Seven Letters from Paris by Samantha Vérant

my mouth, I realized how ridiculous I sounded. To cover up my tracks, I told him how my sister teased me about how he could be a human trafficker for the Albanian Mafia. The more I babbled, the deeper the hole I dug.
    â€œHoney, honey, honey, I think it’s a superb idea.” I was now convinced Jean-Luc knew the golden rule: a man always agrees with a woman, especially when he wants to stop a ludicrous rant. “I’ll send you our spare phone tomorrow.”
    I breathed out a sigh of relief.
    â€œHoney, before I leave you, I do need your advice on one topic. Tell me your preference, where do you want to spend the last night? In Versailles or in Paris?”
    Seeing as I’d never seen it in person, Versailles, the wealthy suburb of Paris famous for its decadent castle, was tempting. However, I thought it would be utterly romantic if Jean-Luc and I stayed in Paris, the place where we first met. Together, we could retrace our steps—eat at Dame Tartine, grab a glass of port at an outdoor café on the Champs-Élysées, and walk by his old apartment. Then again, we could create a new memory, an even better one.
    â€œSurprise me,” I finally said. “It’s completely up to you. I’m in your hands.”
    â€œI can’t wait,” he said.
    Neither could I.
    â€¢ • •
    The next two weeks were a blur of dog tails and a haze of hot Malibu summer days. Two days before I was to leave for Paris, I invited Stacy over to take a dip in my parents’ pool—an added bonus of living at home and a welcome relief from ninety-degree weather and the unrelenting canyon sun. So my new friend (and boss) was with me when Jean-Luc’s package arrived. In addition to a green cell phone, dried lavender and roses tumbled out of the box, presumably from Jean-Luc’s garden.
    Her jaw dropped open. “Who does that? I mean, it’s just so romantic.”
    Must be the French touch.
    â€œIt is romantic, but this isn’t.” I handed a second envelope over to Stacy.
    â€œIs this what I think it is?”
    â€œYep.”
    She threw her arms around me. “Congratulations! You’re a free woman!”
    I gulped. Free or not, seeing my divorce decree in its finality was a bit disconcerting. This wasn’t just some kind of weird fantasy; it was real. I was excited for the future, but I was petrified for it too. I was still a dog walker, Jean-Luc and I hadn’t even reconnected face-to-face, and I was still living at home with my parents. The sweat from walking dogs was nothing compared to the sweat of fear of the unknown. It was time to jump in the pool, to try to calm down my nerves.
    After a quick dip, Stacy took off and I walked back to the house, wondering if I knew what the hell I was doing. As if to answer me, another package wrapped up in brown paper rested on the front stoop. It too was addressed to me, from Tracey. Inside it was the photo album from our European adventure. Additionally, Tracey had sent her travel journal filled with schoolgirl ramblings and ooh-la-las, plus the letters and postcards Patrick had sent to her. For the moment, I set those aside. I needed to see the pictures, one in particular. And there it was: the photo of Jean-Luc and me standing on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, me with a wide crazy grin, wearing a hot pink T-shirt and jean shorts, him holding on to my arm, looking ever so handsome, wearing a white button-down shirt and black slacks, his beautiful bow-shaped lips pulled into a half smile. A new rush of memories slammed my brain upon seeing the photos, feelings long forgotten but stored somewhere inside.
    I ran into the house, packages in hand. Instead of telling my mom about the divorce decree or my emergency phone sent along with dried lavender, I screamed, “Tracey finally sent the photo album! Jean-Luc is taller than me!”
    I didn’t get an answer. Apparently Mom was off teaching a yoga class at the VA. Which