Falling in Luck, page 23
“What’s it called?”
He thought for a second, twisting his mouth to the side. “Uh, I think it’s called Le Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.”
“Beaut, as in beauty?”
“No, butte, as in a hill? Like butt with an e.”
“Butt?” I snorted. “I guess we’re sitting on our butte.”
He snerked. “Speak for yourself. But this is a fine butte.”
“Yes,” I retorted. “Paris has a big butte.”
It was so nice to be laughing with him that, without meaning to, I leaned against him. I must have gotten used to a little more familiarity with Jean-Luc, and maybe it was rubbing off on me. But Benji didn’t move away.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I finally said.
He brought his arm around my shoulder and pulled me tight. We sat like that, quiet for a change, looking out over Paris.
Whenever Jean-Luc had wrapped an arm around my shoulder, there was always a distance, like he was protecting me, or demonstrating solidarity, or keeping me upright. And that’s how I’d expected to feel with Benji.
And he did feel familiar and comfortable, but ever since that day in a New York hotel room, something had changed. I laid my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. The warmth of his breath on the back of my neck sent a chill down my skin.
I sat up and looked into his blue eyes. His mouth turned into a half-smile, as if I were challenging him to a staring contest. I wondered what he’d do if I pressed my lips on his. Would he reciprocate? Would he back away?
My pulse quickened, and for a moment, I asked myself why we’d agreed to keep things safe, why we’d never at least tried to be more than friends.
But it was too late for that now. He had Sandra, and I had Jean-Luc. I dropped my gaze.
As though he were reading my mind, he asked, “How are things with Jean-Luc, then?”
I shrugged. “He’s a nice guy.”
“I thought he was dreamy and exotic and oh, so sexy.” That Elmo voice again.
“Yeah, I guess.”
The doubts that had crept in pressed on my heart, lay on my tongue. I wanted to confess everything. Benji was my best friend, and I’d missed him far more than I’d expected. He’d always supported me, no matter what. I was on the verge of spilling out all my late-night anxieties about the future until he spoke.
“So you looked behind the curtain and found out he’s human?” He struck a smug tone that made me bristle, just shy of saying, “Told you so.”
It put my hackles up. “I found out he’s a nice guy. Down to earth, with horrific parents and wonderful friends and cares and worries like everyone else.”
“Human.”
He could be so exasperating.
“Okay fine. I found out he’s human. Happy?”
“No, I’m not.”
He stood and crossed to the rail, overlooking the park below. He leaned his head against a column, took a deep breath, and then faced me. “I still don’t get why you’re doing this if it isn’t for the money.”
“Would it surprise you to know that we get along well? We’re well suited. He’s very nice.”
“So you keep saying.” His mouth twitched. “You don’t owe him anything no matter how nice he is. It would almost make more sense if he was a monster who’d cast an evil spell on you or if he forced you against your will.”
He put his hands on the rail behind him and stared at the ground, intently interested in his own shoes.
His behavior would have made more sense if I’d spurned his declaration of love. But he hadn’t made one.
“Why do you have to start with that again?”
We’d been having such a lovely day.
He walked back, knelt before me, and took my hand. When he turned his eyes up, I nearly softened. “It’s marriage, Mallory. You don’t just walk into it idiotically. You know how hard it is to get out of that?”
A cord tightened in his neck, and my jaw clenched in response.
“You nearly did it.” I stared daggers.
He let go of my hand and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. I did. But I thought I was doing it for the right reasons, and it still would’ve been a huge mistake. You know you’re doing it for all the wrong reasons.”
My blood pulsed violently to the tips of my fingers, and I forgot I’d been about to express my own fears. “Any marriage can go wrong no matter how good it starts. You can’t know if it’ll work. Every one of our friends started with the best of intentions and look at them.” My hands flung out in the direction of the imaginary friends.
His eyes narrowed. “So you’re what? Looking for the lowest potential fall out?”
And there it was really. Benji was right. Committing to Jean-Luc was a safe bet. He could make me happy enough, but I’d never risk my heart with him.
“Couples break up. At least if I marry Jean-Luc, if he leaves me, I won’t be broken.”
“Oh, so it’s the money you want after all?”
I itched to slap the smirk off his face.
“No, it’s not the money! I don’t care about the money! I said broken! Not broke!” I didn’t know when I’d started yelling.
He straightened up and looked down at me. His demeanor couldn’t have been more condescending—arms crossed, lips pursed, eyebrow cocked. He dropped his sarcastic hammer with acid. “So you’re marrying for a relatively less painful divorce? That sounds reasonable.”
I put my face into my hands for a beat to keep from screaming. My teeth clenched, and I glared back at him. “You are . . . THE most . . . INSUFFERABLE . . .” He was misconstruing everything. “Just—can’t you be supportive?”
I got up and started to walk down the other side of the butte but stopped when I got to a spooky old stone bridge crossing high over a narrow ravine below. It proved even more diabolically scary than the rickety old suspension bridge that had only been maybe ten feet off the ground. The stone bridge ran high enough above the river that it would be a nasty fall. Thankfully a wire mesh attached to the railing made it possible to look, but not leap.
I put my face against the mesh, trying to peer down at the small river below, tears streaming down my face unchecked.
Benji caught up to me. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be mad at me. Truce?”
He laid a hand across my back, and all my anger melted away. I turned around to face him, letting out my breath slowly. “It’s okay,” I said. “I know you only want what’s best for me.” I took his hand. “Look. I still have a week to make up my mind, and I know I need to think about it. I worry if I don’t go through with it, it will be like that movie Sliding Doors. What if I miss that train, and it doesn’t come back around again? What if I regret that decision?”
He squeezed my hand back. “Yeah, but what if that train sucks? Maybe you’ll regret catching it?”
I breathed out a soft laugh. “That’s a good point. But it still seems like the safer risk.”
“Come here,” he said.
He pulled me in for a hug. My head laid against his chest as his arms circled around my shoulders.
He held me tight. “Don’t worry. Be happy.”
“Cause every little thing gonna be alright?” I answered.
“Probably not.”
The honking laugh that came out of me was singularly unattractive. Benji’s laughter made his chest rise and fall, and I didn’t want to let him go. But daylight was slowly fading, and Benji suggested we get going since we’d have to navigate back through Paris.
Thanks to his memory for details, we made it back in time to fetch Jean-Luc.
Because Benji was staying within a short distance of the Arc de Triomphe, not far from us, I insisted he come and meet Rémy before calling it a day. Jean-Luc phoned ahead, and by the time we got to the apartment, Rémy was frying skinny potatoes and had four thin steaks sizzling on top of the stove.
Jean-Luc peeked in. “Steak frites?!”
He ran next door and came back with two bottles of red wine which he poured for everyone. By the time the food was served, and we were all seated at the table, I’d regaled them with our exploration of the city.
“And the bridge, oh, my God, but it made my knees buckle.”
“That is the Pont des Suicidés,” said Rémy. “They put that fence up to stop people from jumping.”
“Oh, God.” I shoved another fry in my mouth.
The juice from the steak had run all through the potatoes, giving them an incredible flavor. Normally, I tended to freak out if anything touched my french fries, but Jean-Luc and Rémy let the brown sauce goop up theirs, so I went with it. And God, it was good.
Jean-Luc and Rémy tended to speak to each other in French when the conversation lulled, and I couldn’t catch everything they said. But they had an easy camaraderie. It reminded me of my relationship with Benji.
“How long have you two known each other?” It had never occurred to me to ask before.
Jean-Luc looked at Rémy, and Rémy nodded for him to go ahead.
“Rémy, as you know, has the bakery downstairs. Well, it is his mother’s, but she’s moved to Neuilly and only works a few days a week. Rémy took this apartment when he decided to keep the bakery. That was, what? Eight years ago?”
“Yes, eight. In August,” Rémy confirmed.
“I had been living here already because as you might imagine, I did not want to live with my parents. It was Marie-Laure’s apartment, but it was too expensive for her, so I moved in with her for a while to help out. And then she moved out.” He glanced at Rémy. “That was for . . . Claude?”
Rémy shook his head. “Alain.”
“Oh, right. Yes. Marie-Laure . . .” He half-smiled. “Anyway. I had been here for a few months when I hear a knock on the door. Rémy is standing outside holding a baguette in one hand and a bottle of wine in another.” He smiled as if that explained everything. He’d just described every night here.
“Soooo you became friends from being neighbors?”
Jean-Luc said, “Well, it has been eight years. You would have to be quite rude to ignore a neighbor for so long.”
Benji stretched. “Gentlemen. Lady. It’s been a rather long day. I hope you won’t find it rude if I head back to my hotel. I thank you, Monsieur Saint-Exupéry. Dinner was delicious.”
When he was gone, I excused myself as well. “Thank you so much, Rémy. You are an incredible chef.”
I let myself into the apartment and fell into bed, thinking long and hard about the day and about what Benji had said at the park. I knew he made sense, and many of my reasons for agreeing to marry Jean-Luc had developed gaping holes. But our friendship had strengthened, and I believed that, at least on paper, the pros outweighed the cons. Jean-Luc and I were perfect for each other.
Nearly.
29
Off Chance
The Eurotrash music at the club pulsated, competing like a defibrillator with my own heartbeat. I watched the other patrons dance and move about, but my eyes returned again and again to Brigitte.
I wasn’t exactly jealous of her, but wary. Somehow she’d managed to settle into the booth beside Benji and across from Jean-Luc. Her own gaze more often than not fell back onto Jean-Luc when she wasn’t throwing a nasty look my way.
Jean-Luc broke the awkward silence by asking Benji how he enjoyed Paris this time around. Benji started regaling us with some of the funny things he’d observed on this trip. Brigitte caught my eye and then moved closer to Benji, who was too absorbed in his own narrative to notice. She rested her head against his shoulder and darted a glance at me. Then her eyes flitted right back to Jean-Luc.
Who did she expect to make jealous?
Jean-Luc was completely oblivious to this display, rapt as he was with Benji’s story.
“So the man talked even louder, shouting, ‘Two adults and two children.’”
“To ride the metro?”
“Exactly.” Benji’s fingers wrapped around the stem of an empty martini glass. Brigitte laid her arm on the table so that her knuckles barely touched his.
“Did you tell him that isn’t how the metro works?”
“Not at first. He was so frustrated, I was afraid to let him see how funny I found the whole thing.” Benji let go of the glass and put his hand under the table.
Jean-Luc leaned forward. “So what did you do?”
“When I saw how upset the poor woman at the booth had become, I stopped laughing and helped him buy the tickets.”
“I always wonder why people think they’ll be understood if they talk louder.”
“People like that drive me to drink.” Benji lifted his head and looked around. “Speaking of which, where’s the waiter?”
Jean-Luc flagged someone over, and Benji rattled off his order for what sounded like the world’s most finicky martini. I didn’t trust my French, so I asked for another beer. Jean-Luc ordered a second whiskey and soda.
“Benji.” Brigitte turned her doe eyes toward him. “Comment tu parles si bien français?” She glanced back at me. Her hand dragged across the table and dropped off the edge. She smiled slightly as if to imply they were touching where I couldn’t see.
I understood her well enough. My French had steadily improved since the day I’d first arrived, but she only wanted to know how Benji’s French was so good to call out that mine was still terrible.
“He remembers everything.” I turned to Jean-Luc. “It’s totally scary. He’s good at languages or numbers. He could’ve done anything.”
It suddenly occurred to me that he would have been as proficient doing Jean-Luc’s job. Or mine. Or working on Wall Street and pulling in a much bigger salary. Why’d he want to work as an inventory manager at a cosmetics company?
“Est-ce vrai?” Brigitte didn’t always bother to keep the conversation in English. “Could you remember the number of your hotel room?”
He frowned. “Uh, yeah?” I could hear the silent da-doy.
“Et, alors?” She aimed for a teasing tone, but it came off somewhat argumentative. Bratty.
“Uh, it’s 1904?” The inflection wasn’t meant to cast doubt on the answer, but rather on the question. He shrugged as if to say she hadn’t exactly challenged him.
“I do not believe you. Show me your key.”
Benji shook his head. “The number’s not . . . Look.” He pulled it out of his wallet to show her. “No room number.”
“Sofitel?” she asked, prodding at the name of the hotel on the card. “Lequel?” She wanted to know which one.
As smart as Benji was, he was two steps behind Brigitte. And though he clearly didn’t understand how the location of his hotel would prove or disprove his ability to remember the room number, he blurted out. “L’Arc de Triomphe.”
And then comprehension washed over his face. Brigitte knew where she could find him now. His shoulders slumped, and he caught my eye.
I shook my head and smirked. “Good job, coyote.” I knew she couldn’t possibly pick up the reference.
Benji turned his head toward his shoulder and made a gnawing gesture. I had to stifle a laugh. Brigitte looked at me blank, not quite sure whether she was included in this joke.
The beer kicked in, and I started to feel woozy. Jean-Luc started to speak more in French which tired my brain. Benji finished his martini and left for the bathroom. As soon as he got up, Brigitte excused herself and followed.
Jean-Luc and I sat awkwardly facing an empty booth bench. He leaned against me, knocking me playfully sideways. “Do you want to dance?”
“No. I don’t dance. Do you?”
He tilted his head side to side. “Sometimes. When I have had enough to drink.”
“I’d have to be so drunk I couldn’t stand. So it would be counter-productive.”
He laughed, and then the conversation stalled. I drummed my fingers on the table and watched for Benji. What was taking him so long?
Maybe he’d been held up by any number of the beautiful women floating around the club. Or maybe Brigitte had convinced him to move out to the dance floor.
I pulled myself up and scanned the room. I thought I caught sight of him near the bar at the far end of the club, moving toward the exit. Brigitte followed close behind him. I excused myself and followed them across the club. When I made it all the way to the exit doors, only Brigitte stood there.
“Where’s Benji?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Is it possible he has left? He went this way. But he is gone. Where is Jean-Luc?”
She turned around and went back into the club.
I peered out the door into the night, wondering why Benji would up and leave.
I weighed my options. I could go out and chase him, but at this point he could be anywhere. Or I could go back to our table and guard my territory against Brigitte’s almost certain incursion.
Not that Jean-Luc was a disputed zone.
Benji was a big boy, and he could take care of himself, so I made up my mind to head back into the crowded dance club. As I passed by a coat closet with swinging Old West saloon-style doors, a hand reached out and pulled me in.
“Benji! What on earth?”
He looked around before tucking his head back into the closet again. “Hiding. I had to ditch her. She was getting a little too friendly. It was hide or risk saying something that might get me in trouble.”
“You’re hiding from a girl?”
Voices rose and fell outside the double doors. Anyone passing by might look over the top of the flimsy flapping shutters and see us standing among the hangers. As it was summer, we didn’t have the luxury of any coats to hide behind with our feet sticking out—like in a cartoon.
He grabbed my arm and pushed me further back into the small closet. My back hit the wall. His momentum carried him forward until he smashed against me.
