And then I will never hear the end of it.

Oh God, how did I get myself into this? Maybe I should have just stayed at Andy’s. What’s the worst that would have happened? I could have gone to Jane Austen’s house by myself and just used Andy’s house as a sort of home base. I didn’t have to leave. I could have just been like, “Look, Andy, it’s not working out between us, because you’re not who I thought you were. I have a thesis to write, so let’s just agree to ignore each other the rest of the time I’m here and I’ll do my thing and you do yours.”

I could have just said that to him. Of course, it’s too late now. I can’t go back. Not after that note I left him when I took that taxi back to his house-best fifteen pounds I ever spent-to get my stuff. Thank GOD no one had been home…

…and thank God Andy had thought to give me my own key this morning before we’d left, which I’d dropped into the Marshalls’ mailbox on my way out.

Oh my God. A seat! An empty seat! Facing the right way! In a nonsmoking car! And it’s next to a window!

Okay, be calm. It might be taken and the person just got up to use the bathroom or whatever-oh jeez, I bonked that lady in the head with my bag-“Je suis desolee, madame,” I say. That means “I’m sorry,” right? Oh, who cares. A seat! A seat!

Oh my God. A seat next to a guy who looks to be about my age, with curly dark hair, big brown eyes, and a gray button-down shirt that is actually tucked into his faded-in-all-the-right-places Levi’s. That he is wearing with a mesh weave leather belt.

It is possible that I have died. That I have passed out in the aisles of the train-and died of hunger, dehydration, and heartache.

And that this is heaven.

“Pardonnez-moi,” I say to the totally hot guy. “Mais est-ce que…est-ce que-”

“Is that seat next to you taken?” is what I want to ask. Only in French, obviously. Only I can’t remember the word for seat. Or taken. In fact, I don’t think we ever covered this phrase in French 101 or 102. Or maybe we did but I was too busy daydreaming about Andrew-I mean, Andy-that I wasn’t paying attention that day.

Or maybe it’s just that this guy is so good-looking I can’t think of anything else.

“Do you want to sit here?”

That’s what the guy in the aisle seat asks, indicating the empty window seat beside him.

In perfect English. In perfect AMERICAN English.

“Oh my God!” I burst out. “Are you American? Is that seat really not taken? Can I sit there?”

“Yes,” the guy says with a smile that reveals perfect white teeth. Perfect white AMERICAN teeth. “To all three.”

And he gets up to let me into the window seat.

Not only that, but he actually leans over, grabs my gargantuan wheelie bag that has just popped a thousand French kneecaps during its long drag through several train cars, and says, “Let me help you with this.”

And, seemingly without effort, he lifts the bag and shoves it up onto the rack above our heads.

Okay. Now I’m crying.

Because this is not a hallucination. I am not dead. This is really happening. I know because I’ve just slung my carry-on bag down from my shoulder and put it under the seat in front of mine, and my entire right side has gone numb from the weight not being there anymore. If I were dead, would I feel numb?

No.

I sink down into the seat-the soft, cushiony seat-and just sit there, blinking at the buildings flashing by so unbelievably quickly, completely unable to believe my good fortune. How could my luck, which has been so totally rotten lately, have taken such an incredible turn for the better? This can’t be right. There has to be a catch. There just has to be.

“Water?” the guy next to me asks, holding out a plastic bottle of Evian.

I can barely see him through my tears. “You’re…you’re giving me your water?”

“Um,” he says, “no. They come with the seats. This is first class. Everyone gets one.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid (so what else is new?). I hadn’t noticed the water at my last seat. Probably that French kid had bogarted mine. He looked like the type who would steal someone else’s water.

I take the water from my new-and vastly improved-seatmate.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s been a long day.”

“I can see that,” he says. “Unless you always cry on trains.”

“I don’t,” I say, shaking my head and sniffling. “Really.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” he says. “I’ve heard of fear of flying, of course. But I’ve never heard of a fear of trains.”

“I’ve had the worst day,” I say, opening the water. “Really. You have no idea. It’s so nice to hear an American accent. I can’t believe how much everybody here hates us.”

“Oh,” the guy says with another flash of those perfect white teeth, “they aren’t so bad. If you saw how the typical American tourist acted, you’d probably feel the same way about us that the French do.”

I’ve chugged most of my water. I’m starting to feel a little better-not so much like death warmed over. Although I’m sure I probably look it. Which is great since now that I have an even closer view of him, I can see that my seatmate isn’t just handsome. His face is filled with kindness, intelligence, and good humor as well.

Unless that’s just the starvation talking.

“Well.” I reach up to dab at my eyes with my wrist. I wonder if my mascara is running down my cheeks in streaks. Did I wear the waterproof kind? I can’t even remember. “I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

“Your first time in France?” he asks sympathetically. Even his voice is nice. Sort of deep, and very understanding.

“My first time anywhere in Europe,” I say. “Well, except for London, where I was this morning.”

And then, like a dam bursting, I’m crying again.

I try not to do it loudly. You know, without sobbing or anything. I just can’t think about London-I never even got to go to Topshop!-without tearing up.

My seatmate nudges my elbow with his. When I open my streaming eyes, I see that he is holding a plastic bag in front of me.

“Honey-roasted peanuts?” he asks.

I am overwhelmed by hunger. Without a word, I dive my hand into the bag, grab a handful of nuts, and stuff them into my mouth. I don’t care if they’re honey-roasted and jam-packed with carbs. I’m starved.

“Do…do they come with the seats, too?” I ask between sniffles.

“No,” he says, “they’re mine. Help yourself to more, if you want some.”

I do. They are the best thing I have ever tasted. And not just because I haven’t had sugar in so long.

“Thanks,” I say. “I…I’m s-sorry.”

“For what?” my seatmate asks.

“For s-sitting here crying like this. I’m not usually like this. I swear.”

“Travel can be very stressful,” he says. “Especially in this day and age.”

“It’s true,” I say, taking some more nuts. “You can just never tell. I mean, you meet people and they seem perfectly nice. And then it turns out that all along they were just lying to you to get you to pay their matriculation fees because they lost all their money in a game of Texas Hold’em.”

“I was actually referring to terrorist alerts,” my seatmate says somewhat dryly. “But I guess what, er, you mentioned could be troubling as well.”

“Oh, it is,” I assure him through my tears. “You have no idea. I mean, he just outright lied to me-telling me that he loved me and all of that-when all along I think he was just using me. I mean, Andy-that’s the guy I left, back in London-he seemed so nice, you know? He was going to be a teacher. He said he was going to devote his life to teaching little children to read. Have you ever heard of anything that noble?”

“Um,” my seatmate says, “no?”

“No. Because who even does that in today’s day and age? People our age-how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five,” my seatmate says, a little smile on his lips.

“Right,” I say. I open my purse, fishing inside it for some tissue. “Well, haven’t you noticed that people our age…all they seem to think about is making money? Okay, not everyone. But a lot of them. No one wants to be a teacher anymore, or even a doctor…not with HMOs and all of that. There’s not enough money in it. Everyone wants to be an investment banker, or a corporate headhunter, or a lawyer…because that’s where the money is. They don’t care if they’re doing anything good for mankind. They just want to own a McMansion and a BMW. Seriously.”