Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I wake up and check my phone Monday morning, there are three emails with subject lines in French in my inbox. My palms get sweaty, and my fast, shallow breaths don't provide enough oxygen. I click the first one open. It's a form rejection from the University of Burgundy. My lungs strain from the lack of air. I straighten to allow my ribs to expand, but the tiny gulp I manage brings no relief. The pain of not getting in rolls through my chest. They don't want me. What if none of the schools want me?
My hand trembles when I click on the answer from Bretagne-Loire. I can't breathe. My vision swims. My chest is ablaze, even though there's not enough oxygen in me. Another form rejection. I slam the heel of my foot into the mattress and hit the back of my head on the headboard. The physical pain refuses to douse my hurt feelings. The shards of my shattered hope slice through my lungs. I open my mouth in a silent cry and air finally flows in. Instead of relief, it brings the rejection front and center. I'm not in. The universe has delivered the ultimate sign. France is off the table. My dream school succeeds at crushing my dreams. I want to shout but I can't. Tears linger in the corner of my eyes. I sniffle a couple of times and rub the eyes with my knuckles.
The third email is a personal note from Professor Hallot at the University of Bretagne-Loire. I did my darndest to impress him at the interview. "Your field of work is decidedly one of interest to me and our faculty, however, we don't have room for another research position at this time. I encourage you to reapply for the fall semester."
If the praise is supposed to make the rejection seem less harsh—it doesn't. I'm not in. How's that for not needing to make a decision. I'm out. I have to tell people what a disappointment I am. I have to tell Mom. I should've kept it a secret. Not told anyone. Failing in private is so much less shameful.
I have to reply to Professor Hallot, so I force stilted words of gratitude to this man who doesn't owe me anything and scrounge for phrases to explain how much I wanted to be part of their team and how much working with them would mean. I spill my desperation into the black letters in my email window and talk about the research ideas, the time I'd spent reconstructing the private lives of the people who built the walls of the castles the tourists use as the background to snap their 'i've been here' photos. If he reads it, really reads these words, he might glean what being accepted into the program would've meant for me. I shut the lid of the laptop.
What now? I've made plans for what I'll do depending on which school accepts me in France. I have made none in case I stay. I thought about it, sure. It's not like I have to make any changes. I can keep working where I work and live here with Angie. And see Ben. There's no longer a timer counting down to our inevitable separation. That's a good thing. But the anguish inside me burns, and I break down at the loss of my dream. Dad's dream for me.
Tears clog up my nose, and I swallow them as I type the texts. There's going to be plenty of time to talk later. I click 'send' three times. Angie, Ben, and Mom are in the know. I throw the phone onto the pillow next to me and stare at the ceiling. Deep breaths. On the count of five. The phone vibrates again and again, but I proceed pushing the air in and out of my mouth with audible force. It must be helping, because the tears dry up and the lump in my throat loosens. My phone rings. I let it go to voicemail. One missed phone call from Yo-Yo.
