Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
RACHEL
The days following the night shoot didn’t blur so much as stack. Sleep came in shallow layers. Coffee became fundamental to survival. Time bent in strange ways—stretching when I was waiting and snapping shut when I needed it most.
René kept his promise. We reviewed the contact sheets that afternoon, the light outside still pale and undecided, my brain buzzing from too little rest and too much adrenaline.
He liked three.
He hated one.
He didn’t tell me which until the very end, just let me sweat through his silence as he flipped through the images with surgical precision.
“This,” he said finally, tapping the screen. “This one—you flinched.”
Yeah, I definitely had.
“You didn’t delete it,” he continued. “That was correct.”
That was it. That was the whole conversation.
I floated out of his office like I’d been given a medal.
Classes at the Sorbonne demanded a different kind of attention. Mischa Condre didn’t soften. Alia Gagnon didn’t repeat herself. They spoke like they assumed you were already keeping up—and if you weren’t, that was your problem to solve.
I liked that. I liked them.
I met people in fragments. Names exchanged over shared outlets, brief smiles while pinning work to walls, whispered commentary during critiques that could either save you or ruin you depending on who heard.
There was Léa, who shot film exclusively and smelled faintly of clove cigarettes. Thomas, who talked too much but saw composition like a mathematician. Noor, who painted but came to every photography critique anyway, absorbing everything like it might be useful later.
We formed the kind of loose, temporary circle that happens when people know they’ll be seeing each other again but don’t yet know how important they’ll become.
At home, the building had come alive and seemed determined to stay there—not that I was complaining.
David and Quan practiced at odd hours, the music drifting through the thick walls just enough to remind me they were there without demanding attention. Sometimes, I paused on the stairs again—always unintentionally, always longer than planned.
More than one night, I was guilty of taking a glass of wine out to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the music drifting up to wrap around me. It was—
Alix and Jules declared Thursday “soup night” even though no one had officially agreed to it. It just… happened. Someone always brought bread. Someone always grabbed wine. Someone always showed up late. Someone always forgot spoons. Someone always stayed longer than they meant to.
It was the best kind of comfort without stress. The door was always open and no one ever complained—at least not about whether we got there on time.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it, my phone sat heavier than usual.
I still didn’t have her name.
But I had her number.
I opened the message thread more than once, thumb hovering while I tried to decide what, exactly, I owed a woman I’d met in moments and glances. I’d canceled last minute. Work had come first. It would again.
Did that mean I shouldn’t try at all?
Or was that just another way of hiding behind ambition?
I never typed more than a sentence before closing it again.
One night, Frankie called.
I answered with my shoulder wedged between my ear and the phone, balancing class notes on my counter and peeling an apple I’d already forgotten I was holding.
“Okay,” she said immediately, no preamble. “I have exactly twelve minutes before sound checks and I refuse to waste them pretending I’m fine.”
I smiled. “You never pretend you’re fine.”
“That’s because I’m bad at lying,” she said. “And because I miss the guys.”
There it was.
“But you have Bubba there, right?” Because they toured together. They recorded together. There was no way in hell she was flying solo.
“Yes,” she said, a little bubble of happiness bursting upward with the word. “But I think he’s as tired as I am of being out here so much.”
We talked in overlaps—her tour schedule, my classes, the way time kept rearranging as priorities seemed to shift day to day for our to do lists.
She was home just enough to feel the absence more sharply, bouncing between rehearsals, flights, and school deadlines like her life was a particularly ambitious juggling act.
“I love touring,” she said, then corrected herself. “No—I love performing. Touring is… a lot.”
“And school?” I asked.
She exhaled. “I still want it. The degree. The normalcy. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I let everything else go because the music got loud.”
That struck a rather hard note with me.
“I feel like I’m always choosing,” she continued. “Between being here and being there. Between what I love and who I love.” A pause. “Is that what it feels like for you too?”
I leaned back against the counter. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Like if I stop moving, something important will fall.”
Frankie hummed in agreement. “See? This is why we’re friends. We understand the same kind of tired.”
I laughed, the tension easing just a little.
“You sound good, though,” she added, a thoughtful note creeping into her husky voice. “Maybe… maybe a little too drained for my taste, but… also lit up. Paris is doing something to you.”
“It is,” I admitted, cutting the apple into slices and crunching them quietly. “I don’t know what yet. But I can feel it. That seems almost a lame way to describe it, but… I feel more me than I think I ever have and I am not even sure who that is.”
“God, I understand that,” she said on such a harsh exhale. “You deserve that. You deserve so much more too, but—don’t forget to eat. Or sleep. Or text me back when I send you seven messages in a row.”
“I would never,” I lied at least about eating or sleeping. I didn’t ignore Frankie. “Sometimes it’ll be the next day but if it’s an emergency…”
“I know you’re there,” she hurried to tack on. “I do know that, Rach.” Someone called her name in the background and she let out the most expressive huff. It was hard not to laugh.
“You have to go,” I said.
“Yeah.” She sounded so forlorn.
“Hey,” I paused on the next slice of apple. “Anything else you need to tell me?” I didn’t ask her about wanting. If she wanted to tell me something, she did. Somewhere between pricks and dicks, we’d gone past the social niceties. It had taken Frankie more time than me, but she got there.
“I just miss you too,” she admitted in a little rush and then let out a weepy little laugh.
“And I promised myself I wouldn’t put that on you.
But… we’re always missing each other. I swear, between my bouncing time zones and your bouncing work schedule, I feel like one of those old screen savers where balls bounce over the screen leaving wild trails. ”
“I love you too,” I said, unwilling to tell her that distance was something I needed right now. Because that was absolutely not her fault.
She snorted. “But do you miss me?”
“What do you want?” I asked, already smiling, because I knew an open negotiation tactic when I heard one.
“Who says I want anything?” Oh, that was way too innocent and she muffled the phone to cover whatever she said to someone else before she came back. “Okay, I have three more minutes, then we really need to do sound checks.”
“Then you have three minutes to tell me what you want.”
A sniff, like she was not happy about the suggested accusation. I crunched more apple and waited.
Finally, a huff. “Will you do some shots to help us design a new album cover?”
It was my turn to blink. “Yes,” I answered immediately, I didn’t even have to think about it. Then I frowned even as she squealed a little. “Why was that hard to ask?”
“Because you’re busy,” Frankie admitted with a hint of guilt. “I didn’t want to pile on.”
“Okay, A, don’t be a ditz. I love you and love helping you.
If you decided to not ask me that would have probably hurt more than if I had to say no I couldn’t squeeze you in.
” I clicked my tongue against my teeth in a tsking sound.
“B, unless your schedule is you need it in an hour, I will find a way to make it work.”
I paused a beat.
“You don’t need it in an hour do you?”
Frankie burst out laughing. “No, and if you’re willing to do it, then we’re more than willing to wait for however long it takes. Period. I’d much rather work with you than anyone else.”
“Same,” I promised her. “Send me all the details you have and how much creativity I get.” Before we could get caught up, I said, “And your three minutes are up.”
“It is—love you. I’ll email you everything!”
After we hung up, I sat there for a while, thinking about love. Love that waited. Love that made room. Love that didn’t demand proof on a timeline.
Later, I texted Dominic. We’d returned to our regularly scheduled delayed messages and responses. His London trip had been postponed by three weeks, but he messaged two days earlier to say he was definitely on for this upcoming week.
Me:
I checked my calendar. Nothing on the schedule. Can’t guarantee René won’t blindside me again, but I will do my best to make the time for you.
His reply came almost immediately.
Dominic:
That’s enough. I just want to see you.
That scared me.
Not because I didn’t want him—but because I did, and I wasn’t sure how to fit him into a life that was already stretched taut.
Still.
I looked around my apartment. The new pillows adding splashes of color to the sofa—a gift from Alix that she’d found randomly in a shop.
The stack of CDs and vinyls on the side next to the player I’d found in between shoots at a street vendor.
The ceramic cactus that the guys had sent to celebrate me starting at the Sorbonne.
The new black and white prints on the wall.
The window that caught the light just right in the afternoons.
I wanted to show him this version of me.
Even if I was tired.
Even if I couldn’t give him everything.
I typed back:
Me:
Okay. But I’m warning you—Paris Rachel is very busy.
His response made me smile.
Dominic:
I’ll take her anyway.
I set the phone down, heart full and uneasy all at once. This whole journey of self-discovery had its own pitfalls, potholes, and speed bumps. It also wasn’t without its own bit of sacrifice, because the fear of missing out was way too real.
The rest of the week came at me sideways, with too much too fast, to worry about Dominic’s upcoming visit.
René kept me moving between shoots, edits, and meetings that blurred together into a rhythm I barely had time to question.
Some days I barely made it to my desk before he was already redirecting me somewhere else.
Other days he left notes instead of instructions, expecting me to read between the lines and fill in the rest.
I was learning how he thought. That was both thrilling and terrifying.
Then—her. She didn’t reappear with any kind of fanfare. No grand coincidence or dramatic setup.
I walked into a shoot one afternoon and she was already there, laughing with one of the stylists, hair pulled back, dressed in something soft and unremarkable that somehow made her look even more striking than the clothes she modeled.
It took me a second to register that my pulse had changed.
She noticed me at the same time.
Our eyes met. Recognition sparked—quiet, warm.
She smiled first.
“Hey,” she said, that Australian lilt making the word sound like an invitation instead of a greeting.
“Hey,” I replied, suddenly aware of how tired I probably looked.
“Busy week?” she asked.
I snorted softly. “When isn’t it?”
She laughed. Not polite laughter. Real.
We stood there for a moment longer than necessary, neither of us rushing to fill the space.
Still no name. Still no labels. Still no real time either.
When we were called to opposite ends of the set, she glanced back at me and said, lightly, “You still owe me a rain check on that drink.”
I hesitated.
Then smiled. “I do,” I admitted. “Not sure when… but rain check.” It wasn’t a commitment. It wasn’t a no either.
Something unfamiliar settled into my chest as I watched her walk away. The set swallowed her up with motion, demands, and work.
It wasn’t urgency or longing, not like with Dominic. But there was definitely anticipation—especially when it hit me that I could have asked her name. The moment had been there—soft, open, uncomplicated. It would’ve taken nothing more than a breath and a question.
Instead, I didn’t. Not because I forgot. Because I didn’t want to know yet.
There was something about the way she existed in my life right now—unanchored, undefined—that felt… safe. No expectations. No story attached. Just a series of glances and half-conversations that belonged only to us.
This—whatever this pocket of possibility was—still floated. For once, I wasn’t in a hurry to pin it down. The shoot pulled me back in. Lights adjusted. Assistants moved. René gave me a look that meant pay attention.
I did.
Mostly.
But every so often, I caught her in my periphery—leaning against a wall, listening more than speaking, her expression thoughtful in that way that made me wonder what she saw when she looked at the world.
Or at me.
By the end of the day, we hadn’t spoken again.
No texts.
No follow-up.
Just the shared knowledge that we existed in the same orbit, and that neither of us had closed the door.
As I packed up my camera, I realized something that surprised me.
I wasn’t chasing her.
I wasn’t waiting for her either.
I was just… letting her be where she was.
And somehow, that felt like the most honest version of myself I’d discovered yet.