May 16th
Before Della opened her eyes, she felt the headache. It was a dull throbbing most intense around her eyes but spread over every inch of her head. Her mouth was dry, the wine from the night before was stained on her tongue, and her favorite wine's signature dye was steeped into the skin of her bottom lip.
She groaned and ran her hands over her eyes and then down her face. She regretted the amount she drank the night before instantly, but it was necessary. For the first time in four weeks, her and her ex stayed in together on a Saturday night—and not by choice.
The showers hadn't started until five—an hour before Della was supposed to be at the Chelsea bar where she would be meeting her friends—but didn't show any signs of stopping. The cancellation text came in an hour later and unfortunately, Josh had gotten one similar.
When she walked out of the once shared bedroom, she saw him laying on the pull out couch, watching some program she had never seen before.
"You're not going out?" She asked from her spot a few feet behind him.
He looked over towards the windows across the flat next to the small kitchen. "Do you see the rain?"
"Well, I'm not either."
"So?"
"So, we haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately and we've been pretty good at not being around one another on the weekends..."
"Lately?" The attitude dripped from his voice. "Don't be a child, Della. We'll survive one night."
"Maybe you should use this night off to finally look for a new place." She mumbled as she moved to the kitchen.
"I don't know how many times I've told you: I am looking. It's not the easiest thing to do."
"Well, it's not that hard—and it shouldn't take as long as it has. You really expect me to believe that you've been looking all this time and still haven't found anything?"
She heard Josh heave a sigh while she tossed a packet of popcorn into the microwave.
"I don't really think you're one to have an attitude when it's your fault we're in this mess."
"You came to London on your own."
"Because I thought you still loved me." He had finally turned around to look at her.
"Well, I can't help that you're an idiot." Della mumbled before grabbing a bottle of wine from the rack, her half popped popcorn and walking back into the bedroom.
She spent the night mostly holed up in her room, drinking straight from the bottle and texting back and forth with her mom.
You need to get out of that apartment. Take a vacation. Be on your own the way you were supposed to.
I wouldn't mind a vacation.
You should talk to mémère about where she lived and maybe take a small trip there. You know she loves to talk about it.
Della toyed with the idea of France, and then instead of calling her grandmother, started researching the different regions and how much it would cost to stay where. She knew where her grandmother was from and knew how much she still identified with the place she grew up, despite having lived in the United States for over forty years.
Her grandmother always talked about taking her and her sister there, in order to get them in touch with their roots, as she called it. Della's grandpa always chimed in that half of their roots were in Ireland, and his wife always pretended not to hear him.
When she saw the red pins located in Nice, she clicked on the area to enlarge it. She remembered dropping the pins, three years ago while she planned the graduation trip she swore she would take when she finished her degree but Josh had happened instead. One pin marked a quaint bakery she wasn't sure how she found and the other marked the Monet museum. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and opened a new tab where she started re-researching the small city. The more pictures she saw, the more the longing grew. It was pretty, it was old, there would be amazing food and a beach. It wasn't as cliche as Paris, but it wasn't as close to being the countryside as was the place her grandmother was from.
"Not exactly my roots," she whispered. "But close enough."
Bursting with impulsivity, Della took a big swig from the bottle and pulled her laptop onto her lap. She went straight to SkyScanner and scrolled through flights. She played with the start and return dates until she found two dates where they were lowest: June first...and August thirtieth. Three months. It repeated in her head like a warning—or maybe a prayer.
She would be back in time for the fall semester, so school wasn't an issue. The family she nannied for already had three separate vacations planned...meaning they wouldn't necessarily need her; the small bakery she worked at on the weekends would surely survive without her. But could she afford it?
Della wasn't a reckless spender, but she wasn't exactly frugal. Her limited closet space had definitely halted her shopping habit, but she was usually too tired to cook after taking care of children all day and ordered out most nights during the week—and she liked to go out on the weekends.
She flipped over the forgotten syllabus that was on her nightstand and started scribbling down numbers after consulting both her checking and savings accounts, accounting for her half of the rent she would have to pay while gone, the flight and how much money she could potentially spend in that amount of time. The numbers didn't scare her until she started looking for places to stay. A hotel was out of the question and AirBnbs weren't exactly cheap.
She could feel the second thoughts start to unravel as she scrolled through listings and took another swig from the bottle. Four pages in, she saw the cheapest one yet. A twenty minute walk from the Promenade and tiny, but clean. Before she started doubting herself enough to call the entire thing off, she did the math and, comforted by the fact that she wouldn't end up emptying her entire bank account, she booked her summer in the tiny city.
The whole thing hadn't seemed as romantic the next morning. She pushed the scribbled on syllabus to her floor and mumbled profanities at herself.
Della remembered thinking that she needed the summer away—she needed to get away from Josh, she needed the space and the time to be alone, to figure out her life, where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. She convinced herself that this trip would give her the time and solitude to map out the future, to finally pinpoint the kind of woman she was so that she would stop making decisions on a whim, stop being so unsure of herself, strengthen her constitution and stop being so fucking impulsive.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Then, awake and hungover, Della wasn't really sure if she needed those things. Sure, she wanted them. She had lived her whole life by the blow of the wind—at least that's what her grandmother said. Any time she said it, Della knew it wasn't meant to be sweet and would make it worse by reminding her grandmother that she was actually a water sign.
This trait was something that Della was supposed to have fixed rather than embraced. She hadn't seen anything wrong with it while she was in college. She was still willful and head strong—just not in the way her family wanted. Basically, she wasn't Addie: the girl with a plan and vision; the girl who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it due to the extensive research she had done; the girl who rarely did things simply because she wanted to or because it felt right.
Maybe Della wasn't supposed to be that girl. Aside from the blue eyes and freckles, her and her sister were nothing alike and maybe that was okay. Or maybe this trip would change all of that.
Della unlocked her phone and checked her email to see the confirmations for her flights and AirBnb. She threw off the covers and marched into the living room where Josh was already up and eating cereal.
"I'm leaving on the first. I'll be gone until the end of August. When I get back, I expect you to be gone; out of this apartment, back to America, I don't care, but you're not going to be here."
This trip would be the beginning of everything. And the end of everything before.
June 3rd
Della craved another coffee. She had fought the urge for her third the entire time she walked through the outdoor market a few minutes from where she was staying. She had only been in Nice for four days and she had already managed to form some kind of espresso dependence.
The getting there hadn't been as easy as she thought. For one, she had two whole suitcases because she was never one to pack light and was naturally indecisive when it came to everything, but especially her fashion choices. She had barely made her flight and then when she landed, both of her suitcases had definitely made their way to Nice, but one had been temporarily misplaced. When it was finally found (because Della wasn't leaving the airport without it), the sun had officially set and she was left to figure out the city's bus system in the dark, since her international data hadn't kicked in yet so she couldn't call an Uber. After missing her stop not once, but twice, it took her forty minutes to find the lockbox where the host left the key. Two near-cries and one real cry later, Della was sat on the floor of the tiny apartment she rented, her arms sore from lugging the large cases around, and sniffling while she ate the granola bar that she bought at Heathrow.
The three days that followed went much smoother—and not a single tear had been shed. She unpacked her things and tried to make the rental a home as much as possible, bought herself flowers to fill the vases she found in a shelf above the sink, fell asleep on the beach twice, sipped wine out on the tiny balcony she didn't realize she would have, and drank way too much coffee.
The self discovery hadn't come as quick as she thought and when her mom called her the night before and asked if she felt any different, Della lied. The truth was, she didn't feel anything at all except this weird kind of yearning. It sat uncomfortable in the pit of her stomach and ached whenever she stared at a group of friends on the beach, or a couple getting a drink, or someone sitting alone and enjoying the warm weather for too long. She didn't understand the feeling, where it came from, or why it felt like the kind of ache that wouldn't be gone any time soon. All she knew was that she desperately wanted it to go away.
As she walked down the busy street, she searched for the cafe she had spied the day before; the one with the green awning and black tables along the sidewalk. She remembered the pink flowers that sat on either side of the door and the white writing across the windows—but she couldn't remember its name. The knowledge that it lied somewhere along the Promenade didn't mean much of anything, considering the Promenade was miles long and she only found it the day before while wandering back from dinner—which she had at a place she found by chance.
Just as she was about to give up, Della spotted the edge of the awning as it blew in one of the few breezes she felt that day. She hiked her tote bag filled with flowers, post cards, and peaches further up onto her shoulder and walked quickly to the cafe.
She stepped past the little gate and picked an empty table that was against the outside wall of the cafe. With a relieved sigh, she rolled her ankles around beneath the table in order to relieve some of the soreness that had built up from the nonstop walking she had been doing since she arrived. Once she was finally settled and leaned back in the wooden chair, she gathered her long red hair behind her, twisted it in a makeshift bun to get it off her neck for a short moment, and then let it fall down her back.
While she waited for the server, she pulled out her phone and successfully connected to a nearby restaurant's wifi. Upon opening Instagram, she was greeted with more than a few DMs. She happily answered the ones from her friends and liked the story reactions from acquaintances, but frowned when she saw Josh's username. She reluctantly clicked on the conversation, which only caused the annoyed furrow in her brow to deepen.
I tried calling you and text you and nothing is going through
Did you block me?
Real mature della
I need to talk to you
Its not about us don't worry its about the apartment
Theres a leak
Should I call the number from last time
Della
Della rolled her eyes before closing the app and opening the messages with her mom. The photo that popped up was of her little sister with her cap and gown on standing outside the high school Della had also attended with a big smile on her face. She typed out a message full of hearts and excitement back before locking her phone and setting it down on the table.
She couldn't fight off the guilt that had been creeping up on her since she arrived. It was never the plan to miss her baby sister's graduation—but Nice wasn't exactly the plan either.
Her personal life was somewhat of a mess—a mess that she had allowed for far too long. Granted, it wasn't entirely her fault and she should've only had to end her relationship the one time and not twice, but maybe she should've been more clear the first time around. She shouldn't have blamed the distance the way she did. Instead, she simply should've told Josh she didn't love him anymore. Maybe then he wouldn't have followed her all the way to London.
London, with its fairytale streets and half-wet weather that forced her to wear her hair in a french braid four out of seven days a week. It was her new love—Josh completely forgotten in the past. Even though she was forced to endure him calling out for more toilet paper more times than she deemed acceptable.
Maybe it was the romance that drove her to France. Maybe it was the need for a French getaway that wasn't Paris—something different. Something, in Della's mind, more French. Della couldn't exactly remember what her drunk reasoning had been. Maybe it was the need to be anywhere other than London, the spell already broken, in pieces in her palms, bloody and already scarred.
She sighed in resignation and pulled out one of the postcards from her tote. Drawn in pastels was the shoreline of Nice, the promenade, and a few abstract people on the sand with their umbrellas set up and inviting.
Della searched for a pen, sure she wouldn't have forgotten one. As a writer—or wanna be poet, more specifically—it was almost blasphemous to be without one. As she was checking her bag frantically for the second time, hands skimming the fabric bottom, a voice asked, "Need a pen?"
She looked up to see a hand holding out a black ballpoint. The strong, ring clad hand led to a forearm adorned with an eagle. When her blue eyes travelled further up, she was met with green ones—and an innocent, questioning gaze.
She took it tentatively. "I do. Thank you."
Without looking at him any longer, she bent over her postcard and began to scribble.
Mom and Addie—
Hi! I hope you two are doing well. Congrats on graduating, Addie! I'm sorry for missing it. I—
"You're American."
"Yes." She said without looking up, but twirled the pen in her fingers.
"Can I ask from where?"
"Vermont. " Della supplied. "A small town. Near the mountains."
"Hm."
She looked back over at him and took in his appearance. Her eyes racked over the tattooed arm, the soft brown waves, the very specific slope of his nose—and then it clicked.
"I know you." Della said.
Harry shook his head. "I don't—"
"Yes! Oh, my god! Yeah, you're Harry...Harry Styles, right?"
Harry chuckled uncomfortably. "Yeah...yeah."
"Oh—I'm not going to, like, share it with anyone or anything."
"No?"
She could here the cynicism in his voice.
"No." Della said decisively. "I figure you're like me. You came here to be alone."
"Are you a fan?" He asked as he played with the tiny cup on its saucer. He didn't sound narcissistic, but genuine—curious.
"I mean, not exactly." Della said as she placed the pen on the table and dropped her chin into her palm. "I liked One Direction a lot but when I went to college I kind of just...moved on. No offense." She said quickly.
Harry chuckled. "None taken. When exactly did you go to college?"
She couldn't tell if he was asking because she looked young—which she knew she did. She was consistently carded at places her friends weren't. There was something genuinely youthful about her; whether it was her small face, small frame, or smattering of freckles, she wasn't sure. But she often got the same question over and over again: how old are you, exactly?
"2016." She watched his brows shoot up. "I'll be twenty three at the end of the month." She didn't know why she cared whether or not he saw her as an adult, but she did. Was she attracted to him? Maybe. Her last two boyfriends had tattoos and she had typically always gone after older boys, even though her last boyfriend had been her senior by only two years.
"Happy Birthday, then." He said as he turned the page in his book.
"I don't appreciate the mocking tone."
"I bet you appreciate my pen, though." He said with a sly glance in her direction. Della felt her cheeks heat.
She turned back to her postcard.
I'm doing well—I'm doing okay. I thought coming here would fix everything but it's only made me more confused.
"You know, those things are meant for a quick hello and goodbye—not a novel." She scowled in his direction and he smirked. "I'm just saying."
"Well, you should just mind your business."
"Just wondering what my pen's up to."
She released a controlled sigh and held it out to him. "I'll finish it later."
He held his palm out. "No, I'm sorry. Really, finish it."
When she saw his genuine smile, she put the pen back down on the card.
As she was scribbling out her goodbye, a server appeared and asked what she wanted.
"Je peux avoir un café avec du lait?" Della asked.
The server nodded.
"Oh, et un croissant?"
He nodded again before turning around towards Harry.
"Je prendrai un autre café s'il vous plaît."
His request wasn't as smooth as hers, slightly clunky and muffled on his tongue. Della tried not to smirk at his attempt; after his attitude towards her, it was nice to catch him off guard, to be better than him in any kind of way.
Once the server was gone, he said. "You know French—well."
"My grandma's French. She grew up in a small village outside of Paris; moved to the States in her twenties."
"Hm."
You set the pen down and turned to him fully, your right leg still crossed over your left. You held out your hand. "I'm Della."
His brow furrowed slightly as he moved to take your hands. "Della?"
"Short for Delphine. Like I said, my grandma's French."
"Ah," he said with a smile. "It's pretty."
"It's a lot." You amended. "Della's just..."
"A nickname." He finished.
"Well, yeah, but I was going to say easier."
"Delphine isn't a hard name."
"Well, no, but it was a little odd for Vermont."
Harry shrugged. "I like it."
A silence fell over the two of them once the server came back with their coffees and her croissant. Harry took a sip in silence while she tore off the end and popped it into her mouth.
Just as she finished writing her mom's address on the postcard, he asked, "So, do you live in Vermont?"
Della sighed in something adjacent to annoyance. She wasn't annoyed at him, per se. Any other day, she would've been more than overjoyed that someone who looked like him was talking to her. Obviously, there was no flirting going on, but he was talking—and that would've been enough. If her feet didn't hurt and her ex hadn't annoyed the fuck out of her—and if she hadn't seen the picture of her little sister—Della would've been overjoyed. She would've even attempted to flirt, but he had caught her at a bad moment.
"Sorry, I don't mean to be a bother."
"You're not!" She said too quickly before squeezing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "Sorry, you're not—really." She sent him a smile, which he returned. "I'm living in London right now."
His brows shot up in a more preferable way than they had before.
"I'm getting my graduate degree in romantic poetry."
"Hm. Interesting." Harry said.
"Like, actually?" She asked, unsure of his tone.
He laughed. "Yeah, like, actually." He mocked in an innocent kind of way. "I don't know much about that. Is it any good?"
Della's eyes widened and she had to stop herself from lecturing the stranger on Wordsworth and Coleridge. "Yeah. It's good."
"That's not very convincing." He smiled as he brought his tiny cup to his pink lips.
"I don't know you well enough to be convincing." She said cooly.
He shrugged casually. "Maybe we should change that."
Della didn't say anything and blushed down at her coffee.
"Unless that's too forward." He amended.
"No!" Della cursed her obvious willingness. She wanted to be elusive here. She wanted to be the red headed enigma—the one who guys chased, rather than her usual sad-obsessed, pining self. Apparently, that had gone out the window. "Sorry, I didn't mean that." She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head quickly. "I mean, yes, I did mean that I just, didn't mean to sound so excited." Oh god, she wished she could just shut up.
Harry laughed. "No, no. I like excited. It's much better than the fake aloof-ness I typically get."
She nodded and smiled at her lap. "Right. Good."
There was a short pause before Harry held out his hand. "Pen?"
"Oh. Right." Della handed it to him and watched as he dug through his rather nice black bag before pulling the stained napkin from beneath his cup's saucer. He scribbled on it quickly before handing it to her.
"I'd really like it if you called me. Preferably tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Della asked as she took it and examined it. A brown arch crossed over the number five.
"If I didn't already have plans with a friend, I'd ask you to dinner."
"Oh." Della cursed her face for getting hot again.
"You're sweet." Harry said.
"I resent that."
"Then I take it back." Harry took another sip of his espresso. "So, will you call?"
Della mustered up a casual shrug. "If I have time."
"You're in Nice...alone. You have nothing but time."
"Fine, then I'll call you if I want to. Better?"
"Not quite." He said.
"Good."
"You'll call." His smile was confident.
"I wouldn't exactly count on that." Della said.
"And why's that?"
"Rebounds aren't exactly my style." Della's fair share of rebounds back in London said otherwise but he didn't have to know that.
"Rebound, yeah?" Harry asked. Della shrugged. "So, this a post breakup trip?" Della shrugged again. "Fine, you can just tell me tomorrow." He downed the rest of what was in the tiny cup before dropping a few euros on the table. He draped his black bag over his shoulder and stood from his seat. "Bye, love."
"Bye." She smiled confidently and attempted to convince herself that she wouldn't call him.
Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd let him live only in that one small moment, a fantasy, but nothing more. Della couldn't remember the last time she had a crush—a real, genuine crush—but she thought the feeling she had was familiar, as close to one as she might get.
***
It wasn't until later, when she was sitting outside a small restaurant for dinner, and received a text from her best friend back home asking if she met any hot French men, that she even considered calling him.
The few hours between their meeting and her dinner were spent walking along the promenade until her feet hurt and then reading a few poems from the small, worn Victor Hugo collection she bought from an older woman who had been selling used books on the street. The entire thing was in French and while Della was pretty close to fluent in speaking terms, she was learning that reading it was more than difficult, but she was determined. She found herself sounding them out under her breath, rereading lines over and over again to get them in their full once she understood. Sometimes, she'd have to pull out Google translate, an act her grandmother would be abhorred by, and type in a word or two. Eventually, she would make it through and feel proud of herself over the tiny feat. Sans pen, she folded down the pages of the poems she loved most and took notes in her phone that she would remember to write out later.
When the numbness in her feet subsided, she went back to wandering until her stomach grumbled loud enough to pull her attention away from the eavesdropping she was doing on the people she passed.
Under the white awning, close enough to the promenade that she could hear the water fall softly against the shore, Della ordered something familiar. She knew it wouldn't taste like her grandmother's bouillabaisse because the ingredients were different (her grandmother's didn't have tomatoes, nor was it served with basil rouille), but she knew it would be delicious.
While she waited for her meal, she connected to the restaurant's internet and hesitantly opened up Instagram. When she was relieved to see there were no new messages from her ex, she sighed and clicked on their conversation.
I didn't block you, she typed out. The service here is just spotty and I was having issues with my abroad service. If theres a leak then call a plumber I'm not sure what you expect me to do.
After closing the app, she opened her contacts, scrolled down to Josh's name and unblocked him.
The block was only supposed to be temporary, while she was on her trip, but it was clear that he would make that impossible. She could've blocked him on everything—and at times, she wanted to—but they shared an apartment; it would've been irresponsible.
She locked her phone and dropped it into her bag. She flicked her long, red hair over her shoulder, leaned back in the wire chair, and turned her attention towards the street.
Della used to love Josh—until he became the thing she couldn't shake. They were young. She wasn't sure how many times she had said it, but it never seemed to mean to him what it did to her. We're only twenty-two. It repeated in her mind for months and flew from her mouth easily, casually, but loaded. And still, he never understood its actual weight.
Josh went from a lover to a roommate and Della had gone from love to indifference. It wasn't upsetting, it was sad. Sad in the pathetic kind of way; sad in the way that it was unfortunate, but it was by no means heartbreaking, at least not for her. She always knew something that Josh never did: it was always going to end.
***
Harry wasn't sure what possessed him to give Della his number, but as he sat in the small yard of the chateau he rented, he recounted the pieces of her that drew him in: the long orange hued hair, the chaos of freckles against her pale skin, the way she touched the tip of her thumb to the end of each finger—again and again as if a ritual, without even realizing it—the way she hunched over the postcard like the message was secret and serious, the wondrous look on her face as she watched the street in front of them.
Harry didn't regret it, but it had only been a few hours and his ego was already suffering. Typically, he was a little more careful. Typically, he took women's numbers, especially if he didn't already know them. It was safer that way—and he wasn't left as the one wondering.
Her name replayed in his mind his entire walk to his car, and then during the entirely of his short drive back to where he was staying: Della. Delphine. Del. He liked the way the last one sounded as he said it to himself, the way it finished against the roof of his mouth.
She didn't look like a Delphine. He thought it the second she revealed it. It was so...precise and proper; to him, it signaled a regal-ness, the kind of put together that equaled poised perfection—and that wasn't her. At least he didn't see it as being her. Her hair was long with a slight wave and messy as if she didn't bother all that much to brush it. The strap of her sundress hung off her shoulder as she scribbled and she let it hang there while she hunched—ink stains present on the side of her left hand.
As he showered, he went over the small details she had let slip: she was from Vermont (Harry thought he knew where that was), she was young (not too young since only four years separated them, but he typically didn't get involved with anyone younger), she was getting a second degree in romantic poetry (Harry knew he would be doing some googling after Jeff left), and she was just getting out of a relationship. In any other instance, that would've been less than ideal, but Harry wasn't looking for a girlfriend—not when at the end of the summer he would be starting a year long tour. It just wouldn't be sustainable, which was something he learned the hard way the first time around.
Harry wasn't exactly planning on getting involved with anyone this summer at all. He was three months into healing from a serious relationship. At least, it had been his version of serious—apparently that wasn't enough for his ex who talked too much about settling down when Harry was only just getting started. When she ended it, he felt blindsided and it was taking him a little bit longer to get over it than he thought it should've.
Time passed and the night ended. Jeff had come and gone, an entire pitcher of white sangria had been consumed, Harry had watched all of Endless Love and he hadn't so much as received a text.