I hung my head because I couldn’t keep it up, it was too full of thoughts. Thoughts of Jake, thoughts of Zac—but it was also full of other thoughts: thoughts of walking down the streets of Paris at night, the Eiffel Tower lit up, the Seine rushing past. I imagined jazzy music spilling out of the quaint coffee shop–lined streets. I imagined sitting in those lecture halls, the ones that the greatest artists of all time had sat in—maybe I would sit in Monet’s chair—absorbing the knowledge of a hundred years that was embedded in the fabric of the place, and most of all, I imagined who I might become if I went there. Art had been my escape from the world, it had been my everything, and I owed myself the chance to see how great I could become.

I had a voice! I hadn’t set out to find it on purpose; maybe it had just found me. Or maybe it had always been there, inside me, just waiting to come out. And now that it was out, it didn’t want to be silenced.

I raised my head after what felt like forever and smiled slowly. “Thank you. For doing this.” I said softly.

“I didn’t do anything, you did. You did it when you became Cape Town’s Banksy.”

“You’re not mad about your billboard anymore?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much new business I’ve gotten from it?”

I stopped smiling and looked at her sternly.

“Don’t worry, I’m officially going to be working half days now. Since Palm Luxury Realty has exploded, I’m in the position to employ two full-time realtors who’ll be running the business. But I’ll remain the face of the company, obviously.” She swooshed her hand around, and I smiled.

“Can I make a suggestion, then, since you’re the face of the company?” I said.

“What?”

I paused, not sure if I should say this, but this was as good a time as any. “Please do yourself a favor and skip next month’s Botox, and please don’t put anything in your lips again. You’re perfect, just the way you are.”

“Only if you promise to do something for me,” she countered.

“What?”