Chapter Text

August 

I was learning that Paris in August felt like a city caught between breaths, sticky and golden and languid. The three of us—Taylor, Anika, and me—were crammed into a little hotel room while we waited for our new apartment to be ready. There was one double bed and a lumpy pull-out couch that we took turns sleeping on. The air conditioner barely worked, sputtering out barely cool bursts every so often, but we didn’t care. We were in Paris, and that alone made everything feel just a little surreal. Magical. 

Taylor was the one who talked me into coming. She’d said it would be “the adventure of a lifetime,” but I think she saw through me, saw the way I was unraveling at the seams, and thought Paris might be the place to stitch me back together. Anika had been all in from the start; she had this boundless enthusiasm that reminded me a little of Jeremiah in the way it lit up a room, but always the cautious one that reminded me so much of Conrad. When we got here, they’d both declared it a fresh start. A new chapter. For them, maybe. For me, I wasn’t so sure. No matter where we went, what we did, somehow my mind kept finding ways to circle back to them, the Fisher boys. 

We’d spend our mornings at the language school near the Latin Quarter, but we always made sure to stop at Café des Lumières first. The tables outside were small and round, always slightly wobbly, and the waiters wore black aprons. It smelled like warm bread and roasting coffee beans. 

Of course Taylor would breeze in like she owned the place, always greeting the barista in French, even if she stumbled on the words a little. Anika usually stood behind her, checking to see if our table was open and adjusting the strap of her bag. I headed straight for the counter, because the second I saw the glass display case filled with pastries, I felt like I was twelve again, giddy over ice cream at the boardwalk.

They had already learned our orders. We had been coming so much, it was probably hard not to. Taylor’s café crème came out first, the foam dusted with cinnamon just because she asked nicely. It was basically the same thing as a latte, but better. Anika’s espresso sat neatly next to her almond croissant, so flaky it scattered crumbs the moment she picked it up. And mine—mine was perfection in a cup: chocolat chaud topped with whipped cream so thick it left a mustache if I wasn’t careful. A pain au chocolat followed, buttery and warm, its edges slightly crisp. Just thinking about it made my taste buds tingle with excitement. 

We’d sit at the same table every time, the one by the window where the morning light came in unfiltered. Taylor would scroll Instagram, pausing to sip her coffee while Anika showed me pictures of her latest Pinterest board. And for a moment, it was easy to forget about everything I was running from, to let myself believe I was just another girl, living in Paris, with chocolate on her lips and no ghosts in her past.

In language class, Anika would ace her French conjugations while I tripped over mine, my cheeks burning from embarrassment. I always thought I was really good at speaking French— that it kind of just came natural to me— but after meeting Anika, I started second guessing that belief.  Anika was one of those people who was good at everything , just like Conrad. But I didn’t let it get to me, I just kept practicing. Taylor said it didn’t matter— “They love an accent,” she’d said, like I should wear mine as a badge of honor. 

In the afternoons, we wandered around, the three of us almost skipping through cobblestone streets in sundresses. Sometimes, we’d stop for tarte tatin (fruit turnovers) at the kind of cafés that spilled out onto the sidewalks. The locals barely glanced at us. Their indifference towards us “Americans” was so perfectly chic it made me want to sit straighter and speak quieter, just to fit in.

But fitting in wasn’t always easy.

Sometimes, the reflection staring back at me from a storefront window showed a girl who was carefree, like the world was her oyster. Other times, I hated that girl. The one who was broken and angry, but most of all, ashamed.

When the evenings cooled down just a little, we’d sit along the Seine, drinking wine from paper cups and watching the water shimmer. Taylor would be updating her stories with every new experience while Anika laughed, tossing baguette crumbs to the pigeons. I’d be in the middle, surrounded by the glow of Paris and the weight of the past. No matter how far I’d run, I couldn’t escape the heaviness of it—Cousins, Conrad, Jeremiah, all of it tangled together in a knot I didn’t know how to untie.

It wasn’t that I wanted to get rid of my memories of Jeremiah and Conrad and never think of them again. That’s not it. I just, I want those memories to fade, just a little. And not all of them, only the ones I don’t want to play on repeat in my mind, a constant loop of failure flashing again and again like an old movie. Because that’s how it felt. That’s how I felt. Like a failure. 

I’ll never forget the way Jeremiah looked before he walked out of my room, or the way Conrad’s face crumpled on the beach, tears streaming down his cheeks. I’d shattered them both, and that’s something I never wanted to do, not in a million years.  Even now, when my mind settles, those moments replay, sharper than I want them to be. 

Last August, Jeremiah walked away from me on what was supposed to be our wedding day. But I don’t hold any resentment in my heart anymore. It was the right thing to do. We had both tried so hard to hold on to something that just didn’t fit, like trying to push a square peg into a round hole. The truth was, Jeremiah and I were always better off as friends. 

And Conrad. I hadn’t spoken to him since that day either. I often wondered if he even knew that we didn’t go through with the wedding, considering the way things had ended between him and Jeremiah. When I think about losing both of them—him and Conrad—there’s this deep ache I can’t shake. 

Now, a whole year later, I find myself questioning everything. Did I put them through all of that for nothing? Conrad walked away so I could live my life with his brother. Jeremiah walked away because he knew I still loved Conrad and didn’t want to be the one keeping us apart. But here I am, a year later, not with Jeremiah, not with Conrad. I’m not with anyone. Did I really put them through all of that for no reason at all?

I kept thinking Paris would drown out everything else, that it might somehow make me feel whole again. But at night, staring at the cracked ceiling while Taylor snored softly and Anika shifted in her bed, Cousins would find me. Conrad, Jeremiah, all of it. The promises I’d made to Susannah. I hated the girl who broke their hearts—who knew better and did it anyway. And yet, here I was, trying to be someone different. Someone who didn’t feel like such a failure.

Taylor didn’t ask much about the boys, didn’t mention them, which I was grateful for. She tried to keep things light. She was always filling our weekends to the brim, like planning trips to Montmartre, or trying to talk Anika or me into hitting on the cute guy she’d seen at the bookstore down the block.

 Anika, though—she wasn’t afraid to poke at the things I didn’t want to talk about. Sometimes she’d catch me staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower, lost in thought, and say, “Are you okay?” She always asked in a way that sounded like she actually wanted an answer. Most of the time, I just shrugged.

Because I couldn’t say everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling. I don’t think I could even put it into words. The truth was, I was staring at that glittering Eiffel Tower, wishing I could be everything that it was. Bold, beautiful, strong—unafraid. 

I’d come here wanting to be able to do all of those things—be all of those things, but how was I supposed to do that when I couldn’t even let go of everything that was weighing me down. It all felt like a heavy weight, anchoring me to my past. To Cousins. To Conrad. To Jeremiah. To everything I got wrong. 

And it’s not that I hated that place. It was the opposite, actually. I loved that place. The summer house was my favorite place in the whole world. But I couldn’t think about it anymore without thinking of everything tied to it. I wanted so badly to be the girl that existed when I was there, before everything changed. The girl that still believed in things like fairy tales and forever. The girl who giggled, and felt the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the thrill of staying up late on summer nights. Where the stars felt like they sparkled just for me. 

I longed for those moments when everything felt so simple. Before death and heartbreak. Before I lost everything. Before reality came crashing down. But that girl was gone. And I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to see her again. 

Still, sometimes, there are moments when I can almost convince myself, if I close my eyes tight enough, that I can go back, can feel the sand between my toes, and hear the waves crashing around me. Hear the laughter of everyone I loved surrounding me in that place. 

But then I realize I’m just left with echoes. That’s all I have left– memories replaying like old films, watching the glimmers of joy that feel so far out of reach now. And the more I reach for those memories, the more they feel like sand slipping through my fingers, leaving nothing but regret and longing in their wake. 

It’s a strange feeling—empty, but so enormous and full of emotion that leaves me feeling hollow and full all at the same time. One that reminds me that while I’m here, trying my best to embrace this new chapter, a piece of my heart will always be tethered to that beach. To that house. To the people who shaped me. 

From the outside, it probably looked perfect—three friends in Paris, postcard sunsets, light laughter. But inside, I still carried it all: the promises I couldn’t keep, the hearts I’d broken. The girl I was trying to become, and the one I still was. 

***

It was one of those crisp afternoons where everything feels bright and sharp, the kind of day that makes you stop and take a deep breath. I was dragging my little rolling suitcase over the bumpy cobblestones, feeling like the most obvious tourist in Paris. Taylor and Anika were already at the new apartment unpacking, but I had a long way ahead of me with my oversized backpack and suitcase rattling behind me over every little hump. 

And that’s when I saw him—Jeremiah, standing outside a café, laughing with a group of other students. He looked... different. Older, maybe? More settled? It was strange seeing him without his usual Finch crew, without that frat-boy energy that used to follow him around. I couldn’t tell if it was just the Paris vibe, or if maybe he had actually changed. A flicker of uncertainty washed over me, but as I stepped closer, I noticed his genuine smile. There he was, my Jeremiah. My once best friend. 

“Belly!” he called out, waving me over with that bright grin I knew so well spreading across his face. 

For a second, I just stood there, stunned, But then he was in front of me, pulling me into one of those big, warm hugs I’d missed more than I wanted to admit. His arms wrapped around me tight, like he didn’t want to let go, and for a second, I hesitated, my hands just sort of hovering before I let them rest against his back.

“It’s okay, Bells,” he said softly into my hair. “I’m okay. We’re okay. Okay?”

And just like that, something in me clicked. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I let it out, sinking into him, just a little. Not too much—just enough to feel that tiny flicker of comfort I used to know with him.

One of his friends cracked a joke about Jere, breaking the moment, and before I knew it, I was laughing. Real, light, easy laughter.

“Can you believe we’re actually in Paris?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I know,” I said, grinning. “Sometimes it still feels like a dream.”

As we wandered the streets together, it was like this invisible weight started to lift, piece by piece. The failed wedding, the fights, the heartbreak—it all felt... far away, like it belonged to a different version of us. We fell into that old rhythm, cracking jokes, sharing looks that only we’d understand.

“I missed this,” he said after a while, passing me a bite of some fancy pastry we were sharing. “I missed you.”

Warmth started to spread through me, but I kept it light. “You just missed me for my snack collection.”

He laughed, that deep, warm laugh that felt like home for a second. And just like that, everything felt okay again. It wasn’t about who we’d been or what we’d messed up—it was just us, two friends in a city that felt like it was ours for the taking.

By the time we made it to the Seine, the sun was setting, painting everything in these soft pinks and golds. It felt kind of magical, like this was exactly where we were meant to be at that moment.

“Want me to help you take your bags to the apartment? Maybe unpack a little?” he offered, glancing over at my suitcase.

“That’d be nice,” I said, looking up at him. “Thanks, Jere. For everything.”

“Always, Belly,” he replied, his voice steady. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed him. We were different now. Carrying our history but not stuck in it. Moving forward, one step at a time.

***

After a few weeks in Paris, I’d found my rhythm. Mornings were all about classes that made me actually excited to learn—lectures that didn’t feel like lectures but more like discovering these little secrets of the world. Afternoons were spent exploring with Taylor and Anika. We wandered through cobblestone streets, poking our heads into tiny cafés, stopping to try pastries that looked too perfect to eat, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Every corner of this city felt like a surprise waiting for us—hidden bookshops, little boutiques, and the Seine looking like it was straight out of a painting. I didn’t even care that my feet hurt every night.

Even Jeremiah had found his way back into my life, somehow. Our texts were light and funny, filled with all the little jokes and references that used to be ours. He’d call sometimes, too, just to check in or tell me something random about his day. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the ache of what we’d lost. It was just... easy again, like we were two kids who’d never had a failed wedding between us. He reminded me that some things—some people—could survive time and distance without falling apart.

Everything was starting to feel okay again. Better than okay, even. It was like I was finally figuring out how to piece myself back together, like learning how to dance after you’ve been standing still for too long. But no matter how good things seemed, there was still this one part of me I couldn’t ignore.

Because no matter how far I went or how much time passed, Conrad was still there. Always there. He was buried so deep in my heart, I didn’t even know where I ended and he began. He was the missing piece, the one thing I couldn’t figure out how to move on from. And I didn’t know if I ever would.

And somehow the universe must have heard me, because Paris is where I got my first letter from him. Real letters, written by his hand, not emails. I didn’t write him back, not at first, but they still came, once a month, every month.

The first one showed up on a day like any other. I’d just lugged a bag of groceries up to our apartment when Anika met me in the kitchen, grinning like she had a secret.

“Something came for you,” she said, holding up an envelope.

“What? No one ever sends me anything,” I said, dropping the bags on the counter. “It’s probably junk. Just toss it.”

“It’s not junk, Isabel. It’s handwritten,” she said, her eyes practically sparkling as she handed it to me.

The second I saw it, my stomach flipped. I didn’t even need to touch it to know. That handwriting—I’d know it anywhere. Every slanted letter, the way his name curved just slightly at the end. I’d studied it on birthday cards and Post-its and notes he used to leave around the house. It was Conrad’s handwriting.

I froze, staring at it like it might burn me. My heart was doing this wild, thumping thing, and my fingers actually shook when I reached out to take it.

“Conrad?” I whispered, not really meaning to say it out loud.

“Yeah,” Anika said softly, her smile fading a little. “I figured you’d want to read it before Taylor got her hands on it. You know how she gets.”

I nodded, swallowing hard as I turned the envelope over. The California stamp stared back at me, bright and sunny and warm. For a moment, I didn’t know what to feel—excitement, terror, maybe both at the same time.

“You okay, Is?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, which was the only honest thing I could think to say.

The envelope felt heavy, like the weight of all our history was trapped inside. But I didn’t open it right away. I just held it, my fingers brushing over the slanted letters, the way he always wrote so neatly, so perfectly.

And then Anika pulled something else from behind her back—a small box.

“There’s more,” she said.

I blinked, trying to process. My name was scrawled across the top of the box in that same handwriting. Conrad’s handwriting. My chest tightened as I set the envelope down and reached for it.

“You should open it,” Anika urged, her voice soft.

I grabbed scissors and carefully cut through the tape, my mind racing the whole time. What would Conrad send me? What could he possibly have to say now?

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was Junior Mint. The little polar bear Conrad had won for me at the ring toss. He looked exactly the same—his tiny glasses slightly crooked, his scarf still tied perfectly around his neck. I hadn’t seen him since I left home, since I purposely left him behind.

My throat tightened as I lifted Junior Mint out of the box. Holding him was like stepping back in time, back to a version of myself that wasn’t so complicated or broken. But this felt different. This felt deliberate. Like maybe Conrad was trying to remind me of something. But then I had a thought—maybe he was trying to let it go. Maybe this was his way of saying goodbye. Anf that thought scared me more than anything. 

I set Junior Mint on the counter, next to the unopened envelope. One piece of our past, sitting there in tissue paper. Another piece, sealed in an envelope. 

Finally, I picked up the envelope, grabbed a butter knife, and slid it open. Inside was a single piece of paper, the kind you can tell is expensive just by touching it. The edges were perfectly crisp, the paper white and thick, with navy blue lines and his initials—C F B—at the top. Of course, Conrad’s stationery would look like that. He was Susannah’s son, after all.

For a long moment, I didn’t move. I just stared at it, at the perfect curves of his letters and the way every word looked like he’d spent hours making it just right. 

I smoothed out the page, running my fingers over the indentations of his pen. My eyes zipped across the page, taking everything in before I even started reading.

I had tried so hard to leave my past behind. Moving to Paris felt like my only chance—the fresh start I needed to forget. But I couldn’t. Even here, it followed me. And now, with this letter in my hands, it was impossible to deny how he still made me feel.

I still loved Conrad Fisher.

It was as simple and as complicated as that. I had brown hair and brown eyes, freckles that only came out in summertime— and I would always, always love Conrad Fisher.

Dear Belly,

Firstly, I don’t even know if I should be writing you this, or if it’s allowed. I hope it is. I hope you don’t throw this away without even opening it, because if you do, you’ll miss out on something important. To you.

I went over to your house to fix your mom’s computer and ended up in your room to use the printer. I saw Junior Mint sitting on the bookshelf, looking incredibly pathetic. Remember him? The polar bear with glasses and a stylish scarf? I won him for you at the ring toss. Do you remember how you used to stare at the polar bears because you wanted one so bad? I probably spent thirty or forty bucks trying to win that bear for you. Apparently, he misses you, despite the fact that you left him behind. He feels lost without you. I’m serious, that’s what he told me. Pathetic, right? So here he is, with this letter. Be nice to him, will you?

Conrad

For a few minutes, I just sat there, staring at Junior Mint perched on the counter, like he was waiting for me to say something. And it wasn’t just a bear, or just a letter. It felt like Conrad had sent a part of himself, this tiny sliver of the boy I’d grown up loving. Was it supposed to be a reminder? A peace offering? Or something else entirely?

The words in the letter felt so... him. Light and dry and maybe even a little guarded, but at the same time, there was something softer underneath, something that made me feel like he was trying. Trying to tell me something without actually saying it.

I wanted to believe this wasn’t a goodbye. That it wasn’t him finally letting go, but him reaching out. Like he’d pressed pause on everything that had gone wrong and was looking for a way back to us. Back to me.

But then I’d remind myself not to read too much into it, that maybe it didn’t mean all the things I wanted it to mean. Because hoping—letting myself really hope—might be worse than him saying goodbye.