The fixture that lights the upper hallway goes on automatically when I reach the top step.
There’s a door to my left marked with the number 64, and a plastic potted palm at my right, so close I brush against its dusty fronds. There’s one more door at the end of the long, narrow hall, but it’s not marked. More voices from the hall below chase me farther away so I head to the unmarked door.

I keep telling myself I’m not running away from anything. I’m just sparing the feelings of others.

Rusted metal forms a tiny balcony that doesn’t look very sturdy, and narrow spiral stairs wind upward along the outer wall of the building. My mother would have a heart attack at the thought of me climbing this rickety monstrosity.
The thought spurs me onward. At the top, the stairs open up onto a flat roof that’s been turned into a garden. Trees in huge pots line one side of the rooftop. Their leaves shiver in the soft blowing air. The space before me is covered with low wooden boxes that hold rose bushes, tons of flowers, or the spiky leaves of onions and feathery tops of carrots. One box holds wiry tendrils that spill out all over the place. I smell the perfume of the blossoms and the clean, earthy scent of wet soil. I sit and look up at the rain-washed sky that glows as the sun sinks low.

Then I lie down on the flat roof, actually lie down right on top of dirt and leaves and cigarette butts. And I smile like an idiot up at the blushing sky. This is what it’s like to truly be alone.
Everything inside me feels new.
Polished.
Shining.
I can almost forget my latest humiliation. And in the space of one tiny heartbeat, I know that I can’t. Not really.

I sit up and pick leaves from my hair. It’s always going to be like this. How can I forget? It’s like there’s this room full of people, all talking and laughing and having a great time and I’m watching through a wall of glass, wanting to join them. The sun goes down as I explore every inch, pick a hard green apricot, smell the roses, drop petals from the roof, and finally decide that I’ve wasted enough time.

Downstairs, I listen at Sylvie’s door to make sure the Americans are gone. They are. I pause with my hand on the knob and try to gather some courage. I hear my therapist’s voice in my mind. “Find your feet, Rosemary. Breathe.” It sounds so stupid, but sometimes it works. Thinking about my feet is supposed to make me forget whatever’s bothering me. It’s also a symbol for stepping forward and moving on from the crap that happened. Then I just breathe. Out with the bad air. In with the good air. I find my feet. I breathe.

And I talk in my head. Goodbye, Gavin. Y’all don’t come back now, y’hear? Sylvie meets me inside and enfolds me in a warm embrace. I hug her back, gratified and kind of shocked that she’s showing such affection to a stranger. To an awkward girl who behaved like a toddler. My hopes heave themselves back off of the floor inside me. When Sylvie releases me, she says nothing. Émile asks me if I’m still hungry, offers dessert, and that’s all. For a second, he looks at me like there’s something he wants to say, but he doesn’t. So I sit and eat chocolate cake with fresh raspberries, and I feel dumb.

Lame for running off the way I did. I make myself a promise. This is the last time I run away from anything.

New home. New family. New Rosemary.