Page 2 of Boarding Pass
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t push. I don’t want her to because as the time of the party winds down, I’ve made up my mind.
It’s time for me to find my fucking joy.
The Uber drops me off at my sleek high-rise in downtown Seattle. I never got around to furnishing it properly but I have some basics so it’s not totally empty. I kick off my sneakers, pour a glass of Gatorade Zero, and sit on a barstool at my kitchen island.
I click on Kayak and search for first-class flights to Europe.
The results populate. Rome. Madrid. Berlin. Paris.
Paris catches my eye. Always does. Austin and I went there once for a gaming conference when we launched our company and were traveling on the cheap. Back then, he and I were two geeks chasing an impossible dream. We had six hours of free time before our flight left and spent most of it getting lost on the cobblestone streets, filling our bellies with pastries and laughing at ourselves for butchering the language.
We often reminisced about how we’d go back and do it up once we “made” it. Neither of us bothered, though. Too caught up in the day-to-day of running a billion-dollar company, and the opportunity never presented itself.
In any case, I pick Paris. Who doesn’t love Paris?
I don’t overthink it. I book the ticket, grab a carry-on, and toss in some basic clothes, figuring I can do laundry or buy what I need. My passport’s in my dresser drawer, a little dusty but still valid. By midnight, I’m packed and ready for my early flight.
The flight’s relaxing. I eat the surprisingly delicious first-class airline meal. Drink a couple of glasses of whiskey. Adjust my seat into lie-flat mode and let thebackground hum of engines lull me into a fairly restful sleep.
By the time my plane lands at Charles de Gaulle, it’s already early evening. Customs is a breeze and before I know it, I’m squinting against the fluorescent lights and following signs to the RER train.
I don’t have a plan. That’s the point.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of a fancy five-star hotel in the Marais district with wrought-iron balconies and flower boxes spilling over with red geraniums. Charming as hell—and it has availability. I drop my bag in the room, splash some water on my face, and change into something less crumpled.
Stepping out into the Parisian night, I have no idea what I’m looking for.
But, I’m already itching to find it.
Chapter two
Parisisn’tdoingitsjob.
For God’s sake, it’s supposed to feel like home.
I was born here. I’m fluent in the language. My mother, Parisian to her core, always tells me this city is in my blood. This city has a magic I’ll always carrywith me.
Tonight, unfortunately, I feel about as magical as a tax return.
I’m perched on a bar stool, alone at a wine bar called Magnum La Cave, which is tucked off a main drag in Marais, a couple blocks away from my hotel. The place leans hard into its name with walls covered in photos of a mustachioed Tom Selleck from the 80s-eraMagnum PIshow.
Somehow—against all odds—it’s not tacky, but charming. The place is popular and the buzz from the tables outside spills into the cozy, character-packed interior, where I swirl my glass of Bordeaux and watch the people around me. A group of women shriek with laughter and clink their glasses together. Two men in suits dig into a gorgeous plate of cheese and charcuterie. Next to me, an older couple leans in close, speaking quietly before sharing a sweet kiss.
Closing my eyes, I sigh deeply and take a large sip of wine. Not because I begrudge them.
If anything, I envy them.
I want what they have.
Instead, I’m thirty-two, single, sitting in Paris trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted. Worshipped. Adored.
Mark was supposed to be the one. We met in our twenties, two young go-getters carving out our glamorous life in New York. I was the artistic one, dreaming of making a living taking photographs. He was practical, with a steady accounting job and great income.
We balanced each other, or so I thought. He kept me from flying off in too many directions at once. I brought some fun into his life. Over time, steady turned into critical, grounded turned into dismissive, and by the time I was finding success in my career, he was busy tearing me down.
“I just don’t see why you care so much,“ he scoffed when I booked a major campaign with Valentino. “It’s just fashion photography, Sophie. You’re not curing cancer.”
I convinced myself he’d come around as soon as my work received critical recognition. Seven years later, I was the most-coveted photographer in fashion and I’d won several awards. Yet, I was still waiting for some acknowledgement by Mark telling me my career was worthwhile.
