Chapter 11 Avery
Chapter eleven
Avery
Two weeks later, I stand in Charles de Gaulle Airport with a backpack and a heart full of complicated feelings.
The arrivals hall buzzes with French voices and rolling suitcases, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm alone in a foreign country for the first time in my life.
The realization should scare me. Instead, it feels like freedom.
Dylan drove me to SFO this morning, kissed me goodbye at security, and told me to have the trip I've been dreaming about for almost two months. He didn't ask to come with me—didn't push or pout or make me feel guilty for wanting this time alone.
He just said, "Go enjoy. I'll be here when you get back," and then added with that devastating smile, "And I'll join you in a week if you still want me to."
If I still want him to. Like there's any question.
But I need this first. I need to prove to myself that I can be happy without needing anyone. That Paris—the city that was supposed to be my honeymoon with Oliver—can belong to me alone.
I take the RER train into the city, watching the Parisian suburbs give way to beautiful Haussmannian buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and mansard roofs.
The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, and I press my face to the window like a child, drinking it all in.
Other passengers scroll through phones or read newspapers, comfortable with the magic they see every day. I can't stop staring.
My hotel is a small boutique place in the Marais that Jessica helped me find online.
Nothing fancy, but the photos showed exposed wooden beams and a cozy balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard.
When I finally navigate the narrow streets and find it tucked between a bakery and a wine shop, relief floods through me.
The woman at the front desk speaks English with a thick accent, handing me an old-fashioned key attached to a brass tag. "Fourth floor, no elevator," she says with an apologetic smile. "But the view, it is worth it."
She's right. By the time I haul my bag up four flights of narrow stairs, I'm breathless and questioning my packing choices.
But when I unlock the door and step onto the small balcony, when I see the Parisian rooftops stretching in every direction and hear the sounds of the city below—conversations in French, a distant accordion, church bells marking the hour—something inside me settles.
The first croissant changes everything.
I wake up the next morning without an alarm, which feels revolutionary after months of pre-dawn coffee and early meetings. The room is bathed in soft light filtering through gauzy curtains.
For a moment, I just lie there, listening to Paris wake up below me. No conference calls to prepare for. No contracts to review. No expectations except the ones I set for myself.
I try the bakery next to my hotel—a corner spot with tiny round tables spilling onto the sidewalk.
The waiter barely speaks English, and my French is embarrassingly rusty, but somehow I manage to order a café crème and a croissant.
When he brings them, the croissant is still warm, flaking everywhere when I tear into it, butter melting on my fingers.
It's the best thing I've ever tasted.
I sit there for over an hour, watching Paris move around me.
Women in effortlessly chic outfits hurry past with baguettes under their arms. An old man reads Le Monde at the next table, his espresso long forgotten.
A couple argues in rapid French, hands gesturing wildly, then laughs and kisses like the argument never happened.
Nobody knows me here. Nobody expects anything from me. I could be anyone.
The realization feels like taking off a coat I didn't know was too heavy.
I spend that first day just wandering. No plan, no map, just following streets that look interesting.
I get lost three times and don't care. I find a small park where old men play boules, their voices carrying across the gravel.
I discover a bookshop with stacks piled to the ceiling and a cat sleeping in the window.
I eat lunch at a place where I'm the only non-French speaker, pointing at menu items and hoping for the best.
Everything tastes like possibility.
By evening, I'm exhausted but buzzing with energy. I text Jessica: Made it. Paris is perfect. I'm perfect. Everything is perfect.
Her response: You sound drunk. Are you drunk?
On freedom, maybe.
That's my girl. Now go eat something fancy and send me pictures.
I buy cheese and bread from a fromagerie where the owner explains each variety in passionate detail I mostly don't understand. I take it back to my hotel balcony and eat while watching the sun set over the rooftops, turning everything pink and gold.
My phone buzzes. Dylan: How's Paris treating you?
I send him a photo of my cheese plate and the view. Like a queen.
Are you happy?
I definitely am.
And it's true. Sitting alone on a balcony in Paris, eating cheese I can't pronounce, I'm actually happy. Not fine. Not managing. Happy.
The Eiffel Tower happens on day two. I take the metro, which feels like a small victory in itself after studying the map for twenty minutes.
The train is crowded, and I'm pressed against strangers who smell like coffee and cigarettes and expensive perfume.
Nobody makes eye contact. It's weirdly comforting.
When I emerge at Trocadéro and see the Tower across the plaza, my breath catches. I've seen it in photos a thousand times, but the reality is different. Bigger. More impossible. More beautiful.
This was supposed to be my honeymoon. Oliver and I had reservations at a restaurant on the second level. I'd imagined us kissing at sunset, the city spread below us, perfect and romantic.
I wait for the sadness to hit. Wait for that familiar ache of loss.
Instead, I feel triumphant. I'm taking this back. This moment, this city, this experience. It's mine now. Not ours. Mine.
I walk closer, neck craning to take in the iron latticework. Tourists crowd around me, taking selfies and arguing about which line is shorter. I don't take any photos. I just stand there, letting it be real.
A woman asks in broken English if I'll take a picture of her with her husband. They're older, maybe in their seventies, holding hands like teenagers. After I snap the photo, she asks, "You want one? With your boyfriend?"
"I'm alone," I say, and the words don't hurt.
"Ah." She nods knowingly. "The best way to see Paris. Alone first, then you bring someone worthy."
I think about Dylan waiting in San Francisco, giving me this space without question. "I might have found someone worthy."
"Then you are lucky." She pats my arm. "Enjoy your freedom. It makes love taste sweeter later."
I spend the rest of the day at the Louvre, which is overwhelming in the best way.
The Mona Lisa is smaller than I expected, crowded by tourists holding up phones.
But there are other rooms, quieter galleries where I can stand in front of massive paintings and just breathe.
Here, surrounded by art that takes up entire walls, I remember what it feels like to be unapologetic.
By day three, I've found my rhythm. Coffee and croissants at my corner café, where the waiter now nods at me in recognition.
A few hours of wandering with no destination.
Lunch somewhere I've never been. Afternoon sitting in parks or cafés, writing in my journal.
Dinner is simple and alone, then evening walks through neighborhoods that grow quieter after dark.
I'm sitting at a small café in Le Marais, drinking wine and people-watching, when the realization hits me.
I don't need Dylan or Oliver or anyone at all to feel complete. I'm whole on my own.
But here's the thing that surprises me: I want Dylan anyway.
With Oliver, I'd been dependent. Needing his approval to feel worthy, needing his presence to feel valuable.
I'd been half a person trying to complete myself through someone else.
Every decision filtered through what he'd think, what he'd want, how he'd react.
But with Dylan, I'm choosing him from a place of wholeness.
I'm not giving pieces of myself away. I'm sharing my complete self.
I pull out my journal and write: Being independent doesn't mean being isolated. Being strong doesn't mean refusing help. And loving someone doesn't mean losing yourself—not if they're loving you right.
The words look right on the page. Feel true in my chest.
Day four brings Versailles. The train ride takes forty minutes, and I spend it reading a novel I bought from Shakespeare and Company.
The palace is absurdly opulent, almost comical in its excess.
I wander through room after room of gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of wealth on display. But the Hall of Mirrors stops me cold.
The long gallery stretches before me, mirrors on one side reflecting windows on the other, creating infinite light and space.
I stand in the middle, seeing myself reflected back again and again, and I think about reflection.
Oliver reflected back a smaller version of myself.
Someone quieter, more manageable, less ambitious.
Every time I looked at his response to me, I saw someone I barely recognized. Dylan reflects back the woman I'm becoming. Someone strong and capable and worthy. When he looks at me, I see myself clearly. The metaphor feels obvious, but sometimes obvious truths are the ones we need most.
I take the train back to Paris feeling lighter, clearer.
That evening, I sit by the Seine with my book, watching boats pass and the sun turn the water gold.
A street musician plays violin somewhere close, the music drifting over the water.
An artist sets up nearby, sketching tourists.
A grandmother sits on the bench next to mine, feeding pigeons despite the signs prohibiting it. She catches me watching and smiles.
"You are American?" she asks in heavily accented English.
"Yes. From San Francisco."
"Ah, beautiful city." She tosses more bread to the pigeons. "You travel alone?"
"I am."
"Good. Every woman should see Paris alone at least once." She studies me with sharp eyes. "You have the look of someone who has found herself."
The observation catches me off guard. "I'm working on it."
"No, no." She shakes her head firmly. "Not working. You have done it already. I see it in your eyes. You know who you are now."
After she leaves, I sit with her words. Maybe she's right. Maybe I've already found myself. I just needed to feel it.
On day six, I climb to Sacré-C?ur at sunset. The steps are crowded with tourists and locals, everyone turned toward the view of Paris spreading below. The sky burns orange and pink, and the city looks like something from a painting. Impossible, beautiful, and real all at once.
I sit on the steps, hugging my knees to my chest, and make a decision.
I'm ready.
Ready to love Dylan without fear. Ready to build a future together.
Ready to stop protecting myself from happiness because I'm afraid of getting hurt.
The risk will always be there. Loving someone means giving them the power to hurt you.
But not loving someone because you're afraid means giving fear the power to hurt you instead.
I choose love.
Back at my hotel that evening, I send Dylan a text: I miss you. And I'm ready for you to join me for the last few days if you still want to.
His response is immediate: Booking a flight now. See you soon.
I laugh through happy tears, my heart doing something complicated and wonderful in my chest.
I spend day seven preparing. Finding the perfect café for our first morning together—a place in Montmartre with views of the city and pastries that make me want to weep.
Planning a route through neighborhoods I've fallen in love with.
Buying a new dress from a boutique where the owner speaks no English but somehow understands exactly what I need.
The dress is blue, simple but elegant, and when I try it on, I barely recognize myself. Not because I look different, but because I look like myself. Confident. Happy. Whole.
I'm not nervous about Dylan arriving. I'm excited. This trip has given me exactly what I needed: proof that I'm complete on my own. And now I get to share that completeness with someone who values it, celebrates it, deserves it.
On day eight, I wake up knowing that by tonight, Dylan will be here. I'll meet him at the airport, and we'll have three days to explore Paris together—two whole people choosing a partnership.
I stand on my balcony with morning coffee, watching Paris wake up. The bakery below opens, sending the smell of fresh bread drifting up. Church bells mark the hour. Someone practices piano in a nearby apartment, scales floating out an open window.
This is what healing looks like.