Instantly, a deep sense of loneliness takes hold of me. A sensation I feel all the way into my bones, into the deepest parts of me. Because now that I’ve fallen in love with Camille, my body knows we’re not meant to be apart. Every last cell of me is full of this knowledge and the very act of me queuing to go past security is a violation of my body’s most fervent wish. To stay. And in that moment, I know for certain my future is in Paris, with her and her family and her friends. I don’t feel the tiniest smidgen of joy at the prospect of returning to Sydney. Because she’s not there. In my head, I already prepare the defense I will have to give to my friends and family at home when I tell them about my decision. My reasoning that they will try to punch holes into with words of incredulity and a failure to understand what it’s like to feel like this. The compulsion to uproot your life, to leave everything you’ve ever known behind, for another person.

My defense is not very long, but it’s air-tight: I love her. Try to argue with that.

When the queue in front of me has dwindled to only three people, I look back. I see a woman trying very hard to hold it together but failing miserably. Even from this distance I can make out the tears streaming down her face. I give her one last wave, then look away, because I have to. This is not how I want to remember her. When I think of Camille I think of her eyes narrowing in laughter after she’s made one of her silly jokes. I think of the sounds she makes when she comes and the look of utter surprise on her face every time she does, still now, after all the glorious time we’ve spent in bed together. As though she still can’t quite believe this is who she is now. I want to think of the warmth in her eyes when she looks at her granddaughter, the way her arms soften in preparation for holding the baby in their embrace.

Once past security, a single tear runs down my cheek, but I don’t mind. It’s a tear I’m proud of crying because of the woman who inspired it. A woman who has changed my life already, and will do so even more.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“No, no, no, no, no,” Caitlin says. “No, Zoya, I refuse to let you move to Paris. I don’t care if you’re going to be best buddies with Dominique Laroche. You have to stay here. You’re my bestie.”