When All Else Fails

Chapter One

"WHAT?!"

I held my tiny purple phone away from my ear and let out a sigh. Gently placing it back, I whispered, "Listen. It isn't as bad as it sounds."

There was a grumble from the other side of the line. "So you're saying getting stranded in Paris is a walk in the park? No, Bella. This is sad."

I rolled my eyes, shifting my bags and setting them on the floor in front of me. "I can just get a flight to New York. It isn't that big of a deal."

"That'd be perfect. Oh, you know... If you had money to buy a ticket there."

"What are you expecting me to do?" I cried, trying to keep my voice lowered. People were starting to look at me as the crazy American.

"I had faith in you," she muttered. "I thought I could trust you."

I stopped. "What?" I hissed.

"We can't even give you the simple task of boarding a freaking plane without you screwing it up."

I closed my eyes, letting a puff of air out my nose. The tear that gently slid down my cheek was almost unnoticeable at that point. "This is why I was going to New York," I whispered. "You aren't proud of me in any way. You're more focused on your perfect little poster child."

"Rachel is not a poster child." My mother's voice was raspy; it WAS pretty early there. She let out a sigh. "Call me when you get there."

I let out a sigh as she hung up without saying goodbye. "No," I whispered softly, placing my phone in my jacket pocket.

So there I was. Fifteen and stranded in Paris. Perfect. I sat with my head between my legs for a long time before I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Miss," started the security guard softly, "I am going to have to ask you to leave." His English wasn't all that clear, but it was good enough to get me out of there.

* * *

"Mademoiselle?"

I lifted my gaze slightly as I trudged out of the airport parking lot with my bags grasped tightly in my hands. The boy approaching me seemed around my age, his eyes lighting up as he drew closer. "Oui?" I responded, showing off the year of French 1 I had taken back home.

He smiled, holding out his hand. "Bonjour," he said, his voice pure and not nearly as nasal as most of the French. "Ça va?"

I let out a sigh and small smile. "Eh, pas mal." I shifted my bags and set them in front of me, rubbing my back. God, those things were heavy.

He smiled again. What did this guy want? "Je m'appelle Sébastien. Et toi?"

"Je m'appelle Isabelle."

Our conversation seemed to keep going and going. In all honesty, I didn't even want it to.

"Où êtes-vous?"

I sighed. "Je suis de États-Unis. Je suis américaine."

He smiled. "Why didn't you just say so?"

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my stuff again and heading toward the main road. "I wanted to show off my French, duh," I stated sarcastically.

He chuckled, following close behind. "Where are you headed? If you have any questions about getting around, feel free to ask me. Think of me as your personal tour guide."

"Hey, personal tour guide?"

He seemed pleased with the name. "Yes?"

"Leave me alone."