Scream For me

DAPHNE

I let out a sigh, my shoulders falling as I stared up at the Eiffel Tower.

I can’t believe I’m standing here right now. I’d give anything to experience this with my mom or Carson. I know that Carson wanted to go to some place tropical for our honeymoon and honestly, I loved that idea too. But after my mom passed, he surprised me one night by showing me the two tickets he had bought for us to Paris for our honeymoon. He didn’t say a word and I burst into tears, throwing my arms around his neck and sobbing as he held me.

I close my eyes, soaking in the moment as I clutch my latte in one hand, my buttery croissant in the other. I don’t care if I look like a cliche, an obvious tourist. I want to soak in every possible second I have in this magical city. I imagine what it would be like to have this be my view every single day as I walked to work or looked out my apartment window.

My phone rings loudly in my pocket, jolting me out of my fantasy and back to reality. Before I fully open my eyes again, I rapidly attempt to move my latte and croissant into one hand and reach into my pocket to grab my phone. I feel the phone tumbling from my hand and I step back, attempting to catch it, but I’m unsuccessful. The phone falls and my body twists unexpectedly.

“Oh shit!” I stumble, jutting out my hand to catch myself when I smash my cup right into the very broad, very firm chest of a stranger.

“What the-ow!” he yelps as my hot coffee soaks his pristine white shirt. I stand frozen for a second, completely shocked at what just happened.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” I feel my face already burning with embarrassment as I struggle to right myself. “Here, let me-” I look through the pocket of my cardigan for a tissue before seeing my now deflated croissant on the ground with the napkin nearby, a large footprint marking both. “Oh no,” I mutter as I bend down to grab the napkin. “Here.” I attempt to dab at the large brown spot now taking over his shirt.

“Sidewalks are for walking, not pictures,” he snaps.

“Oh, a fellow American.” I snap my head up when his accent registers. “Or Canadian?” I correct when he doesn’t respond. “I swear I am not one of those clumsy people who does stuff like this.” I shake my head, laughing to ease the tension when I look back down at my hands. “Sorry,” I gasp, realizing I’m clutching his arm, my other hand flat against his chest with the soggy napkin as his arms jut outwardly with no attempt to help me.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief, brushing my hands away. “Are you okay?” He dabs at the large brown stain on his shirt but it’s no use.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I’m just a little discombobulated.” I laugh as I straighten out my skirt which has twisted a little, my eyes traveling up the stranger’s long suit-clad legs. His head is turned down as he focuses on his shirt, his dark hair falling over his forehead obscuring my view. His hands are large, his fingers long. I don’t know much about fashion, but I can tell that his suit is not an off-the-rack Calvin Klein from Macy’s and his watch probably cost more than my childhood house. “Are you okay?”

He dabs at his shirt once more, giving up before slowly lifting his eyes to meet mine. He stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket, the sun catching his blue eyes that look piercing surrounded by his long, dark lashes. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the beauty of this man. His clean-shaven face has a jaw that looks carved by the gods, just a hint of gray at his temples. I feel like I physically choke on my tongue looking at him.

“Christian Grey?” I whisper, completely taken aback by this man’s appearance.

This is it. This is that moment in the romance novels where we meet and fall in love. Paris is a fantasy. Even the men are a cut above.

“Excuse me?” He looks confused, probably frightened actually by the Cheshire cat grin that’s plastered on my face.

“Uh, are you okay?” I repeat a little louder, hoping he buys it.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Again, I’m so sorry. I was trying to take it all in.” I gesture with my arms toward the tower. “First time in Paris and all.” I laugh nervously, practically tripping over my words as I blabber on. “I was supposed to come here on my honeymoon or well, I guess I should say with my mom first and then my honeymoon, but unfortunately life gives you lemons sometimes and man, did it give me le-”

“Lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t care. I’m running late and now”-he motions toward his shirt that has become slightly see-through thanks to the coffee I spilled on him-“I need to go change before my meeting.”

“Oh, right, of course.” I shake my head, sticking my tongue out like I’ve lost my mind. My eyes dart down to where the shirt is suctioned to his chest, the outline of his defined pecs causing my mouth to go suddenly dry. He moves to step around me right as I attempt to step out of his way in the same direction. “Oops.” I giggle, my face growing even redder as I do it again, this time with a little dance.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

He stops, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before offering up an annoyed smile. “I’m going right,” he says slowly. “You go left.”

“Wait.” I hold up both hands. “Could you possibly take a picture of me quickly? My best friend wants me to send her pictures and I would love a pic-” I reach into my pocket when I realize I never picked up my phone. My eyes dart around frantically when I see it between his feet. I reach down to pick it up. “Here it is!” I lift it, checking to make sure the screen is still intact. “Phew!” I laugh. “I was so worried the screen would-”

“Make it quick,” he says, cutting me off as he holds out his hand. I open my camera app and hand him the phone as I take a few steps closer to the tower. I pause for a brief second before posing, turning to look up toward the top, the wind catching a few strands of hair and whipping them around my face.

“What’s a good pose? I don’t want to look too touristy.”

“You have three seconds,” he says sternly and I turn around.

“Cheese!” I place one hand on my hip, raising the other above my head with a huge smile as I pop my foot up like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. He snaps the photo, stepping forward to hand me the phone before turning and walking away.

“Thank you!” I shout after him but he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t acknowledge me. I opened the and loosened it to Xana, but then I noticed he had taken more than one. I slide my thumb across the screen. The second photo of me is a close-up of my shoulders and face, my hair blowing away from me when I was half-turned away from him, looking up toward the top. I look up from my phone toward the direction he walked but he’s already lost in the crowd.

In the heat of the panic and chaos that just unfolded, I completely forgot that someone was calling me. I pick up my croissant and my now empty cup and toss them in the trash. I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk to the metro station to take the train to Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

It’s calm here, quiet. Some might think it’s weird or even eerie to find solace in a cemetery but that’s where the two people I love the most are. Carson and my mom aren’t buried here obviously, but I feel like I’m closer to them here. At home, when I’m feeling overwhelmed or too sad to function, I go to the cemetery where my mom is buried. One of the hardest parts of accepting the fact that Carson was also gone was the fact that he wasn’t buried in Chicago, not even in Illinois. His family wanted him back home with them in Tennessee. I don’t blame them, but realizing I won’t be able to visit his grave when I want or need to is something I still struggle with. I sit down on a bench, the buzz of the city is almost nonexistent here.

Tears threaten to fall, and my throat grows thick with emotion.

“Please,” I pray, “just give me a sign. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

It’s hard to admit but I’ve been so lost since losing them both, like life no longer has direction for me. My phone chirps and I reach into my pocket. I look at the screen, realizing I have a voicemail.

“Hello, Miss Flowers, this is Rick Fein, administrator over at Crestwood Academy,” he says in his almost singsong voice. “I am so sorry that I’ve taken so long to get back in touch with you. The end of the school year is always a bit hectic as you can imagine. Anyway, I’ll cut straight to the point. If you are still interested in the first-grade teaching position here at Crestwood, we would be honored to have you on board. Give me a call back to discuss the next steps. Thank you.”

Now the tears cascade, unstoppable, down my cheeks. I rest my head in my hands, crying, laughing, excited, and anxious all at once.

“Yes!” I shout, throwing my hands up in the air in celebration.

My week in Paris flies by but I make the most of every single second I’m here. I spend my mornings sipping coffee and eating pastries on the small balcony of my hotel room. My afternoons are filled with street art, strolls along the Seine, and sightseeing. Each evening, I savor a small glass of wine while listening to “Les Champs-Elysees” by Joe Dassin-another cliche but it brings me joy.

On my last night here, I triple-check that I’m checked in for my nine

a. m. flight, then turn on a peaceful YouTube video to fall asleep to. The soft sounds of rain lull me to sleep in a matter of minutes, a smile on my face when I think about sharing my exciting news with Xana.

“Ugh,” I groan, stretching my arms overhead as I realize it’s my final few hours in Paris. I’m sad to leave but I’m also excited to start my new job back home. I sit up, a little surprised I’m awake before my alarm. I reach for my phone, tapping the screen to check the time, but the screen stays black.