Dating the Counterfeit – Chapter 3: Chasing the Sunset

I was drunk and high off love that night. The next morning, the alcohol wore off and my high turned into regret. Embarrassment washed over me. I had kissed a stranger within hours of meeting him—a full-on French kiss, no less.

Maybe I was overthinking it, because I knew Brittney wouldn’t judge me. But I still felt uneasy. And to make matters worse, I had given that stranger’s best friend my number.

Sam. There was something about him. I didn’t want him to think I was “easy” or, worse, a harlot. I thought I had ruined any chance of a respectable relationship with him—until my iPhone 6 Plus buzzed twice.

It was Sam, direct messaging me on Instagram:

“Let’s negotiate something, like we did with your drink last night. If you don’t travel this weekend, I’ll come to Toulouse. I’ll take you to your favorite restaurant. Then we’ll go dancing. Finally, we’ll end our night watching a boxing match on Showtime PPV.”

I read the message in his deep, sexy French voice. And then I said yes.

That whole week, Brittney and I gossiped about every detail of our conversations. She was as happy for me as she could be—after all, I hadn’t exactly shared Sam like I once said I would. Two days before my date, we went shopping.

I wanted clothes that could pass me off as French but still say, “I’m American.” We hunted for a purse that was neutral, cheap, and disposable—my suitcases were already overweight, and I couldn’t take much back home.

We ended up in the new mall everyone had been buzzing about: Primark. It was the biggest mall I’d been to in France, but I still couldn’t find the right bag. I settled for furry socks instead—until I spotted a woman leaving behind a purse she decided not to buy. Before the cashier could put it away, I asked to purchase it.

It didn’t have a barcode, which was why she’d put it back. But that morning I was in makeup and good spirits, and the cashier decided to “complete my outfit” by ringing it up for just eight euros.

Saturday arrived. Our first date. We were supposed to meet at the train station at 11 a.m., but at 7 a.m., Sam called. He had missed his train but promised he’d take the next one.

From Lyon, he boarded a train to Marseille—only to be stopped by the gilets jaunes protests. (The gilets jaunes—or “yellow vests”—are workers protesting the government. They can shut down stores, metro stations, and, apparently, trains.)

Sam was determined. He left the train, booked a ride with BlaBlaCar, and kept going. When I learned he was only two hours away, I started getting ready. My nerves cut my usual two-hour routine down to fifty minutes.

My host brother took dozens of photos of me in my outfit. I posted the best one on Facebook. Men left heart emojis, my girlfriends commented “yasss,” “slayyy,” and “suuusssss.” But Sam hadn’t liked the picture.

Two hours passed. Still no Sam. My thoughts spiraled—what if this was a joke? What if he wasn’t coming and just wanted to get back at me for giving Benny my number? But that didn’t sound like him, not after our nightly marathon phone calls.

By 3 p.m., he called again—still apologizing, still on the move. The protesters had stopped his BlaBlaCar, so he’d grabbed an Uber to the nearest airport. He was about to board a small plane from a private airport just to get to me.

I remember my outfit vividly: olive-green skinny jeans, an off-the-shoulder cotton shirt in Colgate white, and clear plastic heels that mimicked Cinderella’s glass slippers. I smelled like Estée Lauder’s La Vie Est Belle. My face was glowing with MAC, Fenty, and diminishing hope.

I’ve never been so nervous. I sat, stood, lay down, and stared in the mirror for hours—blotting my face every thirty minutes, silently cursing the French drugstore that sold me that useless four-euro setting spray.

At 5:58 p.m., he called again. He was finally in Toulouse, about to take the metro to meet me at my station. He wanted to arrive before sunset.

I panicked. I no longer liked my outfit. I changed into my backup: a black, handwoven, long-sleeve turtleneck dress—form-fitting and midi length. Paired with my Cinderella heels and neutral bag, it was perfect.

I took an Uber to meet him. The whole ride, I FaceTimed my sister for teeth and makeup checks, even asking the driver if I looked good. Sam told me to wait in front of the pharmacy. I was there, but I didn’t see him—until I heard his voice on the phone: “I see you, I’m coming.”

And then… Damn. Sam was still fine.

We had missed the sunset, but the fire in our eyes was brighter than anything the sky could’ve given us.

When I’m nervous, my inner boujee takes over. I hugged him, then walked like royalty—head high, shoulders back—making sure he knew I was fine. We caught the metro to a grocery store. Unfortunately, my new heels were cutting into my skin, and my ankles were bleeding. I tried to stunt, but the pain humbled me fast.

Sam did the shopping while I hunted for bandages. I called my best friend to gossip and complain about my heels. At the register, I slipped two bottles of wine into the cart; Sam just smiled and paid.

At the Airbnb, Sam told me to take off my shoes. I resisted, not wanting to ruin the look, but I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. We sat together, swapping stories about childhood, families, and our favorite songs—only breaking eye contact when we laughed.

Then I noticed the gift bag. Inside was a box of my favorite chocolates and his graduate school sweater—the one each student only gets once, the one you can’t buy anywhere. He wanted me to remember him when I left France.