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Moira had been alone on the platform for several minutes before he arrived. He glided past her without a glance and walked right up to the edge, pushing onto tiptoes and craning forward to check the tunnel for trains. Moira felt a stab of fear that the man’s bulky hikers’ backpack would topple him to the third rail. But he stepped smoothly back to safety, glanced up at the darkened arrivals sign, and took out his phone. Moira’s own was tucked in an inside pocket of her handbag, safe from the infamous pickpockets that hunted on the Paris metro.
She approached the typing man. “Pardonnez-moi,” Moira said. “Quelle heure est-il?”
He looked up, startled. His tan cheeks still carried some vestigial chubbiness. His brown hair was shaggy; he probably never cut it unless his girlfriend or his mother complained. He would probably call Moira ‘ma’am’ if he called her anything at all.
The man looked back at his phone. “Il est neuf heures y quart,” he said, paying respect to each word. He pronounced heures like hers.
“Are you American?” Moira asked.
His entire body exhaled. “What gave me away?”
A few weeks ago Moira wouldn’t have noticed anything of note about the way he spoke. But now the nasal pitch of his voice made her chest hurt.
“Do you know what’s going on with the trains? I’ve been here for a while and I haven’t seen any come through.”
“I was just Googling to double check, but I’m betting there’s a metro strike today.” He tapped at his screen a few more times. “Yep. Metro service is shut down all day. Joke’s on us for assuming it wouldn’t be.”
“Oh no,” said Moira. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“It’s not. Workers here strike more than I sneeze. More power to them, I say.” He raised his fist in a gesture Moira sometimes saw on TV.
“Well, thanks.” She started back towards the turnstiles.
“Were you trying to take the metro north? I’m going to Gare du Nord, if you’re headed around there, we could split an Uber.”
Moira was on her way to Gare du Nord as well, and she told him she’d love to split an Uber, thanks. She ignored the alarms that a lifetime of instructions to avoid strangers had installed in her brain. She had met nothing but strangers for weeks. This was a countryman.
“I’m Moira, by the way.” She held out a hand as they walked.
He shook it. “Good to meet you, Moira. I’m Nate.”
Nate. It made her think of backwards baseball caps and summer barbecues. She lifted her suitcase off its wheels and followed him up the steps and back into the honking traffic and nicotine air of Le Marais, where Henri and his Mini Cooper would pick them up in three minutes.
✹✹✹
They spent the first few minutes of their trip in silence, which suited Moira just fine. She wanted to get a last look at Paris, at the bistro awnings and café tables packed with lingering breakfasters. She especially wanted to take in the tops of the buildings one last time, the flower boxes and the French windows. She’d spent so much of her trip gazing up at them, imagining what it would be like to live inside. She would miss the crick in her neck.
“Where are you headed?” Nate eventually asked. There wasn’t a lot of room in the Mini’s backseat, and his jeans pressed against her slacks as the car crawled through the streets. Moira could feel the heat of his thigh through the fabrics. It was nice.
“Cologne,” she told him.
He groaned like he’d just had a first bite of great steak. “Cologne’s great. An underrated city. Do me a favor, go to Fassbender and get the apple strudel with rum sauce. I dream about it. And it’s right by the Wallraf-Richartz, if you like museums.”
“I do. Thanks. When were you in Cologne?’
“Two, maybe three years ago? I spent about a week researching a guide.” Off her confused look, he explained, “I run a travel blog for a living. “United Natetions.” I give tips and recommendations, lists of the best things to see in whatever city, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, wow. For three years, you said?”
“Almost four.”
“I’d have thought you were in high school four years ago.”
He laughed, a low and pleasing sound. “I’m thirty-one. But thanks for thinking I’m young.”
Her daughter Kayleigh was twenty-six. Thank God he was at least older than that. Otherwise, Moira would’ve called the police herself.
“Is that what you were doing in Paris? Working on a guide?”
“Nah. I think I’ve written everything there is to write about Paris. I was taking a little break, visiting friends. Now it’s back to work in Amsterdam. I get a lot of questions about coffee shops, so I’m thinking of doing a list of the fifteen best places to enjoy hash. That might really do numbers.”
“Fifteen? That seems like a lot.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be a fun weekend.”
They pulled up in front of the station. Nate got Moira’s suitcase out of the trunk before heaving up his backpack. Together they walked inside and scanned the timetable.
“Mine’s about to board,” said Nate. “You?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“All right, then.” He began to walk away backwards, one hand raised in a wave. “Good to meet you, Moira. Remember, Fassbender, apple strudel.”
“I got it,” Moira said. Because she had time, she watched him turn around and walk leisurely to his track. He towered over most of the scurrying travelers, head bobbing along until it got lost in the crowd.
✹✹✹
Moira had first met Walter two years ago, when he’d arrived at the Forsyth County Library with boxes of books from his private collection. He’d stood in Moira’s office while she picked through them, plucking out the World War Two biographies and finance guides they didn’t already carry. She returned the rest to him. He asked if she wanted to get dinner. She said yes, and without really meaning to, she fell into…something. Relationship was too passionate a word. It was more of a companionship. They went to New American restaurants and drove to Raleigh to see touring productions of musicals. They chatted on the phone most nights and had sex sporadically. It was comfortable and nice, until Walter’s diagnosis.
She had known that he was rich. His house was three times the size of her clapboard ranch, and he ran a law firm his great-grandfather had founded. But they never talked about money, which was refreshing, since it was all she and her ex-husband had talked about at the end. Walter had no children, had outlived all his other relatives, and so Moira wasn’t surprised that her name was in the will. But she was surprised when she saw how many commas were in her inheritance.
She did the practical things first; paid off the house and the car, got Kayleigh to admit what she needed for her student loans and wrote out a check. It was Kayleigh, dropping by to pick up the slip, who’d suggested it.
“Why don’t you go traveling?”
Moira had thought about it, of course. She had never left the country before, had only been west of the Mississippi once for a cousin’s wedding in Denver. Traveling was one of the first things that it had occurred to her to do. But she’d needed, she realized, Kayleigh’s permission, assurance that her daughter would be fine without her near.
She decided she would take a month. October first to early November. Kayleigh and her fiancé Benji would check on the house and possibly spend a few nights there; they were dying to get out of their one-bedroom in downtown Winston-Salem, but better options within their budget were slim. There was some talk of Kayleigh flying out for a week if she could negotiate the time off with her school’s principal. Moira put in her two weeks at the library. She didn’t need the paycheck anymore, but she’d liked keeping up her routine. On her last day, the other librarians threw her a going away party, presented her with a Publix sheet cake and a copy of Oh, The Places You’ll Go! They had plenty of advice for her: I heard it’s rude to tip. You should go to London, it won’t feel as foreign. Don’t drink the tap water. She took it all under consideration and then booked a one-way ticket from Raleigh to Paris. More than any other city, Paris struck her as a place she should be able to say she’s seen.
She adored Paris with an unfamiliar immediacy and intensity. Day by day she mapped out the city, exploring museums and boutiques and gardens. She grew more confident at ordering une tartine et un cappuccino, s’il vous plaît. She caught glimpses of herself in storefronts as she walked down the street, and she liked what she saw, liked how the hair that she’d let go silver complemented her black turtlenecks and tortoiseshell glasses.
The only time Moira felt lonely was when she sat down to dine. Waiting for her food gave her too much time to notice the mothers and children, the laughing friends, the obvious lovers. She’d always heard that the best part of getting older was not caring what people thought of you. But fifty-four must not be old enough. At first she used this time to turn on roaming and text Kayleigh. Soon she started taking all her meals to go, eating her dinner in the acceptable emptiness of her hotel room.
After three weeks in Paris Moira noticed a feeling, an itch under her skin she couldn’t reach. She looked up train routes and travel tips, then booked a ticket to Cologne. She had one more week in her month abroad, and she wanted to spend it somewhere new.
✹✹✹
In Cologne she did everything the internet told her to. She went to the chocolate museum and read about how little cacao farmers are paid, walked around the cathedral that looked like it would draw blood if she touched the outside. She reluctantly asked for a table for one at Fassbender. They didn’t have an English menu, so she asked the waiter if they still had the strudel with rum sauce.
“Mit,” he said. “Mit rum sauce.”
“Right. Yes. With mitrum sauce.”
“No, mit is with. You come to Germany, you don’t speak one word of German?”
“Nein,” Moira said. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head as he walked away, muttering something to himself she couldn’t understand, though she thought she caught the word American. His face was all red, and Moira wasn’t sure if he was truly angry or just German.
After a couple of days she’d had her fill, and so Moira crossed the country to Berlin. She sent Kayleigh pictures of her favorite murals from the remains of the wall, paid eleven euros for a vegan currywurst out of curiosity. At the Checkpoint Charlie Museum, she read about all the different ways people had smuggled themselves out of East Germany and wondered if she would’ve been as creative or brave or lucky in their shoes.
“Hard to read about these things,” a young woman who sounded like one of the Beatles said to her friend.
“Hmm,” the other agreed.
“I think it’s because I experienced it in a past life.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. If I close my eyes I can hear the police and the dogs.”
Moira turned away so neither woman could see her smirk. She thought about texting Kayleigh, but it was the middle of the night in North Carolina. She’d remember to tell her later.
The thirty-day anniversary of her international flight came and went. Where did she have to be? She was starting to feel the itch, though, and she decided on Prague, booked her passage the day after the next.
That night, Moira picked up a pizza and a bottle of red and brought them back to her hotel. She put on CNN for company until it made her too sad. She stretched out on her snow white comforter and enjoyed the challenge of not spilling any wine, which got more fun the more she drank. After she ate she pulled out her laptop to start planning her final day in Berlin.
“Unique Things to Do In Berlin.” Enter search. She glazed through the first few articles; they recommended the same handfuls of tourist activities. Then a link caught her eye: “Off the Beaten Path in Berlin.” It was from a website called United Natetions.
She had looked it up on the train from Paris to Cologne. Nate had written articles on so many cities in so many countries on six out of the seven continents. She skimmed through them: “Top 10 Scuba Diving Spots in the Mediterranean,” “Can’t Miss Sights in Cairo,” “Best Traditional Korean Dinners in Seoul.” (Moira read that last one in full; she’d tried Korean takeout in Paris and really enjoyed it.) There were pictures in every piece, mostly of meals and monuments, but sometimes of him, grinning, giving the camera a thumbs up from the summit of Mount Fuji or the base of Christ the Redeemer.
There had been two new posts since the last time she’d visited. One was an article called “Five Best Places for Quality Hash in Amsterdam.” Above that was a post from a few hours ago:
Hey Nate Nation! Going to be kicking around Berlin for a couple of days. Hit me up with any recs.
Moira’s wine bottle was almost empty. She clicked on the Contact Me button and typed into the white box:
Hi Nate,
Not sure if you remember me, but we split an Uber to Gare du Nord a few weeks ago. I was going to Cologne when you were on your way to Amsterdam.
I’m actually in Berlin until the day after tomorrow. If you’re not too busy and you’d like to get a coffee or a drink, let me know.
Best,
Moira
PS: I went to Fassbender. The strudel was divine. But I could have used more whipped cream.
✹✹✹
Moira woke up the next morning to a headache and a response:
Of course I remember you! I’m so glad you reached out!
Would you want to grab dinner tonight? There’s a combination Vietnamese restaurant and florist along the river I’ve been dying to get back to. Hai Food & Flowers, 8 o’clock?
PS: Agree to disagree on the whipped cream.
✹✹✹
Nate was already there when she arrived, seated outside at a wooden picnic table surrounded by potted chrysanthemums. Moira had put some extra time into getting ready. She’d poured herself into the red sweater that fit her well but always seemed too bold. She’d dug her lipstick out of the bottom of her toiletry kit. This was not a date, and no matter what she looked like passersby would assume they were a mother and son. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t had dinner with an attractive man in a long time. She wanted it to feel good.
He looked nice, too, in his khakis and quarter-zip. When he saw her, he stood up and leaned in like he was going to kiss her. Moira backed away on instinct.
“Sorry, I was going to do the cheek thing. Force of habit at this point.” They sat down and he slid a menu to her side.
“Oh. That’s okay,” Moira said, disappointed in herself.
A waiter promptly arrived. They agreed that she could try his curry if he could have a spoonful of her pho. He confidently asked for some local beer, and she requested the same.
“So,” Nate said once they were alone. “What brings you to Berlin?”
“Berlin brings me to Berlin, I guess. I just felt like I should see it.”
Nate nodded. He twirled the paper straw in his water glass between two fingers. “Tell me to fuck off if you want, but can I ask what you’re doing traveling by yourself?”
“I don’t want to tell you to fuck off,” Moira said. She told him all about Walter and the inheritance, about finding herself with more money than she knew what to do with, about the initial plan to spend a month abroad. He asked what made her stay longer.
“It flew by faster than I thought it would. And when I thought about buying a ticket home, I kept coming up with another place I wanted to see. And so, here I am.” Moira laughed, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I must sound obnoxious. “Got nothing better to do, might as well go on a trip people dream about their whole lives.” But I just don’t know what else to do. I’m not used to having money. Which also must sound obnoxious.”
Nate shook his head emphatically. “I don’t think so. It’s like you said, people dream their whole lives of doing what you’re doing. And you seem like a good person to be doing it. As in, you’ve been given a huge gift, and you’re not taking it for granted.”
Their food arrived. Nate asked what was next after Germany.
“I really should get home before Christmas. My daughter—I have a daughter, Kayleigh, she’s younger than you—has been bringing it up more and more. Though really I think she just doesn’t want to go to her future in-laws. They’re a little loopy, politically.”
“Do you think you’ll travel again after?”
“Sure. I’d love to. But I should spend some time at home, too.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, my daughter’s there. And my house and everyone I know. And…well, it’s home. What else would I do, just keep traveling?”
“Yeah. You could start a blog. Actually, don’t—I already have enough competition.”
“Don’t you ever get homesick, though? When’s the last time you were home?”
Nate squinched his eyes in thought. “This past spring? No, last year. I stopped by Irvine after my Mexico trip.” He shrugged. “I miss some things sometimes. But you couldn’t pay me to be in the US right now. You were smart to get away when you did.”
A programmed reaction, something automatic and angry, made her sit up straighter. She had never thought of her country as a place to get away from.
“Honestly,” Nate continued, “I would love to find a way to become a citizen somewhere else. Then I’d never have to go back.”
“Don’t you think that’s an overreaction? The government’s not always going to be what it is now.”
“You’re right. In a few years it’ll be worse.
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s still true even if you don’t believe it. That place hasn’t done anything to earn my optimism. Tell me, what do you like about America?”
“Freedom.”
“Increasingly unavailable. There are so many countries whose citizens are “freer” than Americans.”
“Well, then, I like it because it’s my home. I was raised there, and I raised my daughter there.”
“That has nothing to do with the country, though. You’d love your life and your family just as much if you were from Canada, or New Zealand, or Sweden. What has the actual institution of America given to you or to me? Nothing. And we’re the lucky ones.” He cocked his head as he looked at her. “I haven’t offended you, have I?”
Moira considered it. “No,” she admitted. “I can see what you’re saying. But I think you’re oversimplifying things. And the US isn’t the only place where bad things are happening right now. And, I think you’re too young to be this cynical.”
“I think you’re too old to be this naive.” His eyes widened so quickly that she had to laugh.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I’m offended.”
“I’m sorry. That was mean. And you’re not old, I don’t know why I said that.”
“I am old.”
“Come on. You’re, what, forty-five?”
Moira smiled. “Fifty-four. But thanks for thinking I’m young.”
✹✹✹
They walked along the Spree after dinner, talking, Moira holding onto a bag of leftovers and the clipped pink rose that had come with their check.
There hadn’t been a dip in the conversation since they’d moved on from America. When was the last time Moira had talked to someone for so long? She and Kayleigh mostly texted; their phone calls were infrequent and short.
They discussed the places Nate had been, the places Moira wanted to go. She asked what his favorite city in the world was and he threw out seven possibilities before crying uncle.
She was challenging him, now, to come up with things that were better in America than they were in Europe. He started out ironic— “Infrastructure, health care, human rights, obviously,”—before turning sincere.
“I miss iced coffee,” he said. “You can get it here, but it’s not the same.”
“I miss ice in general,” said Moira. “And not paying for water at restaurants.”
“I miss shitty Tex Mex.”
“I miss peanut butter.”
“We just keep naming foods.”
Moira laughed. “What kind of people walk around Europe and crave American cuisine?”
“We’re a specific kind of lunatic,” Nate said. A jogger ran past them, and Nate put his hand on the small of Moira’s back to guide her away from the stranger and towards him.
He was excited that she was going to Prague. “Tell me all of your thoughts about it,” he said in front of her hotel as he typed his number into her phone. “Pictures, too.”
She promised she would. He hugged her goodbye and walked back in the direction they came, towards his hostel.
✹✹✹
Moira loved Prague. Loved the view of all the red rooftops from the castle, the tiny shops along the Vltava, the trdelniks that left her fingers dusted with cinnamon. She wasn’t sure if Nate had really wanted to know how she was doing, but still she texted him pictures of her schnitzel, of a fountain of two bronze men facing each other and urinating water out of sculpted dicks, their streams meeting in mid-air. He rarely responded right away, but he always got back to her: That looks unbelievable. I’m coming right over. Or: I know that fountain! There’s a website you can go to where you can make them write messages with their piss. In turn he sent her filtered photos of sangria pitchers, various fruits bobbing in red liquid. Doing delicious research for a listicle in Madrid. Which of these looks the most photogenic to you?
Moira sent Kayleigh many of the same photos. Her daughter’s responses were shorter; mostly LOL or Beautiful!, sometimes just a thumbs up or a heart. Kayleigh was probably busy, Moira reasoned. Though then again, so was she.
One night Moira was reading in bed when she got a call from her daughter.
“Kayleigh! Hi!”
“Hey, Mom. How’s it going?” Under Kayleigh’s voice was the faint white noise of men cheering. Benji must’ve had some friends over to watch a game.
She went over her day, telling Kayleigh about the train she’d taken to a nearby village, the Gothic cathedral she’d climbed to the top of. She’d just introduced the nice Polish couple who’d invited her to lunch when Kayleigh cut her off.
“I’m glad you’re having such a good time. Any thoughts on when you might be coming back?”
“Christmas, just like we talked about. It’s still a while away.”
“It’s a month away. Today’s Thanksgiving. Remember?”
That wasn’t possible. Moira wouldn’t have forgotten about Thanksgiving. Although, she supposed— “They don’t really have that over here, honey. Slipped my mind.”
“You know, I looked it up, and you’re not allowed to stay in Europe for more than ninety days without a visa.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So you have to be home by Christmas.”
“I will be. I’m planning on it.”
“It doesn’t sound like you are.” There was a shuffle followed by the sound of a door closing. Kayleigh’s voice got lower. “I miss you, Mom.”
“Oh, honey. I miss you, too.”
“Benji’s family is being really annoying. His Uncle Reggie told me to be a good girl and get him another beer.”
“I hope you cracked it over his head.”
Kayleigh snorted. “No, but I should have.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before.”
They chatted for a little while longer about Kayleigh’s class’s Thanksgiving pageant and how Benji’s mom insisted on doing all the cooking herself. Once they hung up, Moira sat in silence, phone still in her hand, looking out the window at the hills on the horizon.
✹✹✹
On December 3, Nate texted:
Hey. Sorry I’ve been MIA for a couple days. If you’re going home before Christmas, would you at least want to spend a little bit of the festive season in the place where it all began?
She wrote back: Bethlehem???
A few minutes later: Ah. No. I meant Rome.
✹✹✹
They agreed to meet for dinner at a trattoria Nate knew on a side street near Piazza Navona. As they sat down at the red checkered table Nate told her she should try the pear pasta.
“Pear? As in the fruit?”
“Just trust me.” And she did, so she ordered it. The little pillows of pasta came out on a bed of thick cream sauce. It was incredible.
Something was off with Nate. He was quiet, giving short answers when Moira asked about his sangria research. He kept fidgeting, picking up his water and putting it down without drinking, swirling his wine over and over. She wondered if he was nervous. If there was something he wanted to confess to her.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asked.
He sighed, sinking into his seat. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you something. It’s why I wanted to meet up, actually. I wanted to do it in person.” He laughed, harshly, and looked at his picked-at plate. “Even though it’s way harder.”
“What is it?”
He looked up. “I’m going home. To my parents’ house.”
That was it? She tried not to seem let down. “I think that’s great. How long are you going for?”
“For a long time. Moira, I’m moving back to the States.”
She laughed. Not because what he’d said was funny, but because it was so unbelievable. Like a cow telling you in perfect English it wanted to be a burger.
“I’m serious.”
“I can see that. Why?”
He shrugged. “A few reasons. The blog hasn’t been doing so well lately. Apparently there are influencers on other platforms who “move the needle” more than I do, so that’s where sponsors want to spend their money.”
“I could lend—”
“I don’t need or want your money. And anyway, that’s not all. I…I’m tired, Moira. I’ve been doing this for four years, and it’s been amazing. I’ve seen incredible things and met incredible people. And I don’t regret any of it. But I’ve been feeling…something for a while. Something wrong. And after I met you I realized that I feel wrong because I can’t do what you do anymore. The wonder’s gone. Everywhere looks the same to me. Anywhere I go, all I can think about is potential content, how I can make money off art and history. I can’t do it anymore. I want to talk to people who are from the same place I am, the way I can talk to you. I want to pull my clothes out of a closet instead of a backpack. I don’t want “American-style” pancakes, I want pancakes the way my mom makes them. And I want bad fast food tacos. And peanut butter. Iced coffee. All the little things that make that place home.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and laughed bitterly into his palm. “That’s how they get you.”
She watched him in silence for a moment. “I can’t imagine you sitting still for long,” she said.
“Who knows. Maybe this is all some delayed quarter-life crisis, and I’ll be back on the road again soon. But I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He dropped his hand abruptly and looked at her. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I feel like I’m betraying you. I wanted to be…impressive. I wanted you to be impressed by me.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked so, so young.
“Nate,” said Moira, reaching across the table. She wasn’t sure if she should take his hand, and she wasn’t sure how to say that she’d never met anyone as impressive as him in her life. So instead she laid her hand in front of his, fingertips almost touching, and said, “It’s okay.”
He watched their hands. “Yeah,” he agreed. He sat back.
“When are you going?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh. That soon.”
“I know. When I told my folks the plan they really wanted me back before Christmas. What about you? When are you going?”
“I haven’t bought my ticket yet. But I’ll probably leave from here.”
Nate nodded and looked around the restaurant. “Take your time. Drink in Rome while you can. It would make my list of ten favorite cities. Maybe top five.” He smiled sadly at her. “Can’t turn it off.”
After dinner, he walked her back to her hotel. The cobblestone streets were quiet. Occasionally, they passed a shuffling man, or a couple hand in hand. Moira wondered if anyone noticed her and Nate. Wondered what they were assumed to be.
Outside the lobby doors they hugged. She wished him a Merry Christmas and the best of luck. He wished her the same.
“Can I,” he asked shyly, “say goodbye the European way? I don’t know when I’ll be able to do it again.”
She agreed. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her left cheek. She could smell wine, and something else, some cologne that smelled nothing like home.
He moved to her other cheek and gave it a soft kiss. As he pulled away Moira pushed forward and caught him on the mouth, because she could. And everything else they did that night, all the other European ways they said goodbye, they did because they could.
✹✹✹
Two weeks later. Security at FCO didn’t take long at all. Moira secured her passport and boarding pass in her purse and meandered to her gate. Her flight was scheduled to take off on time. She browsed the duty-free shop, picked up a bag of taralli to snack on later.
The plane wasn’t completely full, and Moira was delighted to have her row all to herself. She typed out an email while the other passengers boarded, double-checked that the attachment was attached, and sent it to Kayleigh before turning on Airplane mode. The subject line was MERRY XMAS.
It would be a long flight, almost twelve hours. She’d land around dinner time. She had looked again through Nate’s list of the best restaurants in Seoul and picked out the one closest to her hotel. She would check in to the room, shower and change, eat, and then finally allow herself to sleep. Moira wasn’t sure what she’d do the day after. She would figure it out as she went.
Gracie Schufreider earned a BA in Screenwriting from Loyola Marymount University and worked in the Los Angeles film industry before returning to her native Massachusetts to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) at Boston University, where she received a Leslie Epstein Global Fellowship. Her work has appeared in Apricity Magazine.