I wished I had never opened my laptop, but I also embraced the awful feelings that made me want to sob. I deserved to be hurt. I had hurt him so badly. I deserved to feel awful.

I laid on my bed and every crazy, terrible, wonderful thing that had happened in the last week swirled though my head, dizzying, and, finally, sleep inducing.

I slept a sleep so miserable, it felt like a complete waste of my time and woke up feeling drained and weary. I knew what I needed. It was still so early, nearly dawn, but I forced myself out of bed and took a hot, weak-watered shower, scrubbing off the caked-on makeup from the night before and the clinging smell of Saxon. I hurried to my room and tore through my suitcase, taking out my one crazy, luxury item.

I had learned to pack sensibly from my mother, and I knew every inch counted. But something pressed me to add my running shoes, a gift from Thorsten. They were fancy, made to cushion and support, and just be generally great. And they were super cute. I put on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and tied my shoes tight, just the way I liked them. I left a note for Mom taped to her door, and left the dorms.

The air was cold and biting, exactly the way I loved it. I started to run on the almost empty sidewalks. I ran past an old couple walking their dog, past a baker filling up her display case with hot pastries. I ran past buildings that were dove gray and so lovely, they looked almost feminine. I ran past empty parks with empty black benches and noisily splashing fountains. I passed a young couple bickering in a language that didn’t sound French while they put fruit out in their stand. I ran past newspaper stands, movie advertisement posters, beggars, surprised looking men in suits and women in smart trenches that flapped open when they walked. I was in Paris, France. There was more to life than the two boys from Sussex County who had turned my world upside down. I double clutched, two breaths in and one out, two in and one out.

Thoughts in my head bounced like so many ping pong balls, ricocheting all around. I didn’t push Jake’s pictures out of my head. I let them bob there, right with all of the other images, and tried to accept that they were part of the whole collage of my romantic life. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower, and wondered if Mom and I would go to the top. I knew we would if I asked. Mom. I loved Mom. I didn’t want to keep lying and moping.

I was breathing hard and my lungs felt a little torn, but also like they were stretching to accommodate all of the new air I drew in. I liked the feeling. Just like I felt my heart shrivel and harden on the museum roof after kissing Saxon, my lungs seemed to expand as I ran on the pavement.

Less room to feel, more to breathe. I would make do with that.

Soon the sun came up bright and warm, and my stomach growled and turned on itself. I looped back to the dorms, following the line of cheese stores, grocers, and bakers I had committed to memory like a breadcrumb trail. When I got to my hall, Mom stuck her head out her door and hugged me.

“Did you have fun last night, sweetie?” She pulled off the towel that she had wrapped around her damp hair, and it fell in light, wet waves around her shoulders.

I nodded, my body feeling incredibly hot now that I wasn’t racing the cutting air outside. “Yes. It was good to dance. I’m getting soft.” I gasped for breath.

She rubbed my back with one soft hand. “You look so cold. Go get dressed. We’re going to the Louvre today!”

I hugged her hard because I was really excited. Jake and Saxon were going to be where they were, and we would be or we wouldn’t. In the meantime, I would go and see the Louvre with my mother, and I would sincerely, adamantly love it. I had to give my slightly shriveled heart something to expand around, and boys were just too treacherous right now.

Mom and I met for breakfast.

“So how was the dance? Details, please.” She sipped coffee so hot it steamed continuously.

“It was okay.” I buttered a roll, paying a lot of attention to the process. She had already asked me in a cursory way, but she obviously wanted more information, and if I didn’t give it to her, she would keep digging. “The music was all French, but everyone danced. I danced until my feet ached.”

“I’m glad you went and danced.” Mom ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “I was always self-conscious about that kind of thing when I was young.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so stupid to be that way. The only one who knows if you danced or not is you.”

It was one of her tried and true sayings. “It was really fun.”

“Those are real travel moments.” Mom dipped a piece of croissant in her cup and took a bite. “More important than museums and tours are the things you do with the regular French people.”

Another of Mom’s favorite topics. She thought our time in Denmark was my most valuable experience because it was so normal; going to the post office, going to the bank, seeing a movie, watching television, taking walks. It was just everyday stuff, but she thought that made you take a country in best.

“I’m glad I went.” I wished I could work up more excitement, but it was difficult to push the time in Saxon’s room away from my memory.

There was a long silence, then Mom looked up, her blue eyes more gray, probably because she had a great gray cardigan on with her Swiss dot blouse.

“Did you have fun with Saxon?”

I realized that Mom was nervous, and I realized that she saw more than I thought, than I wanted.

“He’s a good dancer.” It was the most neutral thing I could think to say about him.

“He’s taken an interest in you,” Mom said pointedly. “Is that something you want?”

I wanted to tell her everything, starting with the first day of school. I had my mouth open to do it, but something in her eyes stopped me. I knew it would feel good in the moment, but I would wind up regretting it. Mom’s love for me was so strong, it would override respect for my privacy or my need to work things through on my own. Asking for her help by listening meant that I was inviting her to comment and take action.

And as messed up as things were, they were my own brand of controlled chaos.

“Saxon takes an interest in lots of girls,” I said lightly and shrugged. “He’s fun to go to a dance with. He’s just a friend.”

“Good.” Mom took a tiny sip of coffee and made a purposefully bright face. “So how’s Jake?”

My heart fell. “He’s great.” I forced enthusiasm on my words. “He delivered some apple tarts to Thorsten.”

“He really is a sweet guy,” she said reluctantly.

I felt my heart pounding so loud, I could hear the blood sloshing in my ears.

“Yeah,” I said, as evenly as I could. “He really is.”

If I was unusually quiet for the rest of the morning, Mom didn’t seem to notice. She was busy gushing admiration and love for art like blood from a ripped open artery. I was able to fairly effectively turn off my brain of all things boy related and soak the beauty of the art in. I walked the wide, marble floors and listened to Mom chat with animation about how certain paintings had changed this or that movement or started a riot or been commissioned for royalty. I looked at dark faces that I would never know and dramatic landscapes that didn’t exist anymore and wondered about the people who had painted them, wanted them, looked at them every day in homes and churches and offices for hundreds of years before they landed in this museum to end all museums.

I had snapped discreet pictures all morning. I wasn’t insane enough to think I could take any definitive pictures of such great art. But I did want to catch some of what Paris was really like. I got one of a man and woman kissing on the steps outside the museum. I snapped one of two young kids running through the museum halls, unchaperoned. A display box full of pens with a sliding Mona Lisa in the liquid-filled interior. A man tying his shoe next to a group of melting, molding Rodin statues. I clicked whenever I saw a ‘real’ moment. Jake might never want to see them, but I took a lot of them with him in mind, imagining how we could look at them and invent stories behind the pictures.