Tears started streaming down my face. I was a sight to behold between the crying and the chewing.
Just as I was about to get up and head to my next culinary destination, the artist in the corner began to approach me. He said something in French that I couldn’t understand, then winked and handed me the portrait he’d been working on. He scooted away—literally—before I had a chance to say anything back.
I looked down and gasped. It was the most hideous picture of myself. Hideous not because it was poorly drawn, but because it was very likely exactly what I looked like today. In the drawing, my mouth was open as I stuffed my face with a piece of bread. My eyes were bugged out, and they looked swollen from tears. Tomorrow, I would be going to see the calm and collected Mona Lisa. This hot mess in my hands was the polar opposite.
As I continued to stare at the portrait of myself, though, it hit me that despite the fact that I felt my life was a mess, this stranger had found something artworthy in me. By simply being and enjoying the present moment, I had inspired him somehow. I stared at the picture some more. The longer I looked at it, the less I saw the lost girl eating bread and the more I saw the independent woman. One who’d just found and lost her mother, yet who persevered anyway—and despite being in love with a man she could never have. She survived anyway. Eating cheese. Maybe this was a lesson that I’m okay just as I am—alone and experiencing whatever life throws my way. Maybe I am enough.
I am enough.
In that moment, I realized that while it might take some time, I would really be okay no matter what happened between Reed and me—because I would have myself. And I was strong—perfectly imperfect.Later that day, I happened to walk by a boutique on Rue du Commerce that sold vintage wedding dresses.
I couldn’t help but stop to gaze at the gown that was on display in the storefront. It was stunning, not in the same way that Allison’s blush feathered dress was. This one was trumpet-style, white, and covered in sequins. It was a simple style but had a beautiful waistband that gave it character and tied the look together.
I thought back to my last wedding dress–boutique experience all those months ago, how much had happened since, how much I’d changed. My tastes had matured along with a lot of things about my life.
So much was left uncertain. Would I stay working at Eastwood, or would I go back to school? I had a lot to think about when I got back home. Despite the uncertainties, there were so many more things I had become certain about in terms of what I wanted out of life.
I was certain I deserved the kind of man who would love me like Reed might have if he weren’t so scared. And I knew I shouldn’t give up hope about finding that. Even my mother had gone on to find love and live a happy—albeit short—life after all that she’d been through after giving me up.
I took one last look at the dress in the window. It was the type of dress I might have chosen today—not as ostentatious as the feathered gown, but not plain, either. If the feathered dress represented a false ideal, this one represented . . . me.
Simple yet elegant with lots of sparkle.CHAPTER 36
REED
It wasn’t easy, pretending not to be wondering where she was or what she was doing every moment of the day. I’d vowed to give Charlotte space and to not interfere with her trip. But I couldn’t help wondering if she was safe or whether she was still sad and depressed. All I knew was that she’d be visiting France and Italy and planned to be gone a couple of weeks. She’d left her return date up in the air, too. I wondered if she ever planned to come back to Eastwood at all.
It was getting more difficult each day to concentrate at work. I did something I almost never do: I ventured to Central Park at lunch and decided to just sit on a bench and think. The autumn leaves were blowing around me as thoughts of Charlotte consumed me. Even with all that this city had to offer, it was amazing how bland a life could seem when the one person who matters suddenly disappears. I suppose it isn’t until that point that you realize just how much the person matters at all—until they leave you.
Suddenly, there was an awareness of a presence in my periphery. When I turned to my left, I noticed a young guy in a wheelchair who’d pulled in next to my bench.