Angie's packing when I stagger in and throw my keys on the counter.

"Wanna help me?" She dances around the boxes in the middle of the living room. Happiness radiates from her every pore.

"I've nothing better to do." I sound like I have tissue stuck up my nose. I don't. It's still leaking. I wipe it off on the back of my hand and look for something to clean myself up.

"Am?" Angie stops dancing and walks over to me. She inspects my face and takes me over to the couch. It's covered in more partially full boxes. She takes them off, sits me down, perches on its arm and hands me a box of tissues off the coffee table.

"I'm guessing you've heard from Ben."

"Yep." I blow my nose.

"And it's not good news."

"Well, it's the only news we could expect." I look for a place to put the damp wad in my hand. "We are no longer together." I ball it up and tuck into the front pocket of my jeans.

"OK."Angie rubs her forehead, her eyes trying to discover something in mine. "Wasn't that the plan all along?"

"It absolutely was. But it still fucking hurts." I push the palm of my hand into the middle of my chest, where it throbs.

"I bet it does. I bet it does." She covers my hand on my chest with hers, and I can breathe a little easier. "You got over Xavier, and you will get over Ben. Give it time."

"You too? Stop talking about the fucking time!" I throw the Kleenex box across the room. It hits the hallway wall with a whack. I keep my eyes on its crumpled shape on the floor. "I don't believe in the whole 'time heals all' bullshit. It doesn't." I try to take deep breaths, willing the black hole in me to shrink and stop sucking the oxygen out of the air.

Angie leans me against her. She puts her lips next to my ear, and a quiet sh-sh-sh, sh-sh-sh matches the rhythm of the calming circles her other hand is drawing on my back. I'm the older one. Why do I feel like a child around her? But this time it's okay, more than okay, actually. It's perfect. She'd make a great mother one day. I stay in her arms until the tempest in my head becomes a steady stream of quiet tears. Until the pain is no longer new, but an integral part of me. Until I can stand on my own.

Night brings no relief. Images of my conversation with Ben wake me up. Why did his words hurt so much? Why doesn't he realize I need him to want me to stay, without me admitting to it outloud. I roll onto the other side of the bed and bury my face in the five hundred count Egyptian cotton of his pillow. It smells clean, but I want it to smell like Ben. Being with Ben felt so right. Going to the school of my dreams feels so right. How can two rights make one huge wrong? .

The chunks of sleep I got are not enough. The morning light is too bright. I forgot to close the blinds last night. Or brush my teeth. Or take my clothes off. I pull the covers over my head and pretend it's not morning. I fall into a shallow and murky state between sleep and wakefulness.

My phone rings and rings. I move my hand to the bedside table and grab it. It's Mom. I sit up and answer the video call. She appears on the screen lounging in a chair on the back terrace of her house—a glass of red wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a calming view of the water stretching behind her.

She peers at me from the screen. I must be quite a sight. "Tout va bien, choupinette? Are you well, sweets?"

No way am I getting into this with her now. "Yeah, fine, you woke me up."

"Oh." She squints at me. "You usually call me at nine on the dot, and it's half past, so I thought I better check on you."

"Right, sorry. Went to bed too late, helping Angie pack."

She relaxes back into her chair. "How's your packing going?"

I run my hands over my face. Packing, I haven't even started. "On the to-do list."

"What else is on the to do list?"

"Hold on." I pull up the notes on my phone. "Choose stuff to sell and what to put into the storage unit. Find someone to sublet the place to. Buy airplane tickets."

"Oh, tell us when to pick you up. The cottage is ready: we've finished the renovations, so you'll have your own space. We can pick you up from Charles De Gaulle and bring you home. I can't wait to spend Christmas with you."

Christmas? They want me there for Christmas? I assumed I'd spend it alone finishing up the packing. Spending it with family would be...I search my feelings: surprise, hope, joy. I'm being included. I'm wanted. Spending it with family would be fantastic. Unless.

"I don't want to spoil your family celebrations. I can come after the first of the year. Classes don't start until mid-January." I give her a way out. Will she take it?

"Hold on." She turns away from the camera and shouts to my two half-brothers, who are playing on the lawn behind her. "Boys, run, and get your father." As they speed off, Mom looks back at the screen.

"You are family, and you need to get used to it. Celebrations are part of the deal. You get to suffer through Manu's father's snoring after Christmas dinner like the rest of us."

The rest of them. I suck my cheeks in and run my tongue over the back of my bottom teeth. Anything to keep my face from showing how much her words mean. They want me there.

"What's going on? The boys said you asked for me." Manu puts an arm around my mother's shoulder and gets close to the phone to peer at me. "Amélie, what's going on?"

"Tell her that she's invited for Christmas. This one and all the following ones." Mom addresses Manu, blowing a cloud of smoke away from the lens.

"Of course, you are." He sounds genuine. "You've always been. I'm sorry if we haven't made it clear. We thought you were too cool and grown-up to want to hand around in our world of diapers and..." He points to the boys running screaming back and forth behind him. "That. A lot of that."

I roll my lips between my teeth and fight back the tears. I would've loved being around my brothers. And I'm not throwing away this chance. "I'll be there for Christmas." My first Christmas not in Chicago but in Saint-Nazaire, staring at the cold water of the Atlantic Ocean.

***

My phone lies on the coffee table in the empty apartment. I packed everything I meant to keep into the storage unit and mailed some boxes to France. With Angie on tour and her things at her parents' house all I have are my two suitcases and the necessities. The screen goes to black, and I push on the button to bring it back to life.

Me: tomorrow is my last day at work. another tuesday you didn't

The half-composed message is a habit I'm trying to break. Who am I kidding? I'm not going to send it this time. I should stop wanting him so much. I hold the backspace key, and it's gone, joining a dozen others that have suffered this fate. I look at the stack of borrowed books next to the phone on the coffee table. My last task I've been delaying for three weeks.

"When's a good time for me to drop off the books?"

"So nice of you to remember about it." Tall almost cooes into my ear. "I would love to have them back. I'm home all day tomorrow."

"I'll come before work then. Let's say one?"

"I'll get the tea ready." And I know he's smiling on the other end.

"I'll bring the eclairs" I smile on this end too.

Tall's tiny kitchen is quiet and without Ben there's too much space.

"Working my last shift at the store tomorrow and leaving Friday morning." My cup is half-full, and I pretend to examine the flower pattern on the delicate china of the saucer. The rim's fake gold has no chips.

Tall drains the rest of his first cup of Earl Grey. "I hope your defense went well?"

"Yes, very." I take a sip.

"I've got something for you." He puts his weight on the table and heaves when he's back up on his feet. "The hip's been bothering me today." He rubs the side of his leg and limps over to pick up a paper grocery bag. He sets it on the table next to me.

"Thanks." I take it and put it on the floor by my feet.

"Go ahead, open it," he says.

"Oh." I bend down and lift out a stack of books with a thin white envelope on top. 'The Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome' by Tony Attwood is on top. I cover my face with my hand. We are not talking about Ben, but we both know what this is about.

"The envelope first."

I obey. It's filled out with Tall's address in the 'to' area and my name without an address in the 'from' corner. I smile. Something is inside. I flip it open and slide the lined piece of paper out. His letters are linked and slanted to the right.

'Dear Amélie,

This is a request from an old man who enjoys talking about books and life with you. I wondered how likely it is that I will see you in person again. I'm not into all the modern technology, as you well know. Pen and paper sound like a much better fit. The epistolary genre needs a boost.

This is my way of asking you one question. Will you be my penpal?

Love,

Tall Kilpatrick'

Another friend I never would've had if not for Ben. My tear come, but I'm used to them appearing multiple times a day. They are a reflection of my bleeding heart. There's no pill to stop the leak. No words can prevent the liquid from salting my cheeks. I sniffle and run the knuckle of my thumb under my eyes. "Yes."

"Excellent." Tall ignores the streams on my face, rubs his hands, and grins. His youthful smile takes years off his lined face. "I expect the first scoop on everything. Start with how you're settling in when you get there."

"Sure." I sniffle again and bite the inside of my cheek. Sly old bastard. I make a show of checking my watch. "I better get going." I stand up and Tall takes a few steps forward and opens his arms. The hug is the end of our Chicago chapter. But with Tall staying in my life, it's a 'to be continued'.

***

It's ten p.m. on the clock above the customer service station. I stand staring at the door.

"It's time to lock the door," I say.

"Yeah. I'll do it." Chris leaves his register to my right. "Still can't believe it's your last day." He comes over and gives me the most awkward hug. "When are you flying out?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Oh, right away, huh." He hesitates. "When are you coming back?"

"Not sure. Maybe never."

"Oh." He looks both impressed and intimidated. "Living in France, wow, fancy. Had no clue you even spoke French"

"Well, we haven't known each other for long." I glance at the door again.

"We'll miss you," Chris says. And by the royal 'we' he means himself. I didn't form any friendships with my other colleagues.

"Don't behave like I'm dying. You have my email address. You can let me know if you are ever in France."

"Yeah, sure." It's an empty gesture, and we both know it.

Friday morning, while the sky is still dark, I take the faded recipe for coffee-rubbed salmon off the fridge, fold it along the lines Ben's fingers had created months ago, and slide it carefully into my wallet. I turn off the light, grab my backpack and my two suitcases and head for the airport.