Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I’ll be damned if I’m going to feel sorry for myself, so I put on a pair of fitted black jeans, heeled sandals I hope I won’t regret later, and a flowy pink tank top. I do my hair and my makeup, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I feel . . . good. I’ll never have a Playboy Bunny body—and the thirty pounds I’ve gained since starting college aren’t getting me any closer—but when I make an effort instead of throwing my hair in a sloppy bun and pulling on the nearest T-shirt, I don’t think I look half bad.
On my way out of the dorms, I pass Steve and Heather. Steve’s eyes go wide when he spots me. I didn’t do this to make him regret breaking up with me, but seeing him look at me like that isn’t a bad feeling.
I’m nervous to take the Metro alone, but we’ve done this as a group a few times now and I researched it online. It’s just one line I have to take to get from our host-college dorm to the Eiffel Tower exit.
Once I’m on the train, I actually smile.
I’m in Paris. I’ve wanted to come here since I watched Forget Paris with my mom when I was ten years old. Maybe it’s better that I can wander the city without Steve. I don’t want to be worried about pleasing him or giving him the constant reassurance he requires.
When I exit the train and climb the stairs at the Champ de Mars station, the crowds are intense. I clutch my cross-body purse out of habit. I’ve heard too many stories about women having their purses sliced right off them.
But there’s the Eiffel Tower. Right in front of me, and it’s bigger than I could imagine. It’s massive.
“A flower, pretty lady?” a man asks, pressing a rose at me like a gift.
I shake my head and keep walking, making my way to the long line of people waiting to take the elevator up.
Easton: Where are you?
Me: Oh, so now you’re going to respond to my texts?
Not even his delayed response can sour my mood. I’m on my own personal cloud nine.
Easton: I was away from my phone. Where are you?
Shay: At the Eiffel Tower, bawling my eyes out because it’s so damn beautiful.
Easton: Be more specific.
Shay: More specific than the Eiffel Tower?
Easton: Which level? Give me details with those words you use so well, Shayleigh.
Shay: The middle one. I haven’t taken the final elevator to the top yet, but right now I’m looking out over Paris. The sky is so clear I can see Sacré-Coeur in the distance.
I bite my lip, hesitating. Is it dumb to take a selfie? Screw it.
I lift my phone and snap a picture of myself, my hair blowing in the breeze and the city behind me. I send it off before I can overthink it.
Me: There. Happy?
And because he wouldn’t be Easton if he didn’t make me completely question my actions, he doesn’t reply. I shake my head and tuck my phone back in my purse.
Focus on the moment, Shay. You can text Easton later.
I take one deep breath after another as I look out over this city I’ve dreamed about visiting for so long, trying to breathe it in. I want to remember everything, and not just the view but the feeling. My love for Paris isn’t all that different than the feelings I once had for Easton—an acute longing I could never quite explain, years of expecting it to change, and then this feeling of rightness while I’m here.
I wipe tears from my cheeks and sigh. I’m an emotional mess right now, but I love it. I might not be able to have Easton, but I’m claiming this city. She’s mine, and I’m coming back someday—without Steve and without the college group.
“I’ll come back when I can see all of you,” I whisper. “And we’ll really get to know each other.”
“Are you talking to the tower or the city?”
My heart stops before slowly thudding back to life. Easton? I spin around at the sound of that deep voice I haven’t heard in so long.
Easton gives a wide, goofy smile and steps closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your private conversation.”
I shake my head, try to rehinge my jaw. There’s no way this is real. Just no way.
He takes another step closer. He rakes his gaze over me, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make sure I’m okay—as if the breakup could have left a physical mark on me—or if he’s looking at me. God, I want it to be both, but the nagging, insecure part of me reminds me of the weight I’ve gained and of the flawlessly beautiful pop star he’s been seeing.
“Paris suits you.”
“What are you doing here?”