airport at least three times, passing innumerable doors to the outside, before she finally discovered the taxi rank. Where there was another line.
While she waited for her turn for a taxi, Cora screwed up her courage and checked her messages. Her phone had begun blowing up the second she’d taken it off airplane mode—texts and calls from her mother, both sisters, and her best friend, Zara. Even Brandon, her shiny new ex, had texted.
In the airport, she’d swiped all those alerts away without opening a single one.
It had been only about twenty-four hours since she’d spoken to anyone in her life, but it looked like they were already panicking.
Wait till they found out where she was.
There were a lot of messages, so she decided to take them in chronological order. Texts first.
Zara’s first message was just a check-in, from about an hour before Cora had gone into the salon for her bold new hair color. Five texts followed, with increasing intensity, the last one being an all caps IF I DON’T HEAR FROM YOU BY THE TIME I WAKE UP, I’M CALLING IN THE TROOPS.
Here in Paris, it was just past noon, which made it … 5am-ish in St. Louis? Cora texted back: Sorry. I’m fine. I’ll text again soon and let you know what’s up, but it’s all good, promise. xoxoxo
Cora’s older sister, Myra, texted three times. The first was, Can you make your tortellini salad for tonight? Which reminded Cora that there had been a family barbeque last night. Which she’d totally spaced about. And which also explained why so many people were so very interested so very quickly in her whereabouts. The texts from younger sister, Ruth—their parents thought old-fashioned names would set them apart, which was true, though probably not in the way they’d intended—and their mother corroborated Cora’s guess. She’d flaked on a family gathering and freaked the whole clan out.
Brandon’s text was, Are you okay? Your mom called freaking out. I know you’re upset, but you didn’t do anything stupid, right? Like kill yourself or something?
Cora stared at that one for a long time. Yes, Brandon, she answered in her mind. I killed myself over your cheating ass. I’m reading this message from the beyond.
Deciding she liked that, she replied in reality. Yes, Brandon. I killed myself over your cheating ass. I’m writing you from the beyond. Now kindly fuck all the way off.
Honestly, if she were going to kill herself over any of this, it would be the apartment she’d lost. That was a great apartment in the Central West End. She’d moved in with him and they’d never gotten around to putting her on the lease, so she’d had to move everything of hers out and store it in her parents’ Kirkwood basement.
She’d spent the past few nights in Zara’s ‘guest room,’ which was a geriatric futon in her Soulard painting studio. There was a not-zero chance that Cora’s current state of wild impulsiveness was a symptom of turpentine poisoning.
A throat cleared assertively behind her, and Cora looked up. Oh, the line had moved, and she was up next.
“Bonjour,” she said to the cabbie, hoping her accent was decent. Man, she’d really meant to freshen up her French before traveling to Paris. She had not wanted to be one of those ‘ugly American’ tourists who just blabbed English like they thought the whole world should be shaped to them.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Où voudriez-vous aller aujourd’hui?”
“Um …” she stalled, sweeping through her phone to the screencap with the Airbnb details. As she read the address aloud, she could hear her tongue sticking around the r sounds and knew she sounded terrible. Her accent had been good once.
The cabbie smiled as he closed the trunk. In beautifully accented English, he asked, “English would be easier, yes?”
“I’m so sorry to mangle your language. Je suis désolée.”
He waved her apology off. “It is good to try. Keep to try and you’ll be better.” With a gesture toward her phone he asked, “I may see?”
Cora handed him her phone. He read the address of the hopefully adorable pied-à-terre in the Latin Quarter and nodded. “I know this, yes. Come.”
Okay, so. First interaction with a Paris local not an A+, but not failing, either.
As she settled in the back seat, she took out her phone and finished sending vague I’m fine, all’s well, I’ll explain soon, love you, mwah messages to the people she’d worried.
“Uh … voyons-nous la tour Eiffel?” Cora asked, pretty sure she’d got that right. So