Chapter 2 — Stranded in Paris
James
The airport buzzed with the frenetic energy of disrupted plans. Overhead announcements echoed in a jumble of languages, their clipped urgency slicing through the low hum of weary travelers. James Carter tightened his grip on the strap of his carry-on, his polished shoes tapping a steady rhythm against the slick tiles as he scanned the arrivals board. His driver’s message was still fresh on his phone: *Apologies, sir, transportation strike—cannot make it.* He exhaled sharply, irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. The chaos around him only magnified the unease already gnawing at him since the flight.
And then he saw her.
Claire Duval stood a few feet away, her back to him, locked in a tense exchange with an airline attendant. Her dark auburn hair, slightly mussed, clung to her neck in the damp warmth of the terminal. She gestured sharply with her hand, her fingers catching the harsh fluorescent light—and there it was. The faint scar on her left wrist. A detail so small, yet it struck him like a chord he hadn’t heard in years but immediately recognized.
Her voice, low but firm, carried over the din. “No, that’s not acceptable. I need it delivered to this address by tomorrow.” The attendant’s apologetic shrug seemed to fray her composure further. She turned abruptly, and their eyes met.
Her almond-shaped hazel eyes narrowed, her disdain unmistakable. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Claire,” he said, forcing a neutral tone as he nodded slightly, a reflexive gesture that felt painfully inadequate.
“Of course you’re here,” she said, clutching the strap of her crossbody bag with knuckles that had gone white. Her lips curved into a wry, sardonic smile. “The universe has a flair for irony, doesn’t it?”
James straightened, the line shuffling forward as travelers jostled with their overstuffed luggage. “Lost luggage?” he asked, nodding toward her empty hands.
“How astute of you.” Her voice was dry, edged with the kind of biting irony that once amused him but now felt like a blade. “Let me guess—your driver abandoned you because of the strike?”
“Something like that,” he admitted, glancing at his phone again as though it might offer some solution. “What brings you here?”
Her brow arched, her tone clipped. “My debut at Galerie Lumière. You?”
“Work,” he said simply. The word felt hollow, its weight diminished when said aloud.
Her eyes flicked toward the snaking line of travelers waiting for scarce taxis. “Well, my plan was to get in a cab and pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Good luck with that,” James replied, gesturing to the bottleneck ahead.
Her lips thinned as she scanned the crowd. For a moment, he thought she might walk away, head held high despite the chaos. But the airline attendant called for the next passenger, and it wasn’t her. Defeat flickered across her face—just for an instant—before she exhaled sharply and turned back to him.
“Fine,” she said, her voice taut. “We’ll share a cab. But let’s make one thing clear—this doesn’t mean anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James said, though the thought of being in such close quarters with her again made his pulse quicken.
The cab was cramped, its interior smelling faintly of damp upholstery and stale cigarettes. Claire slid into the far corner, her gaze fixed on the window as the rain traced delicate patterns on the glass, blurring the city beyond into a watercolor of lights and shadows. James settled beside her, his knees brushing against hers in the tight space. The driver, a grizzled man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, hummed along to the faint strains of accordion music on the radio, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from the backseat.
“So,” James began, breaking the silence, “Galerie Lumière. That’s a big deal.”
“It is,” Claire replied, her tone guarded. She didn’t turn to look at him.
“You must’ve worked hard to get there,” he said, careful to keep his voice even.
Her head turned sharply, her hazel eyes locking onto his. “Don’t do that,” she said, her voice low but cutting. “Don’t pretend you care about my career now.”
He flinched, her words hitting harder than they should have. “I’m not pretending,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “I’ve always cared.”
She laughed, a brittle sound that filled the small space. “Right. That’s why you left when things got hard.”
The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting. James looked away, his sharp blue eyes focusing on the rain-slick streets instead of her face. The familiar ache of regret settled in his chest, heavy and unyielding. He wanted to explain, to defend himself—but the words felt too fragile, too inadequate for the weight of what she deserved to hear.
The driver muttered something in French and slammed on the brakes, sending them both lurching forward. Claire’s hand shot out instinctively, brushing against his arm before she recoiled as if burned.
“Sorry,” James said, his voice rough.
Claire didn’t respond, her gaze fixed firmly on the rain-smeared window. But her fingers drummed against her knee, betraying the tension she refused to voice.
“Do you still go to that café on Rue Cler?” James asked suddenly, the memory of lazy Sunday mornings spent sketching alongside her surfacing unbidden.
Claire turned her head slowly, her expression wary. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I guess I just… remember things.”
Her eyes flicked to his wrist, where the black leather strap of his watch peeked out from beneath his sleeve. Her gaze lingered there, and James felt the weight of her scrutiny.
“You still wear it,” she said, her tone unreadable.
He glanced down at the watch, its familiar presence suddenly heavy. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “I still wear it.”
Something shifted in her expression—softened, almost imperceptibly—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She turned back to the window, and James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
As the cab slowed to a crawl in the gridlock of Paris traffic, the driver muttered a string of curses under his breath. Claire glanced at her phone, her lips pressing into a thin line as she tapped out a message. James watched her from the corner of his eye, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way she gripped her bag like a lifeline. She looked smaller, somehow, drained by the day’s frustrations—the missing luggage, the forced proximity. He wondered if she had anyone waiting for her at the hotel. He wondered if she ever let herself lean on anyone at all.
When the cab finally pulled up to her hotel, a modest building tucked away on a quiet street, Claire reached for the door handle without a word.
“Claire,” James said, his voice stopping her mid-motion. She turned, her eyes wary but waiting.
“I meant what I said,” he continued, his voice steady. “About caring. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”
She studied him for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching his face. Then she nodded—just once—and stepped out into the rain.
James watched her go, the sound of her heels clicking against the wet pavement fading into the night. The driver pulled away, and as Paris unfolded in blurred lights and shadows beyond the window, James felt the weight of what he’d lost—and the faintest glimmer of what might still be possible.
