by Jill Cox
Okay well now I’m just pissed – or terrified – no wait, both
WHY DONT YOU ANSWER ME FEE IM FREAKING OUT
Really, Drew? If you’re gonna all caps me, THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS PUNCTUATE.
“Where have you been?” Drew boomed over his microphone half an hour later when my laptop finally connected to his.
“Hey, bonjour to you, too,” I retorted. “You know where I was. With the girls.”
“All night? Doing what, clubbing?”
“No, not clubbing. We were binge-watching Gilmore Girls.”
“Oh.” Drew glanced over at the bedside table, where his cell phone screen was now illuminating the darkness behind him. “I’m just glad you finally called. I need to talk to you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Drew rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and then crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve been doing some work for my granddad’s practice, organizing digital files remotely, and he’s paid me just enough that I could buy you a ticket home for spring break. I know it’s last minute and you’ve already got plans with your friends to go to Italy, but…”
My initial reaction was fury. For some reason, since I’d come back to Paris, it seemed like every conversation with Drew had devolved into a fight over my spring break plans. And even though the last month on the ground here had been wretched, I didn’t have the rest of my life with these friends. In June, we would scatter to the winds, and who knew when we’d all be together again.
I guess Drew took my pause as a good sign, because he smiled. “Today is twenty-eight days out from the start of your break, and I was thinking, if you could come home a couple of days early, you’d be here just in time to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” I straightened my torso while Drew shot another glance at his phone, which had been blinking non-stop like a strobe light since he called. “Do you need to get that?”
Drew shot me a look, then grabbed his phone and turned the screen toward the camera for me to read.
“L. J.” I scrunched up my nose. “Who’s that?”
“It’s Jack Chisholm. The guy from Medford?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nodded casually. “How’d he get that nickname?”
“Jack. Lumberjack. L. J.” With his phone still turned toward me, he went to his contacts, and pulled up L.J., who was, in fact, Jack Chisholm. Then he fixed me with a smug grin. “You thought L.J. was a girl, didn’t you?”
“Why would I think that?”
Drew slammed his phone down, then looked back up at me. “You know what? Forget it. I’m going to sleep now. My friends are all headed home for the night so there’s no point in leaving now.”
I hadn’t yet done the math on the time difference. It was a quarter past two at home. “Hey, I’m sorry I made you miss out on the fun. And I love your idea, Drew. I really do. But I don’t think I can back out on Italy. Other people are counting on me.”
“But this is a win-win, Fee!” I hadn’t seen that softness around his eyes since Christmas Break. “It’s a free trip home, you won’t have to spend any money on overpriced European hotels, and most importantly, you’ll be with me.”
“But everything’s booked, even our train tickets. Kelly’s even typed up an itinerary.”
“Oh, well, if Kelly’s typed up an itinerary,” Drew scoffed. “Are you kidding me with this right now? Itinerary or not, you see your friends every day. I am your boyfriend, Meredith.”
“It’s not about that, Drew. You know I want to see you. But I can’t come home. Not yet.”
“No need to finish. I have this answer memorized.” He cleared his throat, then shifted into a falsetto. “The six of us only have this tiny window of time to be together, Drew, so we have to go everywhere as a group. Especially to Italy.”
“Was that supposed to be me? Because it sounded more like Mickey Mouse.”
Drew’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize that what I’m asking isn’t outrageous, right? That you should want to spend more time with me than with people you didn’t even know this time last year?”
I closed my window so the whole building wouldn’t hear, then sat calmly back in my chair. “You promised me you would do whatever I asked to make this work. Those were your words, Drew. I can screenshot your dorky card if you don’t believe me.”
“I know what I said, Meredith. I just didn’t expect you to take such an active role in the obstacle portion of our relationship. Do you even miss me? Because you sure don’t act like it.”
I dropped my head into my hands, searching for the right words as I pushed back the tears. “Why can’t I make you understand? I didn’t move to Paris to make your life difficult.”
“No,” he laughed ruefully. “You moved to Paris to punish me for breaking your heart.”
When I opened my eyes, the connection was gone. I waited several minutes, just in case it was a glitch. But then I stood up, grabbed my phone and my earbuds, pulled on my running shoes and sprinted down to Luxembourg Gardens. I covered every inch of the park twice, desperate for the sun to warm me again from the inside out.
As I approached the northern entrance, a flurry of red drew my attention to the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The same parade we’d seen earlier in the day was now headed east, its dragon dancing from side to side as red flags waved everywhere.
Like I needed help noticing the ones from home waving right in my face.
THIRTY-SIX
As many times as I’ve heard the explanation for leap year, I still do not understand the logic behind the math. Yeah, I get the need for accuracy, but really, who is going to know if we’re twenty-four days short every century? And more importantly, does someone actually care?
On Thursday night, February 29th, I was standing in the garret of my room with my back to the window, staring at the clothes blanketing every surface. I had no idea what to pack. The forecast was chaos: rain in Florence, snow in Venice, sunny and seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit in Rome. And, oddly, the possibility of a hailstorm in the middle of the week. Who knew Italy had hailstorms?
Surely leap year was to blame.
I had just maneuvered around a pile of too-heavy-to-pack sweaters when my cell phone chirped from my pocket.
“Hey, Dad,” I answered distractedly. “How are you?”
“Hello, my darlin’ girl,” he answered in his thick Irish brogue. “How’s Paris? Still there?”
He asked this question every week. I don’t know why, but Jamie Sullivan found it hilarious.
“Yes, Dad, still here. Hey, is everything okay? We weren’t supposed to talk until Sunday when I get to Florence. You know it’s Thursday, right?”
He cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “Yes, darlin’, your mum and I are grand. But you see, I had this little problem yesterday…”
“Problem?” My voice escalated an octave. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the doctors, they claim I’ve had a little, you know – incident – with my heart.”
My entire body went numb. “Hold on. Did you have a heart attack?”
“Me? Well, I suppose you could call it that, but really…”
There was a bit of static, like someone was scuffling with the phone, and then a female voice came over the line, strong and clear. “Meredith, please don’t worry,” my mom said. “Your dad’s comfortable for now, but the doctors plan to do open-heart surgery on Saturday.”
“This Saturday?” I crumpled against the nearest wall, a knot forming in my stomach. This couldn’t be real. “Is he…? Mum, how bad is this? Tell me the truth.”
My mom paused just long enough for me to know her reply was only partial. “Don’t you fret, love. Just go on to Italy and check in with us once you’re settled. Greg has already got your brother on the next flight out of whatever far-off land he’s been visiting this week, so you go on with your friends. We’ll be grand.”
“I’m not going to Italy!” I choked. “You need help, Mum, and I want to
be there. Can’t I use Ian’s miles to come home, too?”
She sighed, and her voice was suddenly one among many as she stepped into the hallway. “Of course you can, love,” she said in a muffled tone, like she was covering up the phone. “Your brother said you can speak with the ticket agent at Charles de Gaulle airport. Do you know his air mile account number?”
“Of course I do. Ian made me memorize it ages ago. I assume you’re in Portland?”
“Yes. We’re at St. Joseph’s, near your school. I’m staying down the street in a hotel.”
“That’s good. Are the Suttons with you?”
“No. They flew to Florida a few days ago for a Caribbean cruise, and your father doesn’t want me to bother them. They’ll be home early next week anyway.”
“What about Drew? Have you called him yet?”
“No. I thought you might want to tell him yourself that –” Mum’s voice cracked as it trailed off. “Listen, love, they’re quite strict about using your mobile in here, so I should go. Can you text me once your flight is sorted? I’ll do the same if I hear back from Ian.”
When I hung up, I opened the metal volet shutters on the window so violently that the boys probably heard the clatter up on rue Guénégaud, but I did not care. I was suffocating.
Anne suddenly burst through my door, her face as white as the walls. “Are you okay?”
I folded into myself like a little kid and slid down the nearest wall. Anne lowered herself next to me as words spilled out as fast as my mouth would move. I realized as I neared the end of the story that I was holding my cell phone in one hand and the scarf I’d been about to pack in the other. Anne, who was not a touchy-feely sort of person, tugged them both free from my hands, then wrapped her arms around me as I sobbed into her shoulder.
Every neighbor across the courtyard must have thought those crazy American girls on the top floor had finally cracked from too much wine or culture shock.
When I finally composed myself, Anne went into drill sergeant mode, dictating with no hesitation which items to pack for home and which to put back in my closet. If she hadn’t been there, I would have just stared into the void until my eyes bled. Instead, she handed me items, and I placed them obediently in the bag.
If I ever made it back to Paris again, I might relinquish all decision-making privileges to Anne. Never underestimate a friend who thinks clearly under duress.
THIRTY-SEVEN
By five the next morning, Anne and I were both out the door – Anne to the train station to meet the rest of our Italy-bound friends, and me to Charles de Gaulle to catch a flight home. I left a note downstairs in Marie-France’s apartment about what had happened, and gave her and Anne both a list of fifty numbers where they could reach me.
On the way to the airport, I tried to call Drew again for the fifteenth time since the previous night. Then I tried again. And again.
No answer. No answer. No answer.
Ever since our fight last month, things with Drew had shifted. Our Valentine’s Day video chat “date” had been a bust, and when I called on the 28th to wish him a happy birthday, Drew’s glib responses made me feel like a telemarketer. He was like, “Oh, hello. Thanks for the birthday wishes. Let’s talk about everything except Italy this time. Yep, yep, the weather’s rainy as usual. Okay, gotta go, goodbye.”
And now that he was getting his way, now that I’d be home for spring break after all, now that I needed him, Drew was ghosting me.
When I arrived at the counter for Ian’s preferred airline, I explained my situation to the agent. I gave her my brother’s frequent flier number, but there were no reservations listed from Paris on his account. “And since you’re not on the list of authorized users,” she purred, “I’m afraid my hands are tied.”
“Oh. Okay.” I willed my lips into a smile. “Then could you help me purchase a one-way ticket to Portland?”
“Of course, Miss Sullivan. For today’s flight via Dallas-Fort Worth?” The robotically polite lady replied. “That will be three thousand, five hundred dollars. Cash or charge?”
“Thirty-five…” I sucked in a breath. My credit card limit wasn’t even half of that amount. “Look, don’t I qualify for an emergency fare? My dad’s having open heart surgery tomorrow.”
“That is the emergency fare,” she countered, oozing faux sincerity. “It’s the best I can do for an open-ended, last-minute ticket into the United States. I’m sorry. You must understand security protocols these days are quite restrictive.”
“Fine,” I growled. “Can you just hold that seat? I need a few minutes to figure this out.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle, but not for long,” she cooed, never dropping that well-honed customer-friendly veneer.
I went into overdrive. First I called my mom. Maybe her phone was off, or she was on the other line, but it went straight to voice mail. I called my dad’s phone, just in case. And the hospital room.
Nothing.
And then, because I was desperate, I tried Ian’s phone. There was a chance he was in an airport lounge somewhere, tapping away on his laptop. Surely he hadn’t forgotten about me? But the more I thought about it, the more terrified I became. If Ian was that distracted, things at home were worse than I knew.
As a last-ditch effort, I tried Drew one more time. I called every place I could think of, but every line just rang, rang, rang, and then rolled to voicemail. Then, because leap year hates me, my own phone buzzed back: 10 Percent Battery Remaining. Engage Low Power Mode?
I hadn’t slept more than a handful of minutes last night. The concrete pole I was leaning against was no longer enough to keep me upright in my exhaustion. So I sank to the ground, slumped against my suitcase like it was my only friend left in the world, and began to weep.
For years, people had been making these sorts of decisions on my behalf, and now that I needed to be resourceful, I had no coping skills. For the next few minutes, I just sat there curled between the pole and my bag, sobbing silently into my scarf like some sort of security blanket.
Then a hand touched my shoulder. “Sully?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
I looked up to find Pete Russell crouched before me. With both palms, I shoved the tears off my face and tried to smile, but it was no use. If I tried to talk, nothing but a sob would escape.
In one single movement, Pete lifted me gently to my feet, then wrapped both arms around me. “Meredith, talk to me,” he said quietly into my hair. “Did something happen?”
“My dad had a heart attack.” My lips trembled against his shoulder. “He’s having surgery tomorrow morning, but the ticket agent says it’s going to cost thirty-five hundred dollars for a one-way ticket. How am I going to pay for that? My family won’t answer their phones, and Drew…”
As soon as I said his name, my voice quavered and the rest muffled into sobs. Pete held me tight, hugging me against his chest like it was the only thing on his agenda for the day. “Don’t cry, Sully. We’ll get you home.”
He held me until I stopped trembling, and then a little bit longer, just to be sure. Then he grabbed my suitcase and deftly maneuvered both our bags into the Priority Access lane, where an even more polite woman greeted us. Air mile account numbers were recited as a keyboard clickety-clacked. Before I knew it, I was booked into a seat next to Pete from Paris to Dallas-Fort Worth, and then on to Portland, with a return flight on St. Patrick’s Day, the last day of our break.
When Pete handed me my ticket and steered me by the elbow toward passport control, my addled brain finally kicked back into gear. “Wait a minute, Pete, I can’t let you do this. How will...”
“Stop that, okay? I’m not leaving you in Paris when your dad is sick. Look, it’s no big deal. My grandfather flew all over the world for his job. Trust me, our air mile account is flush.”
“But…”
He stopped walking and pulled me off to the side, both hands on my shoulders. “Sully, you’re going to hurt my feelings if you don’t let me help you out. C
ome on. We need to get going.”
He gestured for me to follow him over to security, where we passed quickly through the gazillion steps of international departures. At the gate, Pete left me alone with the backpacks to find us coffee and something to eat. I was texting my mom with my flight information when he returned.
Pete handed me the biggest coffee in France and a chocolate croissant. “Is that Sutton?”
“It’s my mom.” I grabbed the two napkins he was offering me, and managed a weak smile. “After a couple dozen non-responses, I think it’s safe to say Drew is busy.”
Pete’s eyes went wide, then he scowled. “He hasn’t heard about your dad? Wait, did you try calling him at…”
“I’ve called everywhere.”
Pete cursed under his breath – something I’d never heard him do – then took out his phone.
“Please don’t,” I said, so quietly that I felt like a child. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’ve already called the Sigma Phi house phone a few times. You don’t want the guys thinking I’m a stage-five clinger, do you?”
He laughed. A very Pete, very heart-warming chuckle. “You are not a stage-five clinger, Sully. But shouldn’t we keep trying? Won’t he want to be at the airport when we get home?”
Maybe it was because I was out-of-my-mind worried about my dad. Maybe it was my lack of sleep, or the fact that my entire support network had just ghosted me. But for the first time all morning, it occurred to me there was a reason Pete wasn’t on his way to Italy.
I wrapped my hand around his wrist. “Your grandmother?”
“Yeah.” He attempted to smile. “Her nurse called. They brought in hospice yesterday.”
THIRTY-NINE
Before I could respond, the gate agent started calling our group to board. Then Pete’s phone rang in the Jetway and, even if I hadn’t heard that unmistakable voice, I would have known it was Meg. I scrolled my own phone in an attempt to give them privacy, but I still heard plenty.