Page 8 of Everything About You

At five thirty in the morning, I squeeze Celeste in a tight hug once she has wheeled her luggage up to the front door.

She never even unpacked, and we aren’t sure if that is more convenient or a melancholy reminder of the lost summer.

She didn’t even get a chance to hang up the baby doll dress she bought to wear to the Louvre. Never got to wear the vintage

Chanel bag my mom let her borrow. Didn’t get the chance to fill the extra space she left in those bags for souvenirs or new

clothes.

Of course, I completely understand why she’s leaving and that it’s more important than outfits or plans that will wait for

another time. Part of me feels like, despite her vocally expressed wishes, I’m a bad friend for not jumping on that plane

with her and being there for her and her family during this.

After so many dinners and pool days and shopping trips with Gran, it feels like I’m letting everyone down. Gran would be there

for me—always has been—and I’m not going back.

When Celeste leaves, I slip back under the covers, clutching them over my chest.

I’m fully alone now, with everyone and everything I know halfway across the world. I hate feeling so soft, but my temples are stained with streaks of slow-sliding tears.

Though I long for the echo of city sounds to remind me I’m not fully alone, it’s dead quiet as I lie in the dark.

Two days ago, I was sitting outside a cafe on a gorgeous day with Celeste, imagining how perfect this Parisian summer would

be, and it’s all dashed, a sunny day waterlogged.

My alarm finally goes off, but I can barely find the motivation to get out of bed now. My body feels like it’s sunken into

the mattress, become hollow as a symptom of the quiet, still and silent like moss overgrown on a forest floor.

I have to get ready.

I have to turn on upbeat music, take a hot shower, drink some grapefruit juice, eat one of the yogurts in the fridge, and

try to muster up something that resembles confidence.

I also have to avoid any unproductive thoughts about Rhodes. It’s now my job to stay rational: to forget the way my heartbeat

quickened as I briefly questioned my own judgment because of his bright blue eyes, and to make sure I never imagine Rhodes

in some romantic golden hue.

Eyes on the prize.

I connect to the sound system—a perk of this bougie apartment—and shuffle my Spotify. Of course, there must be some kind of

hilarious irony in the fact that the opening instrumentals of “Love Story (Taylor’s Version)” start to blast through the speakers.

While the shower heats up, I do everything in my power to lift myself out of this hole.

I remind myself, through brute force, that I got myself here.

That, in and of itself, is something to be proud of, and something to provide a source of motivation.

Past Milo would tell Current Milo to get a grip.

Being alone in Paris isn’t the end of the world, surely. I can do all the things I planned to do with Celeste on my own. I

can explore by myself.

And I will get a job at the end of this apprenticeship.

When I get to Maison Dauphine, there is a much different energy than yesterday. Voices drift down the hall and fill the lobby.

Not just the overlap of voices, either—high-pitched giggles . People are laughing!

It seems the entire staff is stuffed into the first conference room, gathered around the large oval wooden table in the center

of the room, which has been converted to some sort of patisserie. Overflowing from colorful Pierre Hermé boxes and scalloped

brass-tiered trays are macarons and cakes and flaky golden pastries. Vibrant and decadent tarts sit among pralines and other

little rectangular treats adorned with powdered sugar or chocolate.

Haydée and Zoe are whispering in a corner, and once we’ve made awkward eye contact, they stiffen before shuffling over to

me.

“All right, now all eyes are on you to see what you’ll bring to the office,” Haydée says.

Zoe giggles.

I just furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Rhodes brought in this gorgeous spread from Pierre Hermé—it’s Yvette’s favorite.”

Which means he will be too.

“Right,” I say.

Damn. I really wanted one of these delicious-smelling pastries, but knowing they’re just here as Rhodes’s way of bribing his

way into everyone’s favor makes them significantly less appealing.

Still, I can’t turn down sweets, so I grab a small vanilla tart, tucking into it before making sure there are no crumbs on

my person. There can be no evidence that I enjoyed this little stunt of Rhodes’s.

I walk back to the fashion closet, and Rhodes is sitting there with a hot takeout coffee beside his mouse. He’s wearing a

black cap and a white hoodie with no logos or indication of brand, but something about the material and the thick strings

just tells me it’s ridiculously expensive. He’s paired this with camo pants and Nike sneakers, and he doesn’t look like he’d

work at Maison Dauphine at all, but I’m sure Yvette and the rest of the team all told him how trés cool he looks.

I didn’t wear my backpack, bringing only my wallet and phone, which both fit in my pant pockets. I snap my AirPods shut and

place them on the desk beside him.

This causes Rhodes to look up at me, smiling. “Did you grab a pastry?”

“I prefer Ladurée.” I narrow my eyes. “What kind of tactic is that, anyway?”

“Tactic?” Rhodes asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Bringing in Yvette’s favorite? In fact, don’t you think it’s a bit transparent?”

Rhodes’s face pales. “Do you think it’s—is it too much?”

Groaning, I sit in my chair and log in. “You don’t have to pretend this wasn’t some calculated move to make yourself look

better than me.”

“It wasn’t.” He swallows, color returning to his face in the form of burgundy across his cheeks. “I just wanted to do something

nice for everyone. I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing Mum and Dad do—for everyone at Armoury, they always bring in breakfasts.

I didn’t realize it’d look that way.”

A sense of agitation bubbles inside me.

“Okay, Rhodes. Sure.”

Rhodes nods. “Actually. And I am honestly sorry if you felt slighted by it. I wasn’t trying to make myself look better than

you at all. I just thought it’d be a nice gesture.” He winces. “You do think it’s too much, though, don’t you? Reckon everyone

thinks that’s why I did it too?”

I deadpan. “Who knows? In general, I’d say money can’t buy friends, but bringing Pierre Hermé to Maison Dauphine might be

the exception.”

“God, I can be so thick.” He forces a laugh, turning back to his computer and dragging and dropping images from his desktop

onto an email. Based on our training yesterday, it seems he’s already getting ahead on a magazine request.

Of course he is getting ahead. More fucking tactics and mind games.

“How is the inbox?”

“There are actually several emails from New York,” Rhodes offers. “I figure maybe you’ll lead point on those. The American offices are probably... familiar, right? Also, that PR assistant, Sophie, uses a lot of exclamation points and smiley faces. Very American.”

Very American. Where does he get off saying these things?

Of course, clicking into our emails, I can see he’s right. Sophie is certainly expressive. And she signs her emails “xx Sophie,”

which seems odd, except for the fact that further in this email thread, I can see that a fashion assistant at Glamour also signs with two little Xs. It does seem like something only Americans are doing, but I’m not going to start signing “xx Milo.”

Haydée has also posted into a big PR department group Teams chat.

Si vous n’avez pas visité la salle de conférence, assurez-vous de ne pas manquer les délicieuses patisseries. Merci, Rhodes.

C’est une merveilleuse facon de commencer notre journée!

I don’t know what it all says, and I don’t want to risk Rhodes catching me as I paste it into a translator, but her thanking

Rhodes tells me everything I need to know. That and all the subsequent “ Merci , Rhodes!” that follow.

It is hard to imagine I will survive this for the entire summer.

I click my tongue against the back of my teeth. “What if there was a way we didn’t have to compete?”

Rhodes stops typing, and when he turns to me, his expression is different. It’s softer. It almost makes that tightness in

my chest completely transform to a glowing warmth.

“Really?”

I shrug. “It’s not like I signed up for a competition.”

He smiles. “That’s really big of you, Milo.”

“What do you—”

“Look, I really appreciate this. You know, if you want tickets to a Clyde Circus match or something, I’m happy to make some

calls. Get your brother over here, you two can take the train into London and make a weekend of it.”

I shake my head. “I’m not conceding. But I’m saying maybe we can convince Yvette to let us both work the resort show, and

there must be some kind of compromise. Maybe there are different roles we could each get after the apprenticeship.”

“Yvette has made it clear,” he says, sighing. “It’s only going to be one of us. And I’m sorry, Milo, but there is no way it

isn’t going to be me.” He looks a bit pained when he says this, gaze falling from my eyes to my mouth, his own nearing a frown,

before he turns back to his computer. “It isn’t personal.”

And just like that, the tension is back. I don’t know how Rhodes manages to keep me on this emotional seesaw, but I’m instantly

defensive.

“Well... that’s not... what makes you think I can’t do it? I need this, Rhodes. I came here all the way from Florida.

This is a huge opportunity for me, do you have any idea? I mean, I don’t have a famous family or connections that can get

me any job I want.”

His cheeks go red instantly and he places his palms on the desk, swiveling in his desk chair to face me. “You don’t know what

you’re talking about. And for the record, you’re not the only one with things on the line here. I need this too.”

“How? How could you possibly need this?”