He didn’t watch her walk away from him, luggage in hand. He’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime this week. Instead, he buried his gaze in the screen of his phone.

And he hit refresh. Again.

Kate heaved out a sigh as she plunked herself down in the lone free chair at the airport internet café. Around her, people were moving, wheeling around their tiny suitcases and checking their passports. She tucked her own boarding pass and travel documents into the front pocket of her purse, her security wallet relegated to the bottom of her carry-on at last.

With an hour and a half left before her flight took off, and her gate only a flight of stairs away, she let herself relax. It hadn’t been easy, getting herself packed up and checked out of her hostel, or carrying her things down to the Metro, or enduring the long ride out to Charles de Gaulle. But she’d done it by herself, and now it was over.

Her trip was over.

She wiggled the mouse to dismiss the screen saver. A window popped up, asking for her payment information before it’d let her log on and actually use the thing. She hesitated. She wasn’t unwilling to spend the couple of euros, extortionate though the price might be. But she wanted to get her head on straight before she started burning time.

She’d come here for a reason. Both to Paris and to this café.

Swallowing hard, she rummaged through her bag and pulled out her sketchbooks. She flipped through the one she’d finished, forcing herself to really acknowledge the progression in the images flicking past her. More than a year’s worth of drawings, more than a year’s worth of trying to figure out who she was.

When she got to the one she’d done from the top of Montmartre, she ran her thumb across the bottom of the page. It was good. Really good. A nice capstone to all the other styles she’d tried on over the past year—one drawing done in a style that felt like her own.

She’d found something that day. The whole trip was worth it, just for that. No matter how much the rest of it hurt.

Refusing to dwell, she closed that book and opened up the one she’d started yesterday. She’d filled a dozen pages with studies of statuary in the Louvre, and views of the Arc de Triomphe and the Seine. They didn’t have the same quality to them as the ones she’d done before things with Rylan had fallen apart. But that was okay. She could recapture that with time. After a few days alone to lick her wounds.

Nodding to herself, she turned back to the computer screen and entered in her information. Once she was in, she opened up a web browser and fired up her email. She glanced at the clock, giving herself exactly five minutes to indulge herself.

The snapshots Rylan had sent her took a few seconds to load, and she watched the screen with her heart in her throat. When they appeared, the sight of them was a punch to the gut. God. That first day, with the two of them outside the museum, him looking so debonair, her with a smile that seemed about to crumble right off her face. Brittle and wary. She’d had no idea what she was getting herself into.

And then their last day together, when she was a whole different kind of miserable.

He looked . . . fragile in this picture. Like he knew, and had accepted it, and was waiting for the blow.

Well, she’d delivered it. He deserved even worse for how he’d used her and lied to her and betrayed her trust. But at least she could hold her head high. She’d figured him out, and this time she hadn’t hesitated. She wasn’t her mom, and she wasn’t her old self, either.

She deserved better. And she was finally starting to demand it.

As much as part of her wanted to forget their whole time together, that was one thing she could be grateful for. Rylan’s voice had joined her own in drowning out her father’s. He’d told her that her artwork was amazing, and it hadn’t just been simple praise. He’d really looked at the work she’d done, and with a considering eye. He’d always taken a moment to think before making his pronouncement.

He’d told her that it was she herself who was special. Her way of seeing. The pieces of herself that she let bloom across the page.

He’d told her she already knew what she wanted to do.

There were still a couple of minutes left of the five she’d budgeted for wallowing, but she minimized the window with the images, returning to her inbox.

It only took a moment to pull up the messages that had been haunting her this entire time. She brought each one up in a new window and arranged them side by side.

Grad school or a real job. Risk or safety. Dreams or security.

She’d come to Paris chasing a dream. She’d followed a different one, one about love and sex and the ideal of a man who might treat her with honesty and care.

That one had turned out to be a fantasy.

But the other one . . .

Rylan might have been a fantasy. But he’d told her some things she’d needed to hear.

Without another thought, she clicked on the message from the admissions office.

She typed out her acceptance with shaking hands. This might be crazy, but if she didn’t take the chance, she’d regret it always.

Her reply declining the job offer was even quicker and easier to write. Once you knew what you were doing with your life, everything seemed to flow.

She hit send on both messages, then closed the windows.

Before logging out of the terminal, she brought up the photos of her and Rylan again. Every moment since she’d left him, she’d been torn between wanting to punch his teeth in and wanting to contact him. She didn’t know what she’d say, but things felt somehow unfinished between them.

Just in case, she checked her inbox one last time. Her chest deflated when there wasn’t a message from him. A tiny part of her was still hoping for some kind of overture, some kind of apology.

Just as well.

With her time on the computer running out, and with only an hour until her flight, she took one last look at his face on the screen. She was still angry, but there was more there, too.

She pressed her fingers to her lips and then grazed them across the screen.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You asshole. For everything.”

She ended her session and gathered her things.

It was time to leave Paris—and Rylan—behind.

chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Three months later

The stool next to Rylan’s made an ugly, scraping noise as it was dragged against the floor. He furrowed his brow. He hadn’t thought he’d been quite that unaware of what was going on around him. But shit happened. He looked up from his paper to take in the girl settling herself in beside him.

Smooth, caramel-colored skin, tight curls. One of those weird teardrop-shaped bags.

Shorts. Converse.

He folded his paper over and shot her a halfhearted grin, feeling a little sick at himself as he did. God. It was like muscle memory or a reflex, the way he flirted. No wonder he didn’t come across as the kind of guy to trust.

The girl smiled back and held up her hand to try to get the bartender’s attention. The man came over and glanced between the two of them.

Rylan tapped at his own empty glass. The man looked at the girl expectantly as he reached for Rylan’s whiskey.

“Anglais?” the girl asked. English?

Fuck it. Rylan was bored. Holding up a hand to stall the bartender, he turned to her. “Allow me. What would you like?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Red wine. Dry. Local would be nice.”

Rylan knew just the thing. He rattled off her order to the barkeep. While the bartender was pouring, Rylan held out his hand to the girl. “Rylan.”

She took it, her grip warm and firm. “Naya.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Her wine appeared in front of her. Dropping her hand, Rylan plucked his own glass off the bar and held it up. She clinked obligingly and they each took a sip.