Chapter 34

The next letter from Eliza was dated April 6th. I found it on the doorstep after spending the whole day at the barn with Willa. This time, it was in a pink envelope, written on yellow stationery—not from a hotel. Inside, there were three instant pictures encased. I looked at those before I read the letter.

The first was Eliza sitting in what looked to be the gardens of Versailles, eating a green Ladurée macaron. Her smile was wider than I’d ever seen, and her short hair was in two braids hanging over her shoulders. I found myself grateful she wore sunglasses in the photo; otherwise, her eyes might have opened a wound in my heart I was trying to heal.

The next was a picture of a small, long-haired dog with ears like a butterfly. It sat on dingy hardwood floors with its tongue lolling in joy. I peered closer at the name tag: Carolina. In the photo”s background, I saw Eliza’s pink backpack on the ground against the wall.

It was the third photo that took my breath away. It was Eliza again, only she sat on the ground—on the same hardwood as the dog had been. She wore no makeup, and her hair was in curlers on top of her head. There was no furniture around her, and I focused on the makeshift bed in the corner before I looked back at her. She held a pair of keys in her hand, and even though she was smiling in this picture too, it didn’t seem as genuine as the Versailles photo.

I sat on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest and setting the photos on the nightstand while I unfolded the letter to read it.

My dearest Sophie,

My therapist gave me homework last week, and I didn’t tell you about it because I wasn’t sure I was ready to face it. This week, I am.

She asked me to decide whether Paris was where I wanted to stay. If I decided no, I was supposed to leave this city in search of somewhere else—immediately. If I said yes, I needed to leave the gross hotel room I was staying in and put down real roots. She said something about being frozen in time and frozen in emotions that weren’t real; I’m not sure I understand what she meant…

I decided to stay in Paris.

I’m terrified to write this—scared that once you read it, you’ll pack your bags and leave. I suppose you have every right to do so, but before you do, you should know that I made this decision entirely for myself. I didn’t make it because you’re here or because I want you back (which I do). I made it because I have a lot of learning and growing to do, and I don’t want to do that without a place to call home. So, for the foreseeable future, Paris is home.

I got an apartment. It’s cheap and mostly gross, on the outskirts of the city—I would hesitate even to call it Paris. But it’s what I can afford until I get a job and a steady income. I have a pillow, a blanket, a roof over my head… and the apartment came with a dog—so I guess I have Carolina now.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to my first apartment and there’s a little dog shivering in the corner. I called the landlord, I called the police, I called anyone I could think of, and no one seemed to care that the previous tenants left their dog to starve here. I’ve given her half a dozen baths and she still smells like shit and pee (so does the rest of the apartment, for that matter), but she has a warm heart and I can tell she’s relieved I’m here.

So far, she’s given me a reason to wake up in the morning. I take her for a walk and give her breakfast, and it’s enough for me to remind myself I’m supposed to be working toward a better life.

I have a long way to go. Me and Carolina both do.

Another thing my therapist has me working on is being honest with myself. For example, I’m allowed to miss my family. It’s okay if the mother and daughter in the park remind me of my mom and Megan. If I want to cry while looking at photos of them, that’s okay—no matter how complicated our relationship was.

Here’s another thing I’m supposed to be honest about: I miss you.

I hadn’t realized how much I was relying on you to bring sunshine into my life, but the world feels darker without you. The city seems a little less alive.

I wasn’t sure it was possible to fall in love when I hurt so greatly, but it happened anyway. I miss the sound of your voice and the twinkle in your honey eyes. I miss kissing you. I miss loving you.

I don’t know if you’re even reading these, or if you’re throwing them away. I suppose you could be laughing at my attempts at… I don’t know what I’m attempting here. I know you won’t ever forgive me for what I did to your friend, and I’ve accepted that.

But some sad, lonely part of me longs to know you’re out there somewhere.

Besides, even if you’re long gone and I’m writing to a ghost, at least this gives me something to do in my cold, dark apartment at night.

I miss you.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Eliza

P.S. I went to Versailles yesterday, and I’ve never seen anywhere more beautiful. Have you ever been? I found myself breathless around every corner and every part of the garden. I keep finding more and more beautiful things about France… I think I’ll stay awhile.

I lowered the letter with a weight in my chest and a lump in my throat. Carefully, I folded the pictures back into the paper and slipped it all inside the envelope.

For the first time, instead of throwing the letter away, I tucked it in my nightstand drawer.