The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 41
ELIAS
By June, Ireland had turned impossibly green—like the whole island had been dipped in wet paint and left to dry under a timid sun. The school year was winding down, Leila’s workload had eased just enough to let her breathe, and Darya ... she was glowing in a way I had never seen before. A kind of lightness in her step that still surprised me sometimes. I suspected I knew why—it had to do with a certain loud patron of The Silver Rose—but Darya had been abnormally quiet on that front lately. If Leila knew more, she hadn’t said anything to me.
One evening, after dinner, we were sprawled across the living room—Leila on the carpet with her laptop open, Darya stretched out dramatically across the sofa like a lounging cat, and me sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to grade a few leftover essays.
Leila looked up suddenly. “We should take a trip,” she announced.
Darya jolted upright so fast she almost fell off the couch. “A trip?”
Leila laughed. “Yes, a trip. A proper vacation. Somewhere warm. Somewhere sunny. Somewhere that involves sunglasses and ice cream and sandals.”
Darya blinked at her like she’d just offered her a ticket to Mars. “Do you mean ... like a real holiday? For all three of us?”
“Yes,” I said, setting my papers aside. “A real one. That’s a great idea.”
She covered her mouth with both hands—but even then the smile escaped. “I’ve never ... I mean ... not like this.” Her voice cracked a little. “I’ve never taken a vacation outside Iran. Not even inside Iran, really.”
I felt something tighten in my chest. “Then it’s about time.”
Leila scooted closer to her laptop, fingers flying. “Okay. Warm, beautiful, relaxing ... How about the French Riviera?” She just threw that location out there, and instantly, it stuck.
Darya gasped dramatically. “Saint-Tropez? Cannes? Nice?” Then she pointed at Leila. “Madame French-Speaker, can you actually talk to the French people now?”
Leila tossed her hair in mock arrogance. “Je parle très bien, merci.” Her accent was good—too good, actually. I felt vaguely outclassed.
Darya clapped like an excited child. “French Riviera! Oh my god, Leila, say something else in French!”
Leila grinned and rattled off a few sentences. Darya swooned theatrically. “WHAT have you been doing, studying under a Parisian ghost at night?”
She turned to me. “Elias, we must bring her everywhere. She’ll be our secret weapon. Our translator goddess.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve already accepted my role as luggage carrier.”
“Good,” Darya said, patting my shoulder. “Every group needs one.”
Leila interrupted her. “I found something. Flights from Shannon to Nice, easy route, good timing.” Her eyes sparkled. “And ... a hotel in Saint-Tropez.”
She turned the screen so we could see: a small boutique hotel with whitewashed balconies and an absurd view of turquoise water. Bougainvillea spilled down the walls in pink cascades.
“Oh,” Darya whispered, hand to her heart. “I want to live in that balcony.”
Leila laughed. “We can’t buy it, but we can stay there for four nights.”
“Book it,” Darya said immediately. “Book the flights, book the hotel, book everything.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Usually you argue at least a little.”
“This is not a moment for arguing,” she declared. “This is a moment for destiny.”
Leila clicked. “Flights—booked.”
Another click. “Hotel—booked.”
Darya squealed and grabbed both of us in a hug, nearly choking me. “We’re going to the French Riviera! I’m going on a real vacation with the two of you!” She paused, then added, “Lucas will die of jealousy.”
I snorted. “Lucas will pretend not to care and then text me thirty times asking for photos.”
Leila closed her laptop and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “All set. We leave in a week.”
Darya still hadn’t released her grip on us. “This is insane,” she murmured. “A year ago ... I couldn’t even imagine anything like this.”
Leila kissed her cheek. “That’s why we’re doing it.”
“Saint-Tropez,” Darya whispered, leaning back with a dreamy smile. “Look out, France. We’re on our way.”
The morning of our trip, Shannon Airport felt like a place suspended between sleep and daylight. Pale early sun slanted through the glass, and every sound—the roll of suitcases, the coffee machines hissing—felt slightly muffled, as if the world hadn’t fully woken up yet.
Darya, on the other hand, had absolutely woken up.
She bounced on the balls of her feet in front of the check-in desk, ponytail swishing, sunglasses perched on top of her head like she was already on the Riviera.
“Elias,” she whispered urgently, tugging my sleeve. “Elias, look at me. I am traveling internationally for fun. Do you understand the historical significance of this moment?”
I laughed. “The world may never be the same.”
Leila nudged me. “Don’t tease. She’s excited.”
“She’s vibrating.”
“That’s called happiness,” Darya said, flipping her hair. “You should try it sometime.”
She was impossible not to grin at.
Security was painless, boarding was quick, and soon enough we were strapped into our seats, the engines starting to thrum beneath us. Darya pressed her forehead to the window as we took off, watching the Irish coastline shrink into a jagged green curve.
“Next stop,” she whispered, “the land of sunshine, seafood, and men named Thierry.”
Leila choked on her coffee. “What?”
Darya shrugged innocently. “What? Thierry is a nice name.”
I stared at her. “Darya.”
“Okay, fine. I just want to see if the French really do walk around holding baguettes.”
Leila was laughing too hard to speak.
Eventually—eventually—we grew quiet. For most of the flight, Leila dozed against my shoulder. I watched the patchwork of clouds drift underneath us and tried—failed—to mirror the calm I pretended to have. I was excited too. More than I wanted to admit.
When we descended toward Nice, Darya shook Leila awake.
“LOOK,” she said, pointing out the window. “LOOK AT THE WATER. It’s blue blue.”
She wasn’t wrong. The Mediterranean glittered below like someone had spilled crushed sapphires everywhere.
The instant we stepped out of the plane into the warm Mediterranean air, Darya inhaled deeply like she could fill her entire soul with sunshine.
“Ohhhh,” she sighed. “This. This is what my skin has been waiting for.”
The airport in Nice was bright and modern, all sleek glass and palm trees visible outside the windows. Leila switched into flawless French the second we reached the rental car counter, and I swear the man behind the desk nearly fell in love with her on the spot.
We ended up with a compact little car that looked like it had been designed specifically for the Côte d’Azur—white exterior, sunroof, threatening to be stylish.
Darya claimed the back seat with a triumphant flop. “Chauffeur! To Saint-Tropez!”
“You’re getting way too comfortable issuing orders,” I said.
“And yet,” she replied, leaning back smugly, “the car is moving.”
The drive was absurdly beautiful. Blue—the kind of blue that made the Atlantic back in Galway look shy—stretched endlessly to our right. Hills rolled up on the left, dotted with villas and cypress trees. Every few kilometers, Leila made a delighted noise at some coastal view, and I slowed down just so she could take it in.
Darya pointed at a cluster of yachts. “Look! Boats worth more than our entire building.”
Leila turned. “Do you want to go on a boat someday?”
“Yes,” Darya said immediately. “Preferably one belonging to a billionaire philanthropist with a tragic backstory.”
I laughed. “You have oddly specific fantasies.”
“They keep life interesting.”
We wound along the highways and then onto smaller coastal roads. Heat shimmered on the asphalt. The air smelled faintly of salt and rosemary.
Then, finally—Saint-Tropez.
It appeared like a pastel dream: terracotta roofs, narrow winding streets, sunlight turning the old port gold. It felt like stepping into a postcard someone had carelessly left lying around.
Darya pressed her palms to the window. “We’re really here...”
The boutique hotel was even prettier than the pictures—white stone, soft blue shutters, and balconies draped in flowers. Again, the receptionist lit up when Leila spoke to him in French; Darya and I exchanged an impressed glance.
We took the lift to the second floor and opened the door to our shared suite—two bedrooms connected by a common sitting area with tall windows overlooking the distant glimmer of water.
Darya let out a shriek and immediately ran onto the balcony.
“THIS,” she shouted, arms outstretched to the sun, “IS MY NEW HOME.”
Leila laughed, stepping out beside her. “We’re here for four days, not four years.”
“I can adapt.”
I leaned in the doorway, watching the two of them—hair lifted by the breeze, sunlight warming their faces, laughter echoing into the courtyard below.
Darya turned and pointed dramatically at the horizon. “Elias! Come out here. You need vitamin D.”
Leila snorted. “He does.”
I stepped onto the balcony with them, letting the sun wash over me, letting the laughter wash even deeper.
Darya sighed dramatically, raising her arms with a flourish. “France, beware. We have arrived, and we are fabulous.”
Saint-Tropez glowed before us. We had arrived, indeed.
DARYA
If joy had a temperature, mine would’ve been somewhere around the surface of the sun. Every day in Saint-Tropez felt like my personal reward from the universe—hot air, bright colors, the sea sparkling like it had dressed up just for us. I’d never had a vacation like this, never felt this free, never laughed so much.
And yet ... every time my phone buzzed, my heart did this tiny somersault.
Lucas.
The buzzing was constant. He texted like he talked—fast, funny, teasing, filled with far more warmth than he’d ever admit. I kept trying to hide the little flashes of my screen from Leila and Elias. Not because I was scared of them knowing. I just ... needed a minute. A little more time for my brain to catch up to what my heart was doing.
Which, apparently, was falling for him.
Hard.
I pretended to rummage in my beach bag as another message appeared.
Lucas:
You’re probably out living your millionaire jet-set life.
Don’t forget us peasants back in Ireland.
I grinned like an idiot and typed fast:
Me:
Peasants don’t usually drink Guinness at noon. I’ve seen you.
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