“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” She breathed steadily, attempting to reassure herself as much as to answer his question, before taking another sip of her now watered-down Shirley Temple.

“Here, let me make you a fresh one—on me.”

“Oh—” she moved her hand to wave him away, but he was already hard at work.

The truth was, she didn’t want another drink, mostly because she needed to start her panicked preparation for this unexpected turn of events. Her “seeing Danial for the first time” outfit was already checked with the rest of the luggage, most likely lingering somewhere on the tarmac. She had planned to change at the Marseille airport, freshen herself up, and arrive at the docks in a taxi as if she had been swept there by a magic carpet. Now, there was no way her current outfit—jeans and a fitted tee shirt—would do, and the boutiques in the airport terminal were about to close.

“Could you actually watch my stuff for a few minutes?” she asked the bartender as he diligently worked on her fresh drink.

“Sure, is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about me!” She said, already dashing toward the meager clothing options the airport had on offer.

A familiar feeling rose in her throat, one she had worked so hard to leave behind in college. It was as if her skin itself were ill-fitting, a full-body itch of inadequacy. Her hands trembled as she scanned the racks of an overpriced retailer, looking for a chic and breezy skirt-and-top combo that would comfortably fit in her purse.

She briefly imagined herself in each ensemble as she pushed options to the side, wondering what they might look like from his eyes. Being in proximity to wealth at Columbia taught her about clothes: even if she couldn’t afford high-end brands, she knew which fabrics and cuts to wear and which to avoid. To this day, she still erred toward natural fabrics and looser fits—they were higher quality and harder to identify. The sound of the hangers sliding along the metal bar felt oddly soothing, a rhythmic manifestation of her stress. She reminded herself of her go-to mantra when the anxiety started to consume her:

Breathe in, breathe out. That’s all you have to do.

From her pocket, she heard the distinct chime of a work email. She slipped out her phone and clicked the screen in one fluid motion. It was Clara again, scrambling with a request for the video script they were working on for Carter Stephens—the one Alex had promised to send before she left. The subject line was the only thing she could see, but in all caps, it conveyed the message:

NEED SEGMENT ON HORACE CAPITAL PARTNERS – PLEASE SEND ASAP

3. Charles De Gaulle Airport, France

3

CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT, FRANCE

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