She was, for the first time in her life, in love. How could one not hear a beautiful man speak the words Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l’éternité?, Shall I see you again, only in eternity? by Baudelaire, and not be in love?

“Promise me,” he’d said before he left, right at the end of her senior year, a day when she thought she’d die from misery. “Promise me you will come to the ball with me. The Versailles masquerade ball. It is next month, and my family has never missed a ball at the palace since they began having them. These days it is silly. You dress in a period costume and parade around like a peacock for show, but it will be fun. Especially with you there, on my arm. You will make me the proudest peacock of them all.”

At that moment, she’d been a puppet on a string. “Yes. Of course,” she’d told him. “I’ll come.”

“For a year,” he’d said.

She’d blinked, confused, “For an entire year? Is that how long the ball lasts?”

He’d laughed. “No. The ball is just the start of it. I want you to take the whole year and spend it with me. We’ll see all of Europe, starting with Paris. Together. Just the two of us.”

“You’ve seen all of Europe already.”

“I have. But it will be different with you.”

Then he’d taken her hands in his and whispered in her ear, something she later learned was a line from Hugo: “Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.” I cannot stay far from you any longer.

She’d pretty much swooned, and they’d shared a passionate kiss at the airport before he turned and headed to his gate. A few moments later, he turned and announced loudly for the whole concourse to hear: “Je t'adore, mi amor. We will be together again in Paris!”

As she watched him walk away, tears in her eyes, she’d promised herself that they would not be far apart for much longer, no matter what she had to do.

That was probably the first—and last—time her life had resembled anything from a movie.

They’d written to each other almost every day; their letters often crossing in the mail.

But then her New York City Dream Job—a marketing manager position at Elizabeth Arden—fell right in her lap.

She hadn’t really even been looking. She’d applied on a whim, mostly to keep her parents off her back. But then she’d gotten it and was told she needed to report to work on June 19, which was the same night as the ball.

She’d tried to finagle it. She thought she could go and perhaps start a week later, but her new boss said it was impossible.

It was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but she wrote to him, declining. She sent him a letter, saying she loved him, but “Maybe I can come out this summer?” He’d responded with great understanding, suggesting they spend a week in Paris, maybe in August.