Never Say Forever

“But you just set them up for me so perfectly.” She shrugs and turns her gaze to the treetops beyond the window. “Well, at least the view is better here than the last place.”

“Most employers would’ve left me to fend for myself,” I say, slinging an arm around her shoulder as I join her. “Let alone take an interest in my bouncing habits.”

“It’s a good thing I’m your friend first and your employer after, right?” Her own arm feeds around my back, digging into my waist and making me squirm.

“Friends don’t tickle friends!”

“No, but good friends look after one another.”

“Oh, we’re getting deep now, are we?”

“I’m being serious. You hate anyone doing anything to help like it’s a sign of weakness or something. It’s like you’ve chosen to forget all the help you’ve given me. Remember when you drove from Nice to Monaco because I missed my bus and couldn’t speak enough French to get myself home? We were barely even friends at that point—we’d only just met!”

“I only drove across the border. It took, like, forty minutes.”

“That’s not the point. You’d only known me a few hours.”

“But I couldn’t have left you,” I reply. “Not when we’d bonded over our parents’ love of ridiculously traditional Irish names.” Róisín for her pronounced Row-sheen and Fiadh for me. Fee-a. “And I don’t hate that you help—I’m grateful to you for everything you’ve done, and you’ve done way more for me than I have for you.”

Because I’m no longer running myself ragged at the hotel gym catering to rich women with butt’s as tight as their purse strings. Mega hours for minimal pay. These days I’m more likely to be found running yoga and meditation classes as part of my role working for Rose’s foundation. And when I get back to France, I’ll be doing so much more because I plan to open a wellness centre to help women learn to love with their bodies through counselling sessions and movement classes. The fact I struggle with this isn’t ironic, I feel, so much as it is a testament to how much pressure women place on themselves. I know I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons and am so happy that Rose offered me financial backing and has already secured a site. Rose is more than a friend. More than family. More like my guardian angel. She’d given me a job, invested in my education, and found me a placement in Manhattan to help me achieve my dreams.

We amble out of the room by some unspoken agreement because, as all mothers know, a quiet child is dangerous, when she says, “Let me remind you that the foundation will also benefit from the experience you gain over the next twelve months, from both our staff and our clients. Meanwhile, you took personal responsibility for a hot mess you’d known only for a few hours.”

“Anyone would do the same.”

“Nope. Only a good person would. A good person like you. A good person like Carson Hayes.”

“Carson Hayes the third,” I repeat, drawing his name out as I draw my fingers along a console table.

“You’ve both been good to me.” The same as always, Rose is determined to play down the influence she’s had on my life. “And this is just me, your friend, helping you out by hooking you up with a sweet apartment of one of my other friends while the boss part of me gets a realtor on the case. Besides, this place is perfect. It’s only a ten-minute walk from here to school and then another five to your new office.”

“Don’t forget you’re also the friend who got my child into the same school as Angelina Jolie’s kids, too. Did you know that her kids go to the Lycée?”

“Yeah?” She shrugs, unimpressed.

“And that the waiting list is huge—I checked before I saw the fee schedule because, ouch!” Despite my humorous delivery, my stomach twists uncomfortably. Lulu is my baby, and I want the best for her, but it’s my job to provide for her, not Rose’s. But there’s no way I could pay for an apartment in Manhattan and the Lycée’s fees myself. Not without a lotto win. “She’s only in kindergarten. A year at a public school would’ve been okay.”

“I know.” She shrugs lightly. “But surely a French school will be better for Lulu. Familiar, at least. I’m allowed to look out for my goddaughter,” she adds a little steely-eyed. “It’s all part of my nefarious plan. A French-speaking school will be a reminder of all that’s waiting for you. Which means less chance you’ll fall in love with America and allow yourself to be poached by a US company.” She taps her temple with her forefinger. “There’s a method in my madness, girl.”

“Positively Machiavellian,” I utter dryly. “Of course I’m coming back. France is our home.”