Part of me always believed that the people who left New York were the people who didn't try hard enough, who just couldn't hack being small fish in a big pond. It wasn't until I was one of them that I realized that as much as the city felt like a second skin, it was also keeping me the same. Keeping me Charlotte when really, all I wanted was to be someone else.
I was ready for a new chapter in my life, ready to be somebody who knew what the hell they were doing and what they were doing it for. I was tired of living life in the monotony of clients. I didn't want to be Wolf, who studied literature and law and had to stow it away in a box so he could fill bigger shoes.
I didn't want to look back and regret it all. The truth was, I didn't know where I would be in a years time. Even a month. Not even as recent as next week. I chose to focus only on the next twenty-four hours. One day at a time. One breath at a time. My path took me to my parent's house, where they were overjoyed to see the prodigal daughter return from "the big city". I didn't tell them about Wolf or about my company, not because I was ashamed, but because I was starting to get over both losses and discussing it at length with other people would only make me blue again.
Talking about things until they were beaten into the ground was usually only for the benefit of other people, I'd come to realize. I didn't want to be a girl who talked anymore. I wanted to be a girl who did things, who traveled, who read, who became.
"Are you backpacking through Europe?" my flight mate asks, twisting in his seat to smile at me. He jerks his thumb up, pointing at the overhead compartment above us. "Me too. Traveling light."
At my blank look, he elaborates, "I saw your stuff. You only had one bag."
"Right. Um, I'm not really backpacking. I don't know what I'm doing. I just wanted to travel."
"Wow, so you're a free spirit, huh?"
It takes a moment to realize he's not judging or mocking, but openly admiring. His pleasant face splits into a broad grin and it's easy to return his smile.
"Not really. But maybe one day," I say with a laugh, pulling my earbuds out of my ears. "I don't know why I chose Paris. I've been there before. And it feels really stupid to go by myself to the city of love, but I got cheap tickets and right now, anywhere is better than here."
The guy's smile fades. "You know, when you try to outrun your problems, you tend to take more than one bag with you."
"I'm carrying my emotional baggage with me?" I crack a weary smile.
"My two cents. For what it's worth."
"And what makes you an expert?"
He chuckles and takes a sip out of the tiny plastic cup of Sprite. "A life of knowledge. Every time someone broke up with me, I took off. Couldn't deal."
"I didn't break up with anyone, but I was still the one who did the breaking," I say, curling my fingers around my orange juice.
We chat for the rest of the flight about inane things, never coming back to this tense topic, and when we part ways at the arrivals gate, we don't promise to stay in touch or exchange emails. We just say goodbye and safe travels, and it's a good, clean break.
Paris is beautiful. I hadn't doubted that it would be, but the sheer atmosphere of it still overwhelms me when I clamber off the metro, grungy and tired from a full day of traveling. No one gives me a second glance as I lug my suitcase up three streets, up two flights of stairs, all the while getting by in awkward, halting French as I speak to the chic Parisian woman who I'm renting a flat from for the month.
She looks at me with sympathy, like she knows why I'm there, and touches my hand. "Bonnes vacances," she murmurs. "Appelez-moi si vous avez besoin d'aide."
"Thank you," I say. "I will." After accepting the business card she gives me, nodding along when she firmly taps her cell phone number with a long, pointed fingernail, I say, "Oui, oui, merci, madame," for good measure.
I wonder if I appear as pathetic as I feel - did I look like someone who might need help? After she leaves, again with the insistence that I call her if I need help with anything, anything at all, I drop her card on the kitchen table.
The apartment is large by Parisian standards and is in an impressive arrondissement. My parents' treat. They thought I was just going on vacation because I was feeling burned out from work, and I'd wanted to leave, so I hadn't disabused them of that idea.
The entire room floods with light from the open windows and there's a faint, wholesome scent of vanilla and other herbs that I can't place. I sniff a candle until I determine where it's coming from, hunt in the kitchen drawers for a lighter, and fall asleep in a comforting blanket of sensation.
My phone beeps sometime in the middle of the night and I jolt awake, not remembering anything from my dream but gray eyes. Swallowing, I look at my phone.
Xander.
I almost don't want to open it, but finally, with shaking fingers, I do. If he tries to get me to come back, I don't know what I'll do.
As it turns out, he knows what I need better than I do myself.
Figure it out and then come home, best man he writes. Another beep. Love you. Be safe.
I smile and my fingers dance over the keys, typing a reply, and then I second-guess it, re-reading what I've written. I delete it all and send him back Love you with an obnoxious row of heart emojis.
There's nothing from Levi. I think he's understood me. I don't think I'll be hearing from him for a while, either. He knows what it means to go away someplace where you have to start over and find yourself again.
Wolf has been silent as well. I don't know whether to appreciate the distance or feel annoyed by it. Maybe Brett and Xander talked him out of chasing me down or blowing up my phone with spammy texts. I feel a momentary pang of guilt that I left them to deal with the fall out of my actions.
Paris is beautiful. Eventually, I learn not to look at the happy couples with envy. I live like a "real Parisian", I tell Brett and Xander. I eat French bread and buy a metro card and get on first-name terms with the Chinese takeaway place down the street.
You're not a real Parisian if you still call it French bread Xander tells me. It's just bread to them.
A month breezes by, spent window shopping at couture I could never afford, browsing the old masters in the Louvre, and having solo picnics in the park. My stay is up and even though I try to renew my lease, the owner is adamant that she has a newlywed couple coming for two weeks and she's fully booked until October.
Come home my mother says. Isn't it time you went back to work?
Instead, I move down the street to a less chic apartment. I still go to the same bakery and use the same metro stop and I'm actually closer to the Chinese place, so it works out pretty okay.
I eat a lot of baguettes and a lot of macarons and an even larger amount of fried noodles and crispy egg rolls. I call my parents and around a mouthful of raspberry tart tell them that I'm going to look for a new job. There's a stunned silence. I fill it with chewing.
I have an offer to sell our matching algorithm to Facebook Brett says one day. Just that one sentence.
We talk about it on Skype for the next week before she accepts their offer.
Time passes. Spring turns to summer. I grow more content, though my wallet does not. I withdraw more money from the ATM and try not to cringe when I see how low my balance is.
The way the people in France say my name is romantic and husky, putting emphasis and accent in different places than they do back home and it almost feels like a completely new name. I make friends with an Ava and Marc, who live downstairs in my apartment building, and a butcher called Gabriel who reads a lot of Jack Kerouac, and Victoire, the piano teacher who lives above me who speaks flawless English.
Through Victoire, I get an interview with Travel + Leisure. She says she knows most of their articles come from freelancers and wouldn't it be wonderful if I could write about Paris? She could help, she enthuses.
So I submit a pitch to them and she crows over my shoulder in delight, convinced that they'd be crazy not to hire me. A week later, they ask to see a full article submission. I don't make a lot, but with the occasional cramped column and the odd feature story, combined with more ATM withdrawals, I eke out a decent living.
After two months in France, I relocate once again, this time to London. I take classes at the local university and make friends. I smoke for the first time and determine it's so awful I'll never do it again. I drink warm beer in the afternoon with my classmates and take about sixty selfies in front of Big Ben.
Once the sale of Charlotte's Web goes through, Brett deposits half the money in my bank account and sends me a text saying Don't spend it all in one place ;). My eyes bug out when I see the row of digits and zeroes.
Don't let Xander down by not being here for the wedding, Charlotte! pops up on my phone one day from Graeme.
Weirdly, I kind of miss her. Personal history aside, she's always got Xander's best interests at heart and really, isn't that all I can ask for? Anything more would be asking her to change and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that van der Waals don't change.
I love it here writes Levi. I hope you like where you are, too. He sends me a picture of him and a blond girl.
I make it a point to not Google Wolf. I don't want to know who he's roped into marrying him. And to their credit, none of my friends have mentioned it, either.
I see another message on my phone from Graeme. She's annoyed, judging by the all caps. IT'S SO NOT FAIR THAT YOU LEAVE RIGHT WHEN I WAS STARTING TO GET USED TO YOU.
I chuckle and type back Well, you can't have it all! and include an emoji of a sniggering face sticking its tongue out.
I'm a modern woman, of course I can have it all. I need to get you fitted for a dress. I know Xander joked about getting you a suit but that is. not. happening. at. my. wedding.
I roll my eyes, one of the habits I picked up from Xander and Wolf that I haven't been able to shake. Shut up. I'll be there.
Will you be bringing a date? comes back almost instantly.
I tell her no and wonder if she asked me because she was hoping I'd ask her if Wolf would be bringing a plus-one. I decide it doesn't matter. This is not about being in love with him, it's about learning to love me again.
In fall, I book my ticket and pack up my things again. I stand in the center of the apartment and look around at my home and realize how much I miss New York. Homesickness was something I pushed aside viciously whenever it crept up on me, but now that I am going home, it finally sinks in that I am going home.
Author's Note: What do you guys think about the time Charlotte spent away from everyone? Have you guys ever needed a breather from the life you were living? :) Can anyone identify with Charlotte?
YOU GUYS THIS IS THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER. THE NEXT ONE WILL BE THE LAST ONE, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?? OH MY GOD. *internal fangirl screaming*
Any feedback on this chap (or any of the previous ones) is much appreciated. I am currently in the stages of editing this story offline and doing a serious overhaul of some content and it'd just be so incredibly helpful if you guys could help me out with your impressions. :)
THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING ALL THIS TIME FOR....ALL THIS TIME. PUN INTENDED. :)