The car stops. The driver gets out and opens my door.
No way.
Mya
I step out of the shower, my hair wrapped in a towel and my stomach in knots.
This is ridiculous. It’s just dinner with my ex-husband, in Paris, on what would’ve been our first anniversary.
Totally casual.
I open my tiny wardrobe and immediately make a mess of it, pulling out dresses, blouses, and two pairs of heels I told myself I probably wouldn’t wear here. I lay everything on the bed and stare at it.
Too sexy.
Too serious.
Too “look what you lost.”
Too “I’m fine, actually.”
Toodesperate.
I don’t want it to look like I dressed for him.
I’m alsovery muchdressing for him.
After way too long, I land on a dress that’s right in the middle.
I sit at my tiny table to put some light makeup on and cue up the Queen record Worth bought me months ago. I’ve been listening to it on repeat.
Freddie’s voice fills the apartment, and for a minute, I close my eyes.
I wonder if my dad is looking down at me. If he’d be proud of me for how my life turned out.
I let myself think about him properly, not shoving the grief away because I’m scared. I miss him. And I finally accept that that’s what this whole thing with Worth has been: me trying to outrun that first loss, thinking if I control the ending, it won’t hurt as much.
Except it still does.
I grab my little black bag, shrug on a coat, and call a rideshare.
On the way to Loulou, I remember that day a year ago—Worth looking at me like I was reallyhis. I remember thinking,If this were real, I could fall so fast.
How times have changed.
I don’t know what to expect tonight.
The car pulls up to the restaurant, and my pulse skitters. I step out, inhale the cool air, and walk in.
“Bonsoir. Table for Miller, please.”
The maître d’ smiles knowingly. “Bien sûr, madame. This way.”
My heels click against the floor as he leads me through the dining room. I smooth my dress, heart thudding in my throat.
We round the corner to the terrace, and I stop.
Worth