After the stopover in Doha, which is short and swift and a welcome break to stretch my legs, I manage to fall asleep, images of Camille and, for some reason, Rebecca haunting my stunted dreams. By the time I land, I’m groggy and disoriented—and not much more fluent in French than when I left. It seems to take ages for the luggage to arrive, but by that time I have received eight text messages from Camille telling me she has arrived, she’s waiting for me, and will I hurry up and make it into the arrivals hall.

And, then I do. In my tired mind, it happens in slow motion. I go through customs with nothing to declare except an insuppressible smile on my face. I walk through the open doors and scan the crowd. Then there she is. She’s holding up a sign that says Madame Zoya Das. It makes me snicker, then it makes me tear up. All the built-up anticipation that has been growing for weeks and reached its peak on the long journey over here releases at the sight of Camille. Of her beautiful fingers clutching the piece of paper and her gorgeous face peeking out over the top. My eyes fill with tears as I bridge the last few steps that separate us. I stand in front of her for a split second, unable to move or say anything. Then it all bursts loose. It all comes together. I feel the conclusion bubble up right from the center of my heart. I love her. This is right. Camille and I, we’re meant to be.

The sheet of paper with my name on it gets crumpled as we fall into each other’s arms. I hug Camille as if I never want to let her go again. Her scent in my nose, her flesh pressed against mine. She peppers kisses on my neck and cheek.

“I thought you would never come out of that door,” she whispers in my ear. “I couldn’t believe you were here until I actually saw you.”

“I’m here.” I hold her a little tighter. “I’m here for six whole weeks.”

“Let’s not waste a minute of them.” She holds her head back for an instant, looks at me, cups my jaw in her hands, then kisses me ever so softly on the lips. “Come on.”