Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
RACHEL
Iwoke up far more tired than when I went to bed.
The burn of tears clouded my eyes and I shoved them back, already swinging my legs out from under the covers and heading for the shower like momentum alone might keep me upright.
My body felt heavy in a way sleep hadn’t touched—like I’d been carrying something invisible all night and never set it down.
The weird soreness in my muscles reminded me of the one time I attempted a real marathon.
I’d made myself finish it.
One: I don’t quit.
Two: it was for charity.
Three: I’d actually trained for a year and wanted that mythical runner’s high everyone talked about.
What I got instead was a week of cramping, stiff, mutinous muscles and the kind of exhaustion that felt personal. I still walk-limped the last ten miles and crossed the finish line—not in the respectable middle of the pack, not even close.
But I finished.
Standing there now, waiting for the shower to warm up, I realized this felt exactly the same.
I wasn’t injured. I wasn’t failing. I was just trying to function on fuel that had already run out. Which meant, unfortunately, that I didn’t get to be dramatic about it. I just had to keep going. That meant get in the damn shower.
The water was too hot. I didn’t change it.
I stood there longer than necessary, letting it pound against my shoulders, trying to remember when the last time I’d woken up feeling rested actually was. Not just not exhausted, but rested. The answer didn’t come.
I dried off, dressed on autopilot, and almost forgot my camera entirely before spotting it by the door. That made my stomach twist—just a small, quiet reminder of how close I’d come to leaving it behind.
Paris Daily was already in full motion when I arrived.
Except René wasn’t there.
That shouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t always there in the mornings. But the empty doorway to his office seemed ominous somehow, like a record scratch.
Margaux glanced up from her desk when I passed. “He left early.”
“Did he say anything?” I asked.
She hesitated. Just a flicker.
“Only that you were to check in with Luc instead.”
Luc.
My chest tightened just a little.
Luc wasn’t bad. He was competent. Efficient. But he wasn’t René. And being left to Luc didn’t feel natural—it felt like being quietly shifted from the center hub to the fringe.
Luc didn’t look up when I approached.
“You’ll be doing light tests today,” he said, scrolling through something on his tablet. “New lenses coming in. René wants baseline comparisons.”
Light tests.
Not the main shoot. Not the creative work. Not the decisions.
Just support.
“Okay,” I said, because there was nothing else to say.
I spent the morning photographing gray cards and reflective surfaces and the same model walking back and forth under different lighting setups while everyone else discussed concepts around me. No one seemed to be excluding me deliberately. They weren’t cruel.
Which somehow made it worse.
By lunchtime I realized I hadn’t eaten again. Did I even grab breakfast with my coffee? I’d put toast in. Had I taken it out? Did I butter it? Or was it sitting in the toaster, abandoned like a half-formed thought?
I stood in the hallway with my phone in my hand, scrolling through messages I didn’t have the energy to answer.
One from Dominic.
Dominic:
Tomorrow, Flash. I’ll see you tomorrow!
My stomach flipped.
Excitement, yes. But it came tangled with something tight and sour—like joy I shouldn’t be celebrating. Not when…
I typed back:
Me:
I know. I’ll try to be human by then.
He responded almost immediately.
Dominic:
You don’t have to be anything. Just you.
I stared at that for a long moment.
Then put my phone away and went back inside.
I’d skipped the last two soup nights. Tomorrow was definitely not looking good either. The fact they seemed to be hosting an impromptu version when I got home startled me—and I also couldn’t bring myself to muster the energy to join them.
Not because I didn’t want to—because I did, desperately—but because I knew if I sat on those stairs with wine and laughter and music drifting through the walls, I’d probably fall asleep in the middle of it.
Already trying to compose a half-dozen valid excuses, I hesitated on the first floor just as Alix stepped out of her door and locked it behind her.
She was wearing one of Jules’ sweaters again—too big, sleeves pushed up, collar slipping off one shoulder. Her hair was half pulled back like she’d started and then lost interest midway through. She had her keys in one hand and a tote bag in the other.
After sweeping a look over me, she said, “You look like a ghost.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
She tilted her head, eyes scanning me in a way that felt uncomfortably accurate. “Drink with me.”
“I would love to but I have—” I patted my camera bag.
She blinked once. “You always have work. Drink with me anyway.” When I motioned weakly toward the stairs, she snorted. “They’re having boys’ night. They got some new video game and I was not having them mess up the apartment for a twenty-four-hour marathon.”
That actually made me laugh, a short, surprised sound I hadn’t realized I still had in me.
“So,” she said again, already turning toward the door. “Drink with me.”
I looked down at my camera bag. At my phone lighting up with something I didn’t have the energy to check. At my reflection in the dark glass of the stairwell window — pale, eyes ringed, posture slumped like I was apologizing to gravity.
“Okay,” I said finally.
Her mouth curved into a small, victorious smile.
We ended up at a small bar two streets over, the kind that smelled like citrus and old wood and didn’t care what time it was. The lights were low, the music unobtrusive, the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to perform being out.
Alix ordered for both of us without asking.
“White,” she told the bartender. “Something not aggressive.”
I didn’t argue.
When she slid my glass across the table, she leaned back in her chair and studied me like she’d been waiting for this angle all evening.
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “Are you thriving, or are you about to collapse artistically in a very French way?”
I laughed — and then felt my throat tighten unexpectedly, like my body had mistaken the question for permission.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Those are not mutually exclusive.”
She smiled, softer. “Perhaps. Then tell me this: when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.
“…I don’t know.”
Not a joke. Not a deflection. Just the answer.
Alix’s expression didn’t change, but something in it gentled, like she’d expected that and decided not to make it into a problem.
“You know I love soup night,” she said. “I love the guys. I love the chaos. But I also love this.” She gestured vaguely at the bar, the quiet, the two of us. “Just us. Two girls. Sitting still.”
I glanced around — at the low lights, the slow conversations, the way no one was trying to impress anyone.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I forgot how nice it is to not be needed for anything.”
She raised her glass. “To not being useful.”
I clinked mine against hers.
“To being aggressively unnecessary,” I added.
She laughed. “Exactly.”
We sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping slowly. Letting the noise of the day drain off instead of piling on. My shoulders dropped a fraction. My jaw unclenched. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until I stopped.
“Dominic’s staying with you, right?” she asked eventually.
I blinked. “How did you—”
She smiled. “You said he was coming for a visit a couple of weeks ago so we wouldn’t worry about a strange man suddenly heading up to your apartment.”
That memory floated vaguely to the top of my brain, like a sticky note I’d meant to deal with and never did.
“Quan said he would be surprised by anyone heading up to your apartment,” she added dryly.
I winced. “That feels uncalled for.”
She took another sip of wine and waited.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “His train comes over in the morning.”
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Not teasing. Not nosy. Just… curious.
“Ready?” The word stalled somewhere behind my ribs. I was excited. I was. I wanted him here. I wanted to show him Paris. My work. My life.
I just wasn’t sure I’d built a version of my life that could hold another person without rearranging everything.
Amusement flickered through the concern in her eyes.
“Have you cleaned your apartment?”
I snorted. “Define clean.”
She gave me a look. “Rachel.”
It was so kind in its scolding I had to blink hard. For a split second, I could hear Frankie saying my name in exactly the same tone — the one she used when I was about to lie to myself.
“I’ll do it tonight,” I said.
She smiled like she didn’t believe me.
Because she absolutely shouldn’t.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, uncomfortable thought stirred.
I didn’t need to clean it for Dominic, I needed to make more space for the version of myself I was here to become.
To be honest, I did try.
When I got home, I stood in the doorway and finally saw it. Not the charming kind of lived-in mess. Not creative chaos.
Just… stuff.
Stacks of prints I hadn’t filed. Lenses I hadn’t put away. Laundry folded but never sorted. Notes taped to the walls like reminders of things I no longer remembered agreeing to.
I walked through the living room slowly, like the space might explain itself if I gave it time. Like the mess was a language I just hadn’t learned how to read yet.
My phone felt heavy in my pocket.
For a second, I thought about calling Frankie.
She’d answer. She always did. She’d tell me I was overthinking it, that I was doing great, that she’d drop everything and come if I needed her to.
She’d make a joke. She’d probably cry a little.
I’d end up comforting her about how much she missed the guys, and somehow my problem would become a shared one I didn’t actually have to solve.
I didn’t call.
Then I thought about calling one of the boys. Coop, maybe. He’d give me some big emotional speech about balance and priorities and how I deserved good things. Bubba would tell me to take a nap and eat something and remind me I wasn’t a robot. Both of them would mean well.
Archie and Jake? Eh. Archie was way too caustic like me at times and he’d tell me to suck it up and stop whining. If I wanted to fix it, then fix it. If I couldn’t figure it out, he’d probably offer to do it for me. No, thank you.
Jake? Honestly, he could go any of the above three ways, he was a big brother. He could also be a dick. One of the things I liked about him.
None of them lived this life.
Then I thought about my mom.
That thought barely lasted a second.
She’d ask if I was eating enough. If I was sleeping. If I was safe. She’d worry in that way that would make me a wreck. She’d remind me that I didn’t have to do everything at once and it was okay to screw up.
She’d be right.
That somehow made it worse.
Noor crossed my mind next. Or Thomas. Or someone I could talk to without it turning into a full emotional autopsy. Someone who would just sit with me in the mess and not try to fix it.
But that felt like asking for something I hadn’t earned yet.
Then, finally—Dominic.
The easiest answer and… the hardest one.
He’d listen. He always listened. He’d tell me to breathe. He’d probably offer to take something off my plate without even waiting to be asked. He’d mean it.
And I didn’t want him solving this for me.
I wanted him to arrive tomorrow and see me as someone who had her life in her hands—not someone quietly unraveling inside a very pretty apartment.
So I didn’t call anyone.
I walked down the short hallway instead.
And opened the first guest room.
White walls.
Empty floor.
Not even a mattress.
Just a lamp still wrapped in plastic and a cardboard box labeled BED FRAME (UNOPENED).
I stood there longer than I meant to.
I’d told Frankie I’d make it cozy. I’d told her she could come stay whenever she wanted. I’d imagined it—her suitcase by the door, her music bleeding through the walls, late-night conversations that didn’t involve time zones.
I’d imagined it so vividly it almost felt like it had happened.
It hadn’t.
I closed the door and opened the second one.
Same.
Nothing.
Rooms meant for people.
And not a single sign anyone had ever been invited in.
My apartment wasn’t full.
It was crowded.
With everything except the space I’d promised Frankie—I’d promised myself—I’d create.
I went back into the living room and sank onto the couch without taking off my shoes.
Dominic would be here tomorrow.
Sleeping in my bed.
Seeing all of this.
Seeing me.
I looked around the space and felt something crack—not dramatically, not catastrophically. Just a quiet realization settling into my chest.
I hadn’t lost control of my life.
I’d just stopped choosing it.
There was too much noise. Too many yeses. Too many versions of myself running in different directions, each convinced they were the most important one.
I leaned my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, Dominic would arrive.
And I adored him.
And I adored Paris.
And I adored the work.
And I adored the future I was building.
I just didn’t know how to live inside all of it without hollowing something out.
Maybe myself.