When I wake up and check my phone Monday morning, there are three emails with subject lines in French in my inbox. My palms get sweaty, and my fast, shallow breaths don't provide enough oxygen. I click the first one open. It's a form rejection from the University of Burgundy. My lungs strain from the lack of air. I straighten to allow my ribs to expand, but the tiny gulp I manage brings no relief. The pain of not getting in rolls through my chest. They don't want me. What if none of the schools want me?

My hand trembles when I click on the answer from Bretagne-Loire. I can't breathe. My vision swims. My chest is ablaze, even though there's not enough oxygen in me. Another form rejection. I slam the heel of my foot into the mattress and hit the back of my head on the headboard. The physical pain refuses to douse my hurt feelings. The shards of my shattered hope slice through my lungs. I open my mouth in a silent cry and air finally flows in. Instead of relief, it brings the rejection front and center. I'm not in. The universe has delivered the ultimate sign. France is off the table. My dream school succeeds at crushing my dreams. I want to shout but I can't. Tears linger in the corner of my eyes. I sniffle a couple of times and rub the eyes with my knuckles.

The third email is a personal note from Professor Hallot at the University of Bretagne-Loire. I did my darndest to impress him at the interview. "Your field of work is decidedly one of interest to me and our faculty, however, we don't have room for another research position at this time. I encourage you to reapply for the fall semester."

If the praise is supposed to make the rejection seem less harsh—it doesn't. I'm not in. How's that for not needing to make a decision. I'm out. I have to tell people what a disappointment I am. I have to tell Mom. I should've kept it a secret. Not told anyone. Failing in private is so much less shameful.

I have to reply to Professor Hallot, so I force stilted words of gratitude to this man who doesn't owe me anything and scrounge for phrases to explain how much I wanted to be part of their team and how much working with them would mean. I spill my desperation into the black letters in my email window and talk about the research ideas, the time I'd spent reconstructing the private lives of the people who built the walls of the castles the tourists use as the background to snap their 'i've been here' photos. If he reads it, really reads these words, he might glean what being accepted into the program would've meant for me. I shut the lid of the laptop.

What now? I've made plans for what I'll do depending on which school accepts me in France. I have made none in case I stay. I thought about it, sure. It's not like I have to make any changes. I can keep working where I work and live here with Angie. And see Ben. There's no longer a timer counting down to our inevitable separation. That's a good thing. But the anguish inside me burns, and I break down at the loss of my dream. Dad's dream for me.

Tears clog up my nose, and I swallow them as I type the texts. There's going to be plenty of time to talk later. I click 'send' three times. Angie, Ben, and Mom are in the know. I throw the phone onto the pillow next to me and stare at the ceiling. Deep breaths. On the count of five. The phone vibrates again and again, but I proceed pushing the air in and out of my mouth with audible force. It must be helping, because the tears dry up and the lump in my throat loosens. My phone rings. I let it go to voicemail. One missed phone call from Yo-Yo.

I get out of bed and call him back.

"I'm sorry to hear you didn't get in," says Ben. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"How about you come to my favorite pizzeria tonight to help me eat away the pain?" I grab an earbud from the side table and plug it into my ear. "I got my paycheck, my treat." I sound ridiculously upbeat. No one will believe I'm that unaffected.

"How about you come to a Taekwondo class at the dojang instead? It'll help you get rid of the negative feelings better than pizza."

I huff. Nothing can help better than pizza and ice-cream. "I don't have the first idea of what to do at a martial arts class." I throw the comforter on my bed and decide it's good enough.

"Most first-timers do not. Mike will be your teacher. He'll make sure you feel comfortable."

"Is it going to be five-year-olds and me? I'll look ridiculous." I pull on jeans and a sweater.

"I promised Mike."

"That's not my problem."

Short puffs of air on his end interrupt the silence. He's probably pacing again.

"Mike told everyone you're coming," Ben says.

"Still—not my problem." I braid my hair, in no mood to deal with the mess. I have other things to worry about.

"What do you need me to do to persuade you to go?"

"Nothing," I say. "There is nothing you can do to persuade me."

"Do I need to resort to begging?"

"Not gonna help." I make sure my voice sounds stern.

"You are a very stubborn woman."

"Thank you for the compliment."

Bantering with Ben is in my top three favorite things to do.

"It wasn't a compliment."

"I'm aware, Ben." Now I'm not smiling exactly, but the corners of my mouth relax for a change. "But I'm choosing to receive it as one."

"What if you come and sit there and watch me teach a class?"

I take the toothbrush out of my mouth.

"Hold on. You teach Taekwondo? I thought you practiced it."

"Both. It's traditional for students with black belts to get instructor certification and teach classes."

"Black belt? And you teach little kids? What else don't I know about you?" I return to brushing my teeth. How well do I know Ben after all?

"Many things, I'm sure. And yes, I taught kids in the past, but now I have too much work, so I'm leading the self-defense seminars. I was hoping you can join our standard adult class. All levels are welcome."

"You're talking about my lack of a level," I mumble with toothpaste in my mouth, spit it out and rinse it off. "You forget that physical activity isn't my thing."

"You are a decent swimmer, and that is going to help."

"How can that possibly help?" I rub my forehead.

"Swimming develops cardiorespiratory endurance, muscle endurance, and mind control. Those are valuable for martial arts training. It is one of the reasons I swim."

"I'm surprised you didn't add a percentage in there," I say. "It may be the only thing to make that sentence more convincing." I crunch on the sweet flakes with my teeth. I should've waited to brush until after I ate. The milky mush in my mouth tastes funky after toothpaste.

"I do not have that data available, but I can look it up."

"God, no, Ben, stop, I was joking. I'm sure you are right—there's no need to research it."

"Does it mean you are going to try one of the classes?"

"Hmmm." Sucker. I am such a sucker where Ben is concerned. I should say no. "I guess I can come and watch."

"Or try one. You might like it."

"You are incessant." How did an invitation to have pizza morph into me taking a Taekwondo class? "Did Angie tell you how to talk me into agreeing?"

"No." Ben sounds adamant. "I haven't discussed this with Angie, but I can if that will help persuade you to come."

"Please, no, please." I grin. I do that a lot around him. "I won't be able to survive it if both of you are pestering me."

"It's a yes, then?"

"A grudging yes. And you promise not to ask me again if I don't want to return." This conversation is making me tired, and it's not even eight in the morning.

"I promise."

I shake my head. Not that he can see it. "I can't believe you talked me into it."

Mom calls me back when I'm finishing lunch.

"It's decided," she says. "You'll be living with us. The cottage in the backyard is perfect. We'll sort it all out. There are plenty of schools around that will take you. And you can work in the meantime. I'll find you something appropriate—say, a tutoring position. Everyone wants to learn English. You can start with the boys. Their English is atrocious."

I rub my face and grit my teeth. Another insult of my job doesn't go unnoticed, but I let it go. "We'll see." I'm not committing to anything. I want to trust her, I do, but in the end, I can only rely on myself.

I try Angie again, and she answers the video call. She looks like she just woke up.

"Rough night?" I ask.

"Not really. The usual. Got to the hotel at five in the morning and just read your text. It sucks for you. All your hopes and dreams." She understands it better than most. She had to reinvent herself after hers were crushed too, so it's not impossible for me to do the same. "Look at it as a beginning. And don't hate me but I'm a little happy. My bestie is staying in Chicago." Angie does a little dance on the screen. I pull my lips into a smile. "Think of the free time you'll have without the schoolwork. Maybe it's not the worst thing in the world."

After lunch, I drag myself to Professor Hopkin's office. She listens and covers my hand with hers.

"I'm sorry you got the bad news. But I agree with professor Hallot. You should apply again there and here as well. It's likely that you can get accepted if you keep trying. You shouldn't give up."

I look at the diplomas she has behind her. A Bachelor's. Two Masters'. Two Ph.D. Easy for her to pretend getting into a school is not that hard. She sounds supportive, but the part of me that's been steeping in years of rejections imagines the real thoughts in her head. 'She's not Ph.D. material' or 'If she couldn't get into a program in the US, how can she expect to get into one abroad?' Even if she isn't thinking I'm a failure, but I sure am. My throat tightens, and a hedgehog of words scratches its way up. I bite my lip, as if my remarks about her thoughts would escape if I didn't.

Why am I even doing this school thing? I don't need an advanced degree to find work. Plenty of people do and are happy. I need to learn to be happy with what I have and not let my imagination persuade me I can follow in my parent's academic footsteps. My apple fell further from their tree than I want to accept.

"You're doing so much. Don't give up. There's a path for you in academia if you want it. I'll write to professor Hallot as well." Professor Hopkins pats my hand. "Take next semester to apply without the pressure of finishing your thesis. You have time."

Time. I do have time. That's the only thing she's right about. I have time to spend in Chicago, which means . . . Ben. I have time to be with Ben. The possibility of having a future with Ben dissolves the lump I've been struggling with in my throat. Maybe there is a silver lining to this mess.