Chapter 3 — Grounded in the Unfamiliar
Third Person
The chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport was a discordant symphony of hurried footsteps, muffled announcements, and the occasional clamor of wheeled suitcases hitting uneven tiles. Isabelle Laurent stood on the edge of the arrivals hall, her camera strap digging into her shoulder as her gaze swept over the electronic board. The words "Grève Générale"—general strike—flashed ominously on every screen, a sea of red cancellations blinking in unison.
Her fingers tightened around the strap. “Of course,” she muttered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The city she had both cherished and fled from seemed intent on reminding her of its unpredictability. It was almost poetic, being stranded here again—just like five years ago, though for entirely different reasons.
Behind her, the low timbre of Julien Moreau’s voice cut through the noise. “Welcome back to Paris. Never a dull moment, huh?”
Isabelle stiffened but didn’t turn. She could feel him step closer, the leather of his jacket brushing faintly against her peripheral vision. “I don’t recall asking for commentary,” she replied, her voice measured but clipped.
Julien shrugged, his tone dipping into that familiar blend of sarcasm and warmth that unsettled her. “Right. You’re more of a monologue kind of person these days.”
She shot him a sharp glance, her green eyes narrowing. “And you’re still as insufferable as ever, I see.”
He smirked, unfazed. “Some things never change. Like Paris,” he added, nodding toward the flashing cancellations. “Fate’s sense of humor is impeccable.”
“Fate didn’t book us on the same flight,” she countered, her words precise, though her grip on the camera strap betrayed her tension.
“No, but it did orchestrate this charming little predicament.” Julien gestured to the crowd swarming the rental car counters. His voice softened, just enough to catch her off guard. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Isabelle exhaled sharply, the knot in her stomach tightening as she scanned the hall for alternatives. Her pride warred with practicality. She had never been one to accept help easily, and the idea of relying on Julien—of all people—made her chest constrict. But between the sea of stranded passengers and the stark reality of the strike, her options were dwindling fast.
“I’ll manage,” she said briskly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “I’m sure there’s a taxi or—”
“Or you could save yourself the trouble and split a car with me,” Julien interrupted, his tone maddeningly practical. “Unless you’d prefer to sit here for the next forty-eight hours, hoping the strike magically resolves itself.”
Her jaw tightened. The thought of sharing a confined space with him was almost unbearable, but the alternative—being stuck in the airport, surrounded by restless strangers—was no better. She glanced at Julien, his expression infuriatingly calm, as though he knew exactly how this would play out.
“Fine,” she said at last, the word clipped and reluctant.
Julien’s lips curved into a faint smile, but he wisely refrained from commenting. Instead, he motioned toward the rental car counters. As they joined the line, Isabelle noted the faint silver streaking his dark hair, a detail she hadn’t registered on the plane. The years had softened some of Julien’s edges, but his presence still carried the same weight, the same pull she both resented and couldn’t entirely ignore.
The line crawled forward, travelers shifting impatiently. Julien tapped his fingers against the counter in a steady rhythm, his gaze occasionally drifting to Isabelle. She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the rhythm of her breathing. Behind her calm exterior, her thoughts churned. Was it a mistake to agree to this? What would a few hours in close quarters accomplish, other than reopening old wounds?
When it was finally their turn, Julien handled the paperwork with an efficiency that surprised her. Within moments, they were directed toward the parking garage, a set of keys dangling from his hand. Isabelle trailed behind him, her steps deliberate, as though asserting her autonomy even in this shared inconvenience.
The car was a modest compact, its silver exterior reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting of the garage. Julien opened the trunk, tossing his bag inside with practiced ease before stepping aside to let Isabelle do the same. Their movements were careful, almost choreographed, as though avoiding unnecessary proximity was an unspoken rule.
Inside, the silence between them thickened. Julien adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, the low hum filling the space as they pulled out of the garage. Isabelle stared out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her camera. She caught herself lifting it instinctively, the urge to frame the moment through her lens nearly overpowering. But she stopped, her hand retreating. This wasn’t a moment she wanted preserved.
The city unfolded around them in twilight hues—dusky violets blending with the orange glow of streetlights. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone, mingling with the faint aroma of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. As they crossed the Seine, the silhouette of Notre-Dame came into view, its darkened form casting long shadows on the water. Isabelle’s chest tightened. Memories of their honeymoon flooded her unbidden: nights spent wandering these streets, their laughter echoing like a melody she could no longer recall.
Julien broke the silence first. “Still compulsively organizing, I see.”
Isabelle blinked, confused, before glancing down. Her cheeks flushed as she realized she had unconsciously begun arranging the contents of his bag—a stray notebook, a set of cables, and a half-empty packet of mints. She hastily withdrew her hands.
“I wasn’t—” she began, but stopped, her tone defensive. “It was a mess.”
“I know. That’s how I left it.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, though there was no malice in his expression. “Old habits, I suppose.”
Isabelle exhaled, forcing herself to stay calm. “You’re one to talk,” she said evenly. “I can see you’re still incapable of packing properly.”
Julien chuckled softly, the sound low and disarming. “Touché.”
The exchange, though brief, eased some of the tension. For a moment, Isabelle allowed herself to relax, leaning back against the seat as the city lights flickered past. But the reprieve was short-lived. As they turned onto the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the ivy-clad façades and warm glow of café lamps stirred another wave of memories.
“Do you remember this street?” Julien asked quietly, his tone devoid of its usual teasing edge.
She nodded mutely, her throat tightening. The weight of their shared history hung between them, unspoken but palpable.
They reached the apartment just as the sky deepened into indigo. The building was modest, its façade worn but charming, with wrought-iron balconies and potted plants lining the entrance. Julien parked the car and stepped out, stretching briefly before retrieving their bags. Isabelle followed, her movements stiff as she adjusted the strap of her camera.
Inside, the apartment was small but functional, its decor a mix of vintage and modern touches. A narrow hallway led to a kitchenette and a living area with a single sofa. The air smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that settled somewhere between calming and bittersweet.
Julien set his bag down near the door and glanced around. “Cozy,” he remarked lightly.
Isabelle didn’t respond. She walked to the window instead, her gaze falling on the glistening cobblestones below. Somewhere in the distance, a violinist played a melancholic tune, the sound tugging at something deep within her.
Behind her, Julien cleared his throat. “I’ll take the sofa.”
She turned, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “I don’t mind.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you.”
The words felt heavy, their simplicity underscoring the complexity of their situation. Julien offered a faint smile and began unpacking his bag. Isabelle watched him for a moment longer before retreating to the bedroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
She leaned against the door, exhaling deeply. The day’s events had left her drained, the weight of their proximity pressing against her chest. Her fingers brushed the worn leather strap of her camera. For years, it had been her shield. But now, as she stood on the precipice of old memories and unresolved emotions, she wondered if even her camera could protect her from what lay ahead.
In the living room, Julien sat on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. His thoughts were a tangled mess of regret and longing, the silence of the apartment broken only by the faint hum of the city outside.
Neither of them spoke that night, but the unspoken words lingered, heavy and unyielding, as Paris cradled them in its bittersweet embrace.
