Johanna
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“OVER MY HEAD (CABLE CAR)” — THE FRAY
Present Day
Paris shouldn’t feel new.
There shouldn’t be anything overwhelming or surreal about being here, like something is just out of reach.
I’ve been here before—more than once. I know how the streets work. I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. The rhythm of this city is anything but unfamiliar—the way it carries decades of art, ambition, and power all at once.
I’ve stood on these sidewalks in heels that hurt like hell, wrapped in clothes that weren’t mine as I waited for someone to tell me how to stand or where to look.
I’ve walked the same runways under blinding lights, surrounded by flashing cameras pretending to feel confident when I actually felt like I was living a life that didn’t truly belong to me.
I’ve done Paris. Just… not like this.
“Try not to overthink it,” Mia says beside me as we come through customs and move towards baggage claim. “You’re going to psych yourself out before we even get there.”
I let out a quiet breath, adjusting the strap of the bag hanging on my shoulder.
“A little late for that,” I mutter.
Mia grabs one of the luggage carts before we head to the middle carousel, the hum of voices and wheels rolling against the tile filling the space around us. This should all feel so familiar, but it doesn’t.
As my mind starts to wander while we wait for the carousel to move, I begin to realize why.
For the first time, I’m here for me—not to be styled, or posed, or approved of.
This is for something I made. Something I built from nothing after spending the better part of a year convinced I didn’t have anything left in me worth giving after I lost my mom.
The carousel jerks to life as the intercom crackles overhead to announce that the bags from flight 1366 from LAX will be arriving soon.
I glance up—and freeze instantly. Across the room, weaving through the crowd with a suitcase trailing behind her, is someone who looks an awful lot like Rebekah Alexander.
I try blinking—once—twice—nope. She’s still there.
I nudge Mia’s arm. “Is that—?”
She looks up from her phone, following my gaze.
Her brow shoots up.
“My mother?”
Rebekah spots us at the same time, her expression lighting up instantly as she changes direction and heads straight towards us.
“Hi, girls,” she says warmly, pulling Mia into a tight hug before turning to me and doing the same. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I let out a small, stunned laugh as I hug her back.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” Mia asks, just as stunned as I am.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Rebekah teases before glancing over at me again. “Makenna told me about the showcase. I thought you might want… well, some extra support.”
My chest aches—not because she’s wrong—but because I know what she’s not saying.
She thought I would want my mom.
“I thought you had things going on back home in Maine,” Mia says.
“I did.” She shrugs lightly. “I moved them. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to spend time in Paris with two of my daughters, especially for something this important.”
Two of my daughters.
“I booked my flight yesterday,” she continues. “Figured you might need an extra set of hands, or at the very least, someone to make sure you’re both eating.”
Mia laughs. “I’m glad you’re here, Mom.”
I want to laugh, but I can’t. Not right away. Not when I’m still trying to process that someone actually showed up for me—without hesitation or having to be asked.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmur.
“I know I didn’t, darling,” Rebekah replies, pushing my hair behind my shoulder. “I wanted to.”
It’s simple. No expectations, no pressure. Just… showing up. It seems so easy—so why is the absence I’ve been trying so hard to push out of my mind louder than ever?
“Come on,” Mia says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s start looking for all Jo’s bags before she spirals right here in the middle of this airport.”
I roll my eyes as the bags fall down the chute and we move closer.
By the time all our bags—most of them mine—come around and we make our way out of the airport, the sky has shifted into a dreamy pinkish-orange as the sun sets.
A black Mercedes sprinter van is parked right outside the airport doors, a driver holding an iPad that says Johanna Harris standing right next to it.
“Miss Harris?” the driver asks with his thick French accent as we approach.
I nod, shaking his hand before he slides open the door for us.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” he says with a soft smile. “I’ll load your luggage.”
Mia, Rebekah, and I climb into the van and settle into our seats.
“You’re quiet,” Mia says from beside me, nudging my shoulder lightly.
“I’m thinking,” I reply.
“Dangerous.”
I huff out a small laugh, but it fades quickly as my gaze drifts to the window. It’s not a lie—I am thinking. I’m thinking about my dresses. About if they’re good enough and if I really deserve to be here. About—
No.
I stop myself before my mind can go down the rabbit hole.
“You’re going to be incredible,” Rebekah says, turning around from her spot in the front seat to face me as if she can hear every thought running through my head.
I know she means it. Now I just need to believe it.
Stepping into the venue feels a little like entering a time machine to the past.
Assistants rush around pushing clothing racks at top speed, voices overlapping in a dozen different accents as cameras snap and flash around us, testing lighting and angles.
The energy is electric in this room, and for the first time since we landed—maybe even since I got the invitation to be here—I don’t feel doubt.
It’s not fear coursing through my veins, it’s adrenaline. Something I thought I’d lost a long time ago.
“This is it.” Mia grins, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Welcome to your moment.”
My moment. My shot. Here it is.
“Okay,” I breathe, trying to get my pulse to settle before I dive into this. “Okay.”
As we move further into the room, the chaos around us increases with every step. Models are being fitted as the designers move efficiently from one station to the next, checking hems, making adjustments, and giving direction like this is something they do every day.
For most of them, it probably is.
For me… I only know the other side. The side where I listen and take orders, not the one where everyone looks to me to see what I want to do next.
“You need to let go of my hand,” Mia murmurs next to me. “Go—do your thing. Mom and I are going to go look around.”
Right.
I let my hand fall away from hers and force myself to move into my designated space. I find my dresses freshly steamed and neatly hung on the clothing rack—exactly as it’s supposed to be.
I run my fingers along the fabric of each one.
My designs.
My work.
My name stitched onto the tag.
It still doesn’t feel real.
“Hi.”
I turn at the sound of the voice.
A model—early twenties, blonde, and bright-eyed—stands in front of me, smiling like she’s not quite sure how to contain it. For a split second, it’s like looking into a mirror from years ago.
“Hi,” I reply.
“You’re Johanna Harris, right?” she asks.
“I am.”
“Wow,” she says, something like awe lining her voice. “I used to buy every one of your covers. I can’t believe I get to work with you.”
The admiration hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting, because I remember being her. Standing in rooms just like this, looking at women like me thinking they had it all figured out. Thinking they belonged and being so envious of that.
I smile softly.
“Trust me,” I say, glancing down at the dress she’s wearing—my dress—as I step closer to adjust the shoulder strap. “I’ve been exactly where you are.”
She watches me carefully, waiting.
“Where do you want me?”
There’s the shift. The line that separates me from who I was—and who I am now.
I pause, letting my focus lock into place—not as a model, but as a designer.
“Step on the fitting platform, please,” I say. “I just want to adjust a couple things, but it’s almost perfect.”
She nods immediately, trusting me without hesitation.
Just like that, I’m in it—and there’s no turning back.
Back at the hotel, the city feels quieter.
Everything from the last few hours still hums beneath my skin—the energy, the movement, the way it was so easy to fall back into this life even in a different role.
“I told you,” Mia says as we step off the elevator and head for the suite. “You didn’t forget how to do this.”
I let out a small laugh. “It felt different.”
“Good different though, right?”
I think about it for a second, but I already know the answer.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Good different.”
Rebekah smiles from beside us, swiping the key across the lock.
“Get some sleep,” she says. “Big day tomorrow.”
We step into the suite, and I offer them both a small smile before slipping into my room and letting the door click shut behind me. I drop my bag by the door, kicking off my heels and collapsing on the bed. For a moment, I just lay there—letting it all sink in.
It was a good day—more than good—but I can’t help it as my gaze drifts to my phone beside me, dark and silent. I haven’t heard anything from Brandon beyond the quick response I’d gotten after I let him know I’d landed.
I know he doesn’t know what to say to me, but I thought he’d say… something.
I open up our text thread, begging there to be some kind of update because I also want to know how his show went—but there’s nothing. Unable to help myself, I decide to text him instead.
Johanna Harris
Hey. How was the show? Did you guys crush it?
A few moments pass while the message sends, but instead of seeing delivered at the bottom of my screen, a red exclamation point appears with bold letters reading:
Unable to send message.
What the fuck? Did this man actually block me?
Where in the past I would’ve spiraled, now my heart aches. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t let his absence take away from the amazing experience this is supposed to be. But I can’t help but think—maybe this relationship isn’t everything I need it to be.
I force myself to stand, to unpack my suitcase and head into the bathroom to take off my makeup and get ready for bed.
He’s at his own show. Maybe he didn’t block me; maybe his phone is just off.
I know how shows go—I know what it means, and I know full well what comes with dating someone in a successful band from watching Grayson and Mia do it.
I can’t be mad at him for prioritizing what he loves, but maybe…
maybe I need someone who prioritizes me no matter what.
When I lie back in bed, I replay the events of the day behind my eyes—the moment it finally all felt real and I thought I had everything I wanted.
So why does it still feel like something’s missing?
Because someone is.