I’ll be damned if I’m going to feel sorry for myself, so I put on a pair of fitted black jeans, heeled sandals I hope I won’t regret later, and a flowy pink tank top. I do my hair and my makeup, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I feel . . . good. I’ll never have a Playboy Bunny body—and the thirty pounds I’ve gained since starting college aren’t getting me any closer—but when I make an effort instead of throwing my hair in a sloppy bun and pulling on the nearest T-shirt, I don’t think I look half bad.

On my way out of the dorms, I pass Steve and Heather. Steve’s eyes go wide when he spots me. I didn’t do this to make him regret breaking up with me, but seeing him look at me like that isn’t a bad feeling.

I’m nervous to take the Metro alone, but we’ve done this as a group a few times now and I researched it online. It’s just one line I have to take to get from our host-college dorm to the Eiffel Tower exit.

Once I’m on the train, I actually smile.

I’m in Paris. I’ve wanted to come here since I watched Forget Paris with my mom when I was ten years old. Maybe it’s better that I can wander the city without Steve. I don’t want to be worried about pleasing him or giving him the constant reassurance he requires.

When I exit the train and climb the stairs at the Champ de Mars station, the crowds are intense. I clutch my cross-body purse out of habit. I’ve heard too many stories about women having their purses sliced right off them.

But there’s the Eiffel Tower. Right in front of me, and it’s bigger than I could imagine. It’s massive.

“A flower, pretty lady?” a man asks, pressing a rose at me like a gift.

I shake my head and keep walking, making my way to the long line of people waiting to take the elevator up.

Easton: Where are you?

Me: Oh, so now you’re going to respond to my texts?

Not even his delayed response can sour my mood. I’m on my own personal cloud nine.

Easton: I was away from my phone. Where are you?

Shay: At the Eiffel Tower, bawling my eyes out because it’s so damn beautiful.

Easton: Be more specific.

Shay: More specific than the Eiffel Tower?

Easton: Which level? Give me details with those words you use so well, Shayleigh.

Shay: The middle one. I haven’t taken the final elevator to the top yet, but right now I’m looking out over Paris. The sky is so clear I can see Sacré-Coeur in the distance.

I bite my lip, hesitating. Is it dumb to take a selfie? Screw it.