All The Summers After | TSITP | Sequel

Save The Date.

Paris in June felt like the city had exhaled.

Warm air drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the sounds of scooters, laughter, and clinking glasses from the café downstairs. The sky was soft blue, streaked with pink as the sun started dipping, the kind of evening that made the whole city glow.

Conrad fumbled with the keys like he always did, mumbling something under his breath in French as he finally got the door open.

"Voilà," he said dramatically, pushing it in and stepping aside so Lydia could enter first.

She brushed past him, grocery bag in her hand, her shoulder bumping his chest. "Don't act like you didn't almost lock us out. Again."

"We both know you'd just charm the landlord into letting us back in," he said, closing the door behind them.

"That's true," she said, already heading toward the small entryway table where they dropped their keys, her rings, whatever they'd accumulated that day.

That's when she noticed it.

"Something came in the mail," she said, picking up a creamy white envelope and turning it over in her hands. It had traveled, you could tell — slightly smudged ink, the faintest bend in the corner, a set of familiar Conklin handwriting on the front.

She frowned at it playfully. "You've got mail, Dr. Fisher."

She lightly tossed it toward him, and he caught it with one hand.

"Merci," he said.

She rolled her eyes, already walking toward the kitchen. "I'm getting water. I feel like I've walked half of Paris today."

"You made us walk half of Paris today."

"We had to go to the good bakery."

He smiled to himself as he slit open the envelope, leaning against the back of their couch.

Inside was a thick card — heavy, textured, clearly something someone had put thought into. He pulled it out and stared at the front: soft blues, a watercolour ocean, white script curling across the page.

He read the names once. Then again.

His eyebrows shot up.

"Oh my god," he breathed.

From the kitchen, Lydia had just taken a sip of water. "What? Oh no, what did they do now?"

He laughed once — a quick, disbelieving huff.

"Belly and Jere are getting married."

She choked.

Water sprayed everywhere — onto the counter, the sink, the floor.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, coughing, then looked up at him with wide eyes.

"WHAT?"

He held up the card like proof. "They're getting married."

"Now?" she demanded, as if he'd personally scheduled it.