If I’d known how much being back in Paris would mess with my supposedly healed heart, I would’ve prepared better. I would’ve obtained a homeopathic prescription in Martinique and made sure I was on the highest permissible dose throughout my stay. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t be seeing Raphael on every corner, and I wouldn’t be thinking about him as a fellow scholar tells me about his work.

I force myself to tune in.

“It took as long as six months for the uprising to blow over,” Xavier says.

“Really?” I do my damnedest to figure out what uprising he’s talking about and why.

Xavier nods. “I couldn’t return to Mali and finish my fieldwork until last October.”

“Bummer.”

He spreads his arms. “That’s what happens when your study subjects live in an unstable country.”

I smile. “My subjects have been dead for centuries. Which is great for keeping my work on schedule.”

Xavier chuckles.

He has a shrill, almost girlie laugh you wouldn’t expect from a tall man wearing chunky boots and a lumberjack shirt.

“So what class are you teaching, maître?” I emphasize the last word, hinting at his official title, maître de conférences—associate professor.

My teasing is a little hypocritical, though. I’d be thrilled to land a maître de conférences contract once I have my PhD.

“I hope to teach my own class soon,” he says. “But for now, I conduct seminars for Professor Bosc’s Introduction to Sociology.”

“It’s a great course. I took it in my third year.”

I steal a glance at my chest to check for wet stains around my nipples.

So far so good.

“So you did your undergrad studies here in Paris?” Xavier asks.

I nod. “First two years in Strasbourg, then I transferred to Paris.”

“How long did you stay in Martinique?”

“A year. The plan is to return there after the defense.” I glance at my chest again.

Still dry, but not for much longer, I’m afraid.

“Listen, I need to dash to the bathroom.” I give Xavier an apologetic smile. “Will you stall Professor Guyot if he comes out during my absence?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks! I’ll be right back.”

I bolt, scolding myself all the way to the bathroom for my absent-mindedness. In my rush to get to the école this morning, I forgot to slip nursing pads inside my bra. That means the milk oozing from my boobs might seep through my underwear and stain my blouse any moment now.

I hate this part of breastfeeding.

What I don’t hate is the act itself. Watching my herzele latch onto my breast, close her eyes in bliss, and derive nourishment from me is pure joy. We started solids recently—Lily is six months old now, and the doc said it was time—but I plan to breastfeed her twice a day for a few more months. It’s good for her well-being.

And for mine, too.

I wipe my nipples and line the cups of my bra with toilet paper. This should tide me over. Professor Guyot should finish his class anytime now, and when he does, we’ll talk. Then I can go pick up Lily from the day nursery.

Fingers crossed he has good news for me.

I’ve been in Paris three weeks now, and I still don’t have a date for my defense. It was supposed to take place last Wednesday. But then one of my two rapporteurs lost her father, and the whole thing had to be postponed.

“He’s still inside,” Xavier says when I return, almost running, and sit down next to him on the bench.

“Phew. Good.”

“You must be bummed about your defense last week,” he says.

“I am.”

“Mine had to be rescheduled earlier this year. My supervisor broke his leg.”

“How long did you have to wait?”

“Two months.”

I drop my head into my hands. “Oh no.”

“You may be luckier,” he says before adding, “even though I hope you won’t be. Selfishly, I hope you’ll stay in Paris as long as possible.”

I look up at him, surprised.

He holds my gaze as if to say, yes it is like you think.

What the what?

We met two weeks ago through Professor Guyot. Xavier is a sociologist. I’m a historian. Our mentor is both, and he involved us in his new seminar on “Research Methods in Sociological History.” The seminar is for PhD students and postdocs only, so participating in it is a great learning opportunity. And great fun. Our group is small enough to fit around the long table in the café across the street where we end up after each session to finish our debates around a drink.

I had no idea Xavier had taken a more than academic interest in me.

“I have a baby,” I blurt my new anti-pickup line of choice.

He looks at my ringless hands. “Are you still with the father?”

I shake my head.

“Then there’s no issue. Babies don’t bother me at all.” He smiles. “In fact, I love them.”

Right.

Thankfully, the door to the lecture hall opens and Professor Guyot steps out.

“Hello, Mia, sorry I made you wait.” He nods to Xavier before turning back to me. “Every single student had a burning question to ask after today’s lecture.”

Xavier and I say good-bye, and I follow Professor Guyot down the hallway.

“Can you walk with me to the Raspail Annex?” he asks. “I don’t want to be late for the faculty meeting.”

“No problem.”

Please let it be good news!

My current arrangement is so precarious I won’t be able to keep it up much longer. I’m renting an Airbnb studio in the twelfth. It’s cheaper than a hotel room, but it’s still double my rent back in Martinique. I was lucky to get a place for Lily at the nursery just two blocks down the street. Like this, I can take care of all the administrative stuff and attend seminars. But the cost of the studio and nursery is burning through my meager savings like a swarm of locusts through a field of corn.

Staying in Paris beyond October is out of the question.

“I have two pieces of good news for you and one bad,” Professor Guyot says as we leave the building. “Which one do you want to hear first?”

“Why don’t you sandwich the bad news between the two good ones?” I suggest.

He nods. “OK, good news number one. I arranged for you to co-moderate one of my grad-level workshops. You’ll get a small contract for the rest of September and all of October.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

“It isn’t much,” he says, smirking, “but it’ll see you and your baby through until your defense.”

“Do we have a date for it?” I ask.

“We do—and that’s the bad news.”

He stops at a traffic light, turns, and gives me an apologetic look. “The only time Mathilde, myself, and the rest of your committee are all available again is the third week of November.”

“That’s in two months.”

The light turns green, and we start walking again.

“I know,” he says. “And that brings me to the second bit of good news. The history department will have a maître de conférences opening next month.”

“But…” I mumble as we turn onto the Boulevard Raspail. “I won’t have my doctorate until November. Assuming everything goes well.”

“It will, I’m sure.”

We reach the Annex and climb the steps to the entrance.

“You did a fantastic job with your dissertation,” he says as we halt in front of the revolving door. “Everyone on the committee loves it. Even Mathilde loves it—and you know how hard it is to impress her.”

It’s near impossible to impress Mathilde.

I was obliged to ask her to be on my committee because she’s a top expert in my field. But I was fully prepared to have her rip up her copy of my thesis during the public defense and announce it’s the only fate this kind of BS deserves.

She’s done it to other candidates before me.

Professor Guyot smiles. “I talked to the administration, and they’re willing to sit on the vacancy announcement until mid-November.”

“This is…” I search for words. “It’s too good to be true.”

He shakes his head. “No it isn’t. You still have to apply and do well at the interview, which I have no doubt you will.”

“Thank you so much, Professor—”

“Please. Off you go.” He glances at his watch. “I’m already five minutes late.”

“I… I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me!”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He sighs. “After the faculty meeting, I’m seeing another doctoral student of mine, and that conversation is going to be a lot less gratifying than this one.”

He flashes his card to the security man and marches inside.

I run down the stairs, eager to get back to Lily, cozy up with her at home, and call Eva with the good news.

Could my life finally be getting on track?