Page 2 of Everything About You

I wake up from a dream where I am tasked with scaling the Eiffel Tower to retrieve an evening gown. A nightmare, more accurately,

and one I don’t need a psychologist to deconstruct.

Still, I muster up a glare of confidence in the mirror of the bright, marble-laden guest bathroom, surrounded by all the bougie

skincare products and framed black-and-white photos of models in editorial shoots around Paris. The diffuser on the stool

by the toilet smells of citrus, and I pump onto my palm some body lotion that is absolutely women’s—an almost sickeningly

sweet mix of vanilla and some sort of fruit—but I’m honestly too riddled with nerves to care. My hair is also decidedly more

fragrant than I’d choose for myself.

Fuck your nerves, Milo. Get it together.

I am here, in Paris, and I am going to do this. I’m going to make this happen for myself. I got this far, anyway. I can do

this.

It’s my first day at Maison Dauphine, and I don’t have a clue what to wear.

I considered a suit with sneakers, but that could come across as trying way too hard, so I’ve settled for trousers with a short-sleeve pique tee that hugs my biceps in a way that helps me feel more confident when I’ve never been more self-conscious.

I don’t know what they expect from a male apprentice at a fashion house that only designs women’s wear, but I’m hoping I can scout some other guys working there today and adjust accordingly.

I pull on some of my white Nike crew socks, a bit worn after years of playing tennis in them, because they remind me of home

and pair nicely with a pair of limited-edition Nikes my mom got me for this specific occasion. I haven’t worn them yet, in

hopes that there will be some sort of good luck attached when I walk through the doors of the office.

My backpack isn’t giving fashion apprenticeship, but if it’s egregious or gets terrible looks, I’ll try to find one here in

Paris. I don’t think it’s particularly offensive—a Nixon from Sun and Surf, since I’m still just a boy from Citrus Harbor,

after all—but it has a padded laptop sleeve and a mesh pouch on the side for the Nalgene bottle they gave us at the state

championships.

The bottle is definitely not giving fashionable... and do people in Paris use Nalgene bottles?

Is Nalgene French, maybe? Nal-jean?

Probably not, Milo, you idiot.

Fuck, I look like such an American.

“You look so cute, oh my god.”

Celeste is leaning over the counter eating yogurt and scrolling on her phone when I emerge from my room. She’s wearing a big

T-shirt and satin pajama shorts, her hair up in a ponytail.

Her aunt’s apartment, nestled above a quiet and cobbled street in the 7th Arrondissement, is something out of a magazine.

This makes sense, of course, since Celeste’s aunt is an incredibly successful interior designer.

She splits her time between Paris and New York, and though she’d normally be in Paris now, Celeste is her favorite niece and barely had to try to talk her into letting us use the apartment.

“Do I look like I’m trying too hard? Or not hard enough?”

Celeste shakes her head. “No, I think this is great. Effortlessly cool.”

Effortless. Right.

Except for the fact that, at this very moment, the sight of Celeste’s yogurt is enough to make me dry heave. My anxiety is

swirling around in my stomach—no, actually, it’s not swirling, because swirling is too whimsical. My anxiety is crushing and squeezing and wringing out my insides. It’s like this thick, heavy tar.

It’s motivating, usually, but now I am so aware of what’s happening. I’m so aware of every fault and deficiency—I haven’t

even found a place to take French lessons, for instance, and I know my two years of French at Citrus Harbor High School are

hardly enough for what I’m about to get myself into. One of my worst fears is offending someone with my lack of fluency.

“I can do this,” I say, breathing through tight lips. I open the refrigerator and grab a glass, pouring some grapefruit juice

from a carafe. “I can figure anything out....”

Celeste nods. “Milo, you are going to be amazing.”

“What are you going to do today?”

“I’m doing a ‘romanticize my life’ TikTok, because.

..” She gestures around. “Obviously. So, I’m thinking a walk through some gardens, a bit of shopping, maybe wander through a museum.

I’m going all in on being an American tourist in Paris.

And if I bump into a gorgeous Parisian man who wants to take me to a candlelit dinner and teach me about French wine. ..”

I study her, holding the glass just below my lips. “Make sure you let these Parisian men chase you. Not the other way around.”

“Right,” she says, standing up straight. “Totally. I mean, to be fair, today I actually am more interested in cheese and vintage

stores, but I’m keeping my options open for the right European romance.”

Then she raises a finger. “And you need to make sure you don’t go in totally guns blazing.”

“I won’t.” I nod. “I’m going to take a more passive role today. Listening, learning, figuring out my place. I’m assuming they’ll

have me doing grunt work until they realize how much I have to offer.”

“Patience,” Celeste says.

Patience is more foreign to me than the French language will ever be, but this isn’t the time to reinforce that thought.

“Right. Patience,” I nod, taking a sip of juice. “I can be patient. I will be patient. Because I’m here, and as long as I

do a great job, it’ll all work out the way it’s meant to.”

“Exactly, you don’t have to control everything....”

This is one of our things. We give each other these pep talks, where we know the other one is probably thinking, Right, but...

Still, it’s one of our love languages, and I’m sure it helps us to stay at least five percent more grounded.

“You might even make some cool French friends who can show us around.”

I shrug. “Maybe. There aren’t any other apprentices, and the summer interns won’t start for a while, so I’m not sure.”

“That sucks.”

“It does not,” I say. “No competition. I can stand out.”

“Okay, well, when they do get there, maybe you don’t have to view them all as competition.”

I down the rest of the juice and set it in the sink. “Right, of course not. I should just be best friends with all of them.

In fact, maybe I should just ask if any of them would rather do my tasks so they can score points with Pascal.”

Pascal Dumas is Maison Dauphine’s current creative director. It might be slightly delusional to imagine myself getting any

face time with him, but I’m going to do everything in my power to make it happen. I’d love to learn how he manages to be so

innovative and accomplished and confident.

“Well, they’re interns,” Celeste offers. “And you’re the apprentice. Right? So you’re the only one who is guaranteed a job.”

“ Tentatively guaranteed a job,” I say. “But yes. The interns only get credit for a course.”

“Exactly. I’m only saying you might like some of them!”

The idea of making friends at Maison Dauphine is nice, but it’s also terrifying. The moment you trust an opponent, you are

weak. I know this from years of studying the best tennis players at rival schools. The ones who make me nervous aren’t the

players who simply manage a high ace count or have a menacing backhand—no, the ones to watch are the kids who smile in your

face and try to befriend you so you’re off your game and don’t see them for exactly what they are: the only thing standing

in the way of a win.

“Wish me luck.” I exhale.

Celeste grins. “You’re going to be the best they’ve ever seen, mon amour !”

I give myself a final once-over and try to nod as confidently as I possibly can when I pass the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in

the foyer. AirPods in, and sunglasses on, I hear Celeste repeat herself, this time higher pitched—“ The best they’ve ever seen !” Excited, and willing me to believe her.

As soon as I find myself on the street, I’m invigorated and scared shitless.

I was going to take an Uber, but it’s a nice morning, and I’m running obscenely ahead of schedule on account of nerves and

having been up pretty much all night just waiting for my alarm to go off. So, instead, I decide to walk. I’ve already clocked

that the walk from the apartment to headquarters is seventeen minutes, but my legs typically operate at lightning speed even

when I’m not nervous, so I don’t expect it to be anywhere near that estimation.

Once I’m heading up the Avenue Rapp, I’m a bit surprised. I expected it to be like rush hour in New York City, but it’s not.

It’s busier than I’ve seen it when just traipsing around with Celeste midday, but there seems to be a more relaxed slowness

to the culture overall, especially when most of the tourists are all still sleeping.

I’m not sure if I’ve romanticized this so much that it’s becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it really does feel magical.

The classic architecture is something you’d never see in Florida—the old light-gray stone that’s warmed by the rising sun, with wrought-iron balconies and gates adorned with gilded details.

I love the sloped roofing and the bright flowers perched on the ornate window guards, and even appreciate the newer, more modern buildings closer to the Seine.

The trees are bright green, the air smells of fresh baked goods—there’s a sweetness to this morning as I reach the bustling

Quay d’Orsay, and across the arched bridge is a picturesque vision of Paris so stunning I stop, betraying any attempt at looking

cool and nonchalant, to take a photo.

It’s wild to me that I’m here, doing this apprenticeship on my own. It almost feels like I’m cosplaying as an adult or something,

being so far away from home—my siblings and parents are still asleep, and here I am, on my way to live a literal dream come

true.

The magic of it all is helping to ease the nerves. The fact that this is real, and this is my life, and that I’ve somehow

pulled it off.

The Seine is sparkling, albeit a tiny bit smelly, and as I walk across, I note I am making great time and haven’t broken a

sweat.

Celeste is so right. I am going to be the best they’ve ever seen. And though I know she has slightly idealized, if not utterly unrealistic, opinions

about making friends there, this is really going to be even easier to win than a tennis match because I am only competing

against myself.

I remind myself of this several times as I keep walking. I repeat positive affirmations as I make my way past the gorgeous

Théatre des Champs-Elysées and the iconic H?tel Plaza Athénée, until I can see the Maison Dauphine headquarters on Avenue

Montaigne, standing tall like a prestigious Parisian palace.

I take the deepest breath anyone has ever taken, and I know I need to savor this moment as much as I savor any sugary sweet dessert or French wine—this is a momentous occasion, after all.

My whole life begins when I walk through these doors.

I hear the most gorgeous French music playing in my mind.

The city is veiled with a rosy hue. This is going to be the most amazing summer of my entire life.

When I snap to, having floated on a romantic cloud—painted like one of the impressionist masterpieces—I’m outside Maison Dauphine’s

flagship store and headquarters. The inside is dimly lit, since the boutique is closed, and I wait for someone to see me through

the large glass doors so they can come unlock them.

I finally catch the eye of a woman who is scurrying around in a black dress and heels, though she seems to be preoccupied

with something else behind me.

Turning on my heel, I realize that outside of my little daydream, there’s an entire ordeal happening around me. The flashbulb

of a camera causes me to blink a few times, and then another.

Paparazzi are shouting and snapping photos, and they seem to be growing in number.

“Over here!”

I follow their shared line of sight until I realize why they’re here.

Holy shit.