SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL, J.HUGHES

THIRTY

As soon as I stepped into my hotel room, just to keep up appearances, I bolted out to hit up the nearest grocery store. It happened to be a Carrefour Express. Of course, I flashed a "Bonsoir" like the polite customer I try to be.

First rule of being a good Paris tourist: always acknowledge people, whether they're staff or not. That's straight from my mom's playbook. Well, that's not all she taught me, but let's stay on track here.

I expertly scoped out the cheapest wine bottle available. When I told the girls I was too beat to head to the Eiffel Tower tonight, they almost saw through my fib, but luckily, they didn't pry any further, despite their skepticism.

I grabbed that white wine for two euros, totally fine by me. And on my way out, I snagged a saucisson and a slice of cheese for a room snack.

Suddenly, there's this lump in my throat. Can't tell if it's the wind hitting me dead in the eyes, making them water, or if it's the tears threatening to spill over. All I know is, it hurts.

Why? Don't even ask, because I have no freaking clue. I miss everything—my mom, my bro, my old green car, even my trusty pillow, and yeah, my sister too. Ugh, even my dad. But the one I'm missing the most? Jack. Yup, I'll admit it—I'm missing him so damn much, it feels like my whole body's about to implode.

It's strange, you know? It hasn't been that long since I last saw him, but now he feels miles away. And he is, literally. It's not just a quick 35-minute drive door to door anymore. No, it's a freaking six-hour flight, depending on whether we're fighting against the wind or not. And those six hours don't even include the hassle of getting from the airport to him, dealing with traffic and all that jazz.

Is this what they call the blues? Some might say I'm being melodramatic because I haven't even moved yet. But that's the whole point, isn't it? How am I supposed to cope with this feeling once it's official and I've got the keys? How can I feel this gut-wrenching ache for him when he's just a friend? I have plenty of friends but none make me feel this way. Sure, I'll miss Thomas eventually, but it's nothing compared to the agony I feel with Jack.

I unlock my hotel room and kick off my shoes. I pop open the wine bottle with a satisfying "pop" sound, mimicking the pop of a champagne bottle. Are we celebrating? The life I've always wanted or the end of it?

Forget about pouring it into a glass—I'm drinking straight from the bottle. And I'm not even ashamed about it; there's no one here to judge me. Well, except maybe the lady who'll clean my room tomorrow. She'll probably raise an eyebrow at the sight of an empty bottle in the trash with no dirty glass in sight.

Come to think of it, I can't be the only soul drowning their emotions alone in a hotel room. But hey, I'm not the one to blame. I'm in freaking Paris. Life could be worse; I could be stuck in some dingy motel in a sketchy little town in South Carolina, with nothing but a pack of beer to drown my sorrows. Heck, yes.

I take the first sip, and the taste hits me like a bolt of lightning. It's always that initial shock, isn't it? The second sip goes down smoother, but by then, the damage is done.

"Why did I think moving to Paris would make things easier?" I mumble to myself, taking another sip. My sister was right, I trying to run away. It's just that I have to face it and admit it. I'm running away from him.

I glance at my phone, half-expecting a message from Jack, but there's nothing. I know I should be happy for him, that he's moving on, but a part of me just wishes he would say something to make me stay, to tell me he still cares.

"Get it together, Morgan," I mutter, wiping away a stray tear. "You're in Paris, living your dream. Don't let this ruin it."

But even as I say it, I know it's not that simple. Jack isn't just someone I can forget. He's woven into my life, into who I am. And no matter how far I run, that connection isn't something I can easily break.