Seb places his hands in his shorts’ pockets. “In any case, I hope you’ll forgive me. It was wrong, and I take full responsibility. For kissing you,” he adds, squinting, as though I forgot. “I hope that we can continue to work together. For Angela’s sake.”

Hearing him speak our shame knocks immediate sobriety into me. Whatever small flame flickered upon seeing him, it’s quenched. “Sure. Listen, I gotta get going, though. Good to see you, Sebastien.”

He shrinks backward. “Seb.”

“Good to see you.”

With another nod, he turns around and crosses the street to the kiosk. I watch until he reaches the corner, then passes out of sight toward the city center. Relief, dismay, and something like loneliness all mix together in my throat. Our random encounter felt less serendipitous and more like a heavy reminder: I’ve elected to do this without him, and I better get it right.

The sun slopes in a decline, nearly touching the narrow gray Haussmann-style chimneys of the city skyline. I take a seat to plan out my next move and order a café au lait and pain au chocolat from an older woman. She is distinctly not Irish in her greeting: Bonjour, mademoiselle!

An online search turns up little using Emmanuelle Wood + Paris, but the white pages database produces options within Paris proper. Buttery pain au chocolat flakes litter the steel folding patio table, and bittersweet dark chocolate coats my tongue as I scroll through results. Heaven. I cross-reference with social media to find only one choice under the age of fifty—a heavy pout fills the circle of the profile picture. Online presence: strong. My own Facebook account contains sporadic posts from over the years, since I never really got into it. Angela’s timeline used to bubble with action, but as I saw a few weeks ago when I started researching her world, that tapered off. Manu’s About section practically triangulates her address. Through a thorough study of the last year’s posts (and check-ins from her apartment) it’s easier than I hoped to find her.

I text her address to Jean-Luc with specific directions (Metro stop Rue d’Alésia, two blocks south, across from a MarchéU grocery store, tomorrow morning), though nothing about the purpose of the visit, then I wait for his response. The line across the street maintains a constant flow of anxious visitors even past dinnertime. The longer Jean-Luc doesn’t reply, the more nervous I become he won’t be able to join me tomorrow; maybe he’s working or sick of following me around like a shadow. Just in case someone, Manu or otherwise, is there, I want my form of French insurance with me. The hopeful arch of Seb’s eyebrows fills my thoughts, but I shake my head.

The waitress returns with the check as my phone pings:

Be there at 8:30. Almost thought you’d forgotten about me.