last.
At Wednesday morning, Jake kept his tradition. He went to The Bread Basket at 8:17, ordered six pork buns and black coffee from Sarah.
"How's Lucy?" Sarah asked.
"Good. Busy. Paris is intense."
"I bet. Tell her we all miss her."
Jake took his pork buns to his usual table and ate alone. It felt wrong. Empty. Like something essential was missing.
His phone buzzed. A text from Lucy—it would be late afternoon for her.
Lucy: Made croissants again today. Chef Laurent said they were "acceptable." I'm counting that as a win.
Jake: That's great! Proud of you.
Lucy: How are you? Did you go to the bakery this morning?
Jake: Yeah. Kept our Wednesday tradition. Ate alone though.
Lucy: I miss those mornings.
Jake: Me too. More than I can say.
Lucy: Soon. March visit is only 6 weeks away.
Jake: Counting down.
Six weeks. Six weeks until he could hold her again, see her in person, remember why they were doing this.
Jake could survive six weeks.
He had to.
By week three, Lucy started to find her rhythm.
She discovered a café near her apartment that made perfect coffee. She learned which metro line got her to school fastest. She figured out how to use the washing machines in her building's basement (they were complicated and entirely in French).
And she made friends.
Her culinary school cohort was small—twenty students from twelve different countries. They bonded over shared exhaustion, Chef Laurent's impossible standards, and their collective imposter syndrome.
There was Amelie, a French woman in her thirties who'd worked in restaurants for years and was finally getting formal training.
James, a British guy who'd left investment banking to pursue his dream of becoming a pastry chef.
And Yuki, a Japanese woman who barely spoke but made the most beautiful desserts Lucy had ever seen.
They started having coffee after class, commiserating about Chef Laurent and sharing recipes from their home countries.
"You're American?" Amelie asked one afternoon. "But your technique is very good. Not at all what I expected from American baker."
"Should I be offended?" Lucy asked, laughing.
"Non, non! It is compliment! Americans usually over-sweeten, under-develop. But you—you have restraint. Finesse. Where did you train?"
"My grandmother's bakery. Vermont. Very small town, nothing fancy."
"Your grandmother taught you well."
The friendship with her cohort helped. Made Paris feel less lonely. But it also made Lucy feel guilty—she was making friends, having experiences, living a life that didn't include Jake.
When they video called on Saturday (early Saturday morning for Lucy, late Friday night for Jake), Lucy tried to share about her new friends.
"So Amelie is teaching me authentic French bread techniques, and James is absolutely hilarious—he does these impressions of Chef Laurent that are spot-on. And Yuki doesn't talk much but her desserts are like art—"
"That's great," Jake said, but something in his voice was off.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired. Long week."
"Tell me about it. What's happening in Timber Falls?"
"The usual. Practice, games, paperwork. Tommy's teaching me all the administrative stuff. It's pretty boring compared to Paris."
There it was again—that weird tension.
"Jake, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm happy you're making friends."
"But?"