PART 1

Paris Summer Secret wasn’t something I ever expected to uncover in the middle of a normal Tuesday afternoon. My name is Sarah Miller, I’m thirty-two, born and raised in Michigan, married for six years to a man I thought I knew better than anyone in the world. His name is David — dependable, thoughtful, the kind of guy who double-checks the stove and remembers to text when he’s running late.

He also always said he’d never been to Paris.

That detail never mattered before. It only came up because Paris was my dream trip. I’d majored in art history, had posters of the Eiffel Tower in my college dorm, and a Pinterest board titled Someday, France.

Every time I brought it up, David would laugh.

“Babe, I don’t even speak French,” he’d say. “Neither do I,” I’d reply. “See? We’d just starve.”

It was our little joke. Until the day a stranger blew it apart. We were at a small café downtown, the kind with exposed brick walls and overpriced lattes. David had taken the afternoon off work to have lunch with me. It felt sweet. Normal. Safe.

I remember he was halfway through telling me about a new project at his architecture firm when the waitress approached our table. She froze. Her tray tilted slightly in her hand, glasses clinking. “David?” she said. He looked up politely, confused. “Sorry?” Then she gasped, dropped the tray onto an empty table, and covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Before either of us could react, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. David stiffened in his chair.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “After all these years.” I stared at them, my brain struggling to catch up. “Do I… know you?” David asked awkwardly, not hugging her back. She pulled away, smiling through tears. “Chloe,” she said. “From Paris. That summer we spent together?” My fork slipped from my hand and clattered against the plate. David went pale. “I—I think you have the wrong person,” he said quickly. But Chloe just laughed softly, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I’d never forget you.”

PART 2

The Paris Summer Secret unfolded right there between the salt shaker and the half-eaten sandwich. “I’m sorry,” I said carefully, my voice tight. “Did you say Paris?” Chloe looked at me, suddenly noticing I existed. “Oh!” she said. “You must be his—” “Wife,” I finished. Her smile faltered just slightly. Just enough.

“Wow,” she said quietly. “Time really does fly.” David stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Sarah, this is a misunderstanding,” he said. “I swear, I’ve never—” “You lived in Montmartre,” Chloe interrupted gently. “Tiny apartment with the blue shutters. You said the stairs were trying to kill you.”

I watched David’s face. The way his eyes darted. The way he swallowed before speaking. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Chloe studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Then tell me what you were doing the night we got caught in that rainstorm by the Seine.” David didn’t answer. My heart started pounding so hard I could hear it. “David,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “have you ever been to Paris?”

He looked at me like a cornered animal. “I was going to tell you,” he said. That sentence hits different when you’ve been married six years. Chloe stepped back, realization dawning across her face. “You didn’t tell her,” she said quietly. “Tell me what?” I demanded. David ran a hand through his hair. “It was before we met,” he said quickly. “A long time ago. I went to Europe for a few months after college. It didn’t mean anything.” Chloe flinched. “It meant something to me,” she said softly. The air at the table turned heavy. “You told me you’d never left the country,” I said. “I didn’t want to talk about that time in my life,” he said. “I was different then.” “Different how?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

Chloe looked between us, guilt spreading across her face. “I didn’t know,” she said to me. “I swear. He told me he was single. We spent almost the whole summer together.” Summer. The word echoed in my head like a crack in glass.

PART 3

The Paris Summer Secret didn’t end at the café. It followed us home, sat between us on the couch, and slept in the space between our pillows that night. We drove back in silence. David kept glancing at me like I might disappear. “Say something,” he finally whispered. “How long?” I asked. “It was one summer,” he said.

“Ten years ago.” “Why lie?” I asked. “Why pretend you’d never even been there?” He exhaled shakily. “Because Paris was the happiest I’d ever been,” he said. “And also the worst mistake I ever made.” I turned to look at him. “I fell in love with her,” he admitted. “Hard. But I was broke, lost, and scared of commitment. When my dad got sick, I came home and never went back. I told myself it was just a chapter I’d closed.” “So you erased it,” I said. “Yes,” he whispered. “And erased her with it.” Tears filled his eyes.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see her again,” he said. “That’s the problem,” I replied. “You built our marriage on edited history.” For days, I couldn’t stop picturing them in Paris. Laughing. Walking along the Seine. Sharing croissants in the morning light — memories I thought would someday be ours. But here’s the truth that hurt the most: he didn’t cheat on me. He just hid a version of himself I never got to know. A week later, he handed me a small envelope. Inside was a photo.

Him, younger, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Chloe beside him, her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want secrets anymore,” he said. I looked at the photo for a long time. The Paris Summer Secret wasn’t about an affair. It was about the quiet damage of untold stories… and the realization that sometimes the past doesn’t stay buried just because we pretend it never happened. “Next time,” I told him softly, “we go to Paris together.” And this time, there would be no ghosts waiting at a café table.