“Why did you? Keep your last name—if you don’t mind my asking. If it made things easier for you, why not take your husband’s? Plenty of women don’t nowadays, but earlier I’m sure it was assumed you would.” I sip from the teacup she laid out for me, painted with gold accents and delicate flowers. Hot liquid courses down my throat. Chrysanthemum tea, my favorite growing up at family events, and at dim sum on Sundays. Warmth pools in my belly, in this other world away from the chaos sharpening its knives outside; I could purr.

Chang smiles. “You’re right. If I had, it would be easier. I didn’t want my identity to change simply because I moved from Singapore to France and married a Frenchman. I was still myself. I’ve tried very hard not to let the world change that.”

I swallow another bite of cookie. “Makes sense. Seems like you’ve lived quite a life.”

Chang waves a hand to the wall of photos. “Oh, I’ve done a few things. But I haven’t had a real adventure in ages.” Her voice is wistful. Mahjong tiles line the granite kitchen counter.

I thank her for the tea and cookies, then tell her I have to go. As we stand, I cast a sweeping glance at the framed photos lining the space around her wedding picture. Images range from lush green jungles to Chang and Maxime in ripped jeans holding up peace signs, the pair of them on a boat against an ocean backdrop. One photo in particular catches my eye: Chang, on a stage with a hundred people below her, cheering. Beneath, on the entertainment center itself, a crowbar is propped up against broken-in boxing gloves.

Another dozen questions beg to be asked, but my internal clock pushes me toward the exit. She tucks two almond cookies in my hand, then shuts the door behind me with a small bow of her head.

I stride toward the main entry of the building with new energy. The receipts add a certain heft to my bag, while the tea allowed me to recenter and regroup. Hearing how Chang rebelled against social expectations and pushed the envelope of accepted behaviors is reassuring; at least one person in Paris won’t judge me for my evening ahead.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Locals hurry past on foot outside, baguettes in hand and pointed heels clicking the sidewalk. The homeless man sits slumped against the wall in his usual spot, but he wears a change of clothes, at least. Tired eyes blink as I walk past him to the phone retailer, where a line of customers winds outside along the wall. A fold-up sign on the sidewalk advertises the latest smartphone release. Shit.

I get in line behind a tall man with a messy bun of hair and wait. Whatever the length of the queue, it would be better to have a phone on me than not.