The airport bathroom was a terrible place for a makeover. Atrocious fluorescent lighting, crowds of sleep-deprived travelers pushing toward the sinks, rolling suitcases nipping at her heels: nowhere had Alex ever felt less sexy. But it was either this or the airplane bathroom itself, and this place had slightly more elbow room.

Alex had already changed into her terminal outfit—a white linen blouse and blue floral skirt—and pulled her hair half-back into her favorite tortoise shell barrette. Now she was forced to confront the reality of her post-flight skin. She used her fingers to wash, moisturize, and apply the kind of no-makeup makeup that always deceived men into thinking you just naturally looked that beautiful. She massaged soft pink and bronze creams at strategic points around her olive-toned face, doing her best to distract from how tired she obviously was.

From behind her, a small Frenchwoman grunted impatiently, muttering something indecipherable—likely about how Alex, with her airport beauty session, was a selfish American cow.

Say whatever you want, lady, Alex thought. I am not leaving this bathroom until I look perfect.

The anticipation of it all had her nearly in tears: In just twenty minutes, she would be meeting Danial and Sophie at the airport’s car rental. She would have to pass for casual, happy even—as if nothing negative had ever happened between them. She wasn’t too worried about Sophie: her usual disposition of “slightly bored and looking at her phone” actually gave Alex a minor sense of relief. But Sophie was also not one to ask questions or fill awkward silences, which greatly increased the likelihood that Alex and Danial would be forced into direct interaction on this eight-hour car ride—a thought that made her shudder with distress.

Finally satisfied with her appearance, Alex reassembled her toiletries case and placed it back into her purse, along with her plane clothes. She’d delayed the inevitable as much as she could, and it was time to face the music.

“Pardon,” she offered in her paltry middle-school French, receiving only shoulder shrugs and disapproving glances as she made her way through the crowd.

The baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle was chaotic, full of large families pushing rolling carts of suitcases that seemed more appropriate for a cross-continent move than a summer vacation. There was a glass smoking enclosure in the center of the space—a cube of shame where a handful of people sucked desperately on their first post-flight cigarette—and the coffee machine next to it where you could exchange a couple euros for the worst espresso of your life. She’d only been here once before, but the whole scene felt familiar, possibly because it seemed to echo the immense anxiety now rolling through her body.

“Excusez-moi,” she eked out to a surly-looking woman at the information desk. “Où est le… car rental?”