Falling in Luck, page 25
“Did you burn yourself?”
“A little.”
I nibbled on the bread until the queasiness subsided. “Thank you.”
“You didn’t seem to be drinking so much last night. Did you get food poisoning again?” He felt my forehead. Then his own.
“No. I came back here and drank a bunch of brandy.”
“Oh. I see.”
He sat back against the wall with his feet against the base of the sink. “I’m sorry for trying to break up your engagement. That wasn’t very nice.”
“No. It wasn’t,” I agreed.
“Mallory, do you believe me when I say you’re my best friend?”
“I used to.”
He slid over so he could nudge my shoulder with his. “You are my best friend, Mallory. I would do anything not to lose that. Do you believe me?”
“I guess.” I believed that he believed that.
“And do you believe I care about your well-being?”
I thought about it. Sure, he’d conspired with the devil to sabotage my impending wedding, but I knew he didn’t give a damn about Raquel or Nathalie. I knew he sincerely worried I was making a mistake.
“Yes, but you aren’t allowing me my own freedom. You’re making decisions for me.”
He rubbed circles on my back. “I know, but do you honestly believe I’d do anything if I didn’t think I was working in your best interests? Even if I was wrong?”
I thought about that kiss in the discothèque closet, when he’d used our latent attraction as a weapon. Had that been in my best interest? I’d actually almost fallen for it and put an end to my plans with Jean-Luc, all because of one moment’s desire. And I was mad he’d added that heartbreak on top of everything else.
“Maybe not intentionally, but you confused me and hurt me all the same.”
His head fell onto my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mal. I never meant to. Please believe me.”
“You kissed me!”
He stiffened, and we both sat straight up, facing each other, his crystal blue eyes registering the same shock I was feeling. I’d fallen into that kiss with him like it had been fated, like it was the moment we’d always been waiting for. I’d nearly allowed myself to believe we could be something more than friends, but he’d kissed me to trick me into doing what he thought was best for me. It was all just part of his scheme.
“Mallory.” He pressed his lips together, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how they’d felt on me. “I shouldn’t have. I just—”
But of course he hadn’t meant it. “And you lied to me. I can’t trust you anymore, Benji. It made me rethink everything you’ve said or done since you got here.”
“Don’t do that. I haven’t said anything untrue. Well, except one thing. Except why I’m here.”
“And why is that?” I laid my head on the porcelain, so cool. My eyes closed.
“I remembered what you’d told me about Nathalie, about how she’s fixated on Jean-Luc marrying Raquel instead of you, and I contacted her. Things have not gone according to plan.”
I recalled seeing Pascal grope Raquel the night before and wondered if Nathalie was aware.
Of course, she was.
“What was the plan?” I croaked.
“Well, you know. Win you over with my charms and leave Jean-Luc in the lurch so he’d be desperate enough to try to rope in Raquel. Convincing Raquel to come over wasn’t all that difficult, but she has her own agenda. You know, I couldn’t care less if Jean-Luc marries her or Brigitte or nobody. I was only here for you.” He flashed his impish smile, but it wasn’t working on me.
“To win me over and then what, Benji? I don’t need saving.”
He always chided me on acting rash, but I might have ended the engagement with Jean-Luc after one kiss, on a stupid wish I hadn’t even known I was harboring until Benji broke the seal on some long-unexamined emotions. At least he’d made me more determined than ever to finish what I’d started. Jean-Luc had never resorted to such unscrupulous tactics to win.
My head spun, and I needed to climb back into bed.
With the caffeine from the tea coursing through my veins and the toast keeping my stomach from roiling, I was able to close my eyes and lay still. I put the pillow over my head to block out all light. Benji stayed at my side and talked to me about nonsense. We had a lot of issues to deal with, but I laughed softly and ever so painfully at his anecdotes, hopeful we might salvage our friendship at least. I put a hand out and took his. He squeezed in response.
After a while, I peeked my head out. “I’m still mad at you.”
The corner of his lip twitched. “Aw, Mallory. What can I do to make things right?”
“I don’t like fighting with you. And I really don’t like it when you secretly work against me.”
He put up his hands. “I promise I am totally on your side. How can I prove myself worthy of your friendship again?”
“Can you help me get through this week?” God, it was less than a week. “I need your support against the sharky Chevaliers. Will you do that?”
He exhaled. “Whatever you want, Mallory. I live to serve.”
31
50/50 Chance
I woke in the early evening. Benji had left me a text, letting me know he’d cleared out so I could sleep. I felt well enough to drink some orange juice and pick at some cheese.
Voices carried from the outer landing. Out of curiosity, I opened the apartment door to investigate. Yelling came from across the hall, loud. I’d never heard Rémy angry, so I stood, listening, trying to puzzle out the nature of the argument. The muffled, inarticulate bellowing made no sense to me. Not that I could have understood a full-blown argument in French if it were in Dolby Digital Surround. When I heard Jean-Luc’s voice in the mix, I started to knock, but it was none of my business. I went back inside and closed the door. And waited.
And thought.
Their screaming match reminded me of my fight with Benji in New York. He’d never raised his voice to me before that. What would make Rémy so mad he’d shout at Jean-Luc?
My head spun as even more scales fell from my eyes.
Maybe I was just as naïve as everyone always told me.
When Jean-Luc returned, blood drained from his face, looking like he’d lost his best friend, I had an inkling what he was going through.
“You want to talk about it?” I sat on the edge of the sofa and indicated the space beside me.
He poured himself a glass of bourbon then joined me. The smell of the booze grossed me out, but I was also tempted to reach over and drink it. There were things I needed to say that would benefit from liquid courage.
“Looks like it’s you and me against the world.” He chuckled, but he looked as nauseated as I felt.
Fuck it. I reached over and pulled his glass toward me so I could swallow a mouthful. I let the alcohol warm me, relax me, bolster my courage. Then I asked the question I should have been smart enough to have parceled out weeks ago. “Jean-Luc, are you gay?”
He set the glass on the coffee table and sighed. “Not exactly.”
“Are you bi?”
His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, like he couldn’t look at me while we talked. “I’m not entirely sure. I have always been physically attracted to whoever I am, so maybe.”
“Or maybe pansexual?” I honestly didn’t need a label. I only wanted to understand where I fit in. “What’s going on with Rémy?”
“It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“He wants you to defy your father.” A memory of Rémy saying Jean-Luc lacked courage came to mind. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”
“I believe he thought I would eventually change my mind, but now that I have not, he’s actually angry.” Jean-Luc swallowed the rest of the bourbon. “He likes you, but he thinks I am making a big mistake.”
It reminded me of Benji. “I’m sorry he’s upset, but all that matters is what you want. If you want to be with Rémy, you should be.”
“That’s an impossibility.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re afraid your father won’t approve of your sexuality?”
He snorted. “My father only cares about nationality right now. You knew why I needed to marry you.”
“I can’t do this if you’re in love with someone else, Jean-Luc. Tell me what is going on with Rémy.”
“Nothing for you to worry about. We are good friends, and we will remain friends no matter what. In the past, we have shared some intimate moments, I will not lie. But it’s in the past now. Okay? I am all in with you.”
“You and me against the world.”
He smiled, and I reached out to take his hand.
But the doubts continued to mount as our last remaining days flew by.
At least, whatever doubts I had about Benji’s loyalty were misplaced. He stayed true to his word. Through all the preparations, he supported every decision. And he even agreed to stand by me during the rehearsal to translate for the priest so I’d know what I was getting myself into. Not a well-thought-out request in retrospect.
The rehearsal was scheduled for late afternoon on Friday. The day before the wedding.
And it was a complete farce.
The organist played something I recognized from a commercial for crystal stemware. Water music? Canon in something? Whatever it was, it wasn’t the traditional wedding march, and for that I was happy though this music made me want to cry.
As I walked slowly and deliberately down the aisle, trying to pretend to be something I wasn’t—a blushing bride—I looked from side to side for a friendly face. The church was practically empty. Pascal sat in a pew, reading emails on his phone, or maybe playing Subway Surfers. Nathalie wasn’t watching either, and I figured she was probably focusing her attention on a voodoo doll in my likeness. Would I feel a mysterious burning sensation on the soles of my feet or an intense pricking in my lower intestines?
Directly in front of me, Jean-Luc stood, waiting, with a pale imitation of a smile pasted on his face. To Jean-Luc’s right, Benji fidgeted with his tie, bit his lip, and shifted his weight from side to side. A half dozen inscrutable expressions crossed his face. Anyone spying on us would have sworn he was the anxious groom.
Of all the people in the church, Marie-Laure was the only person looking at me with no strings attached. She tilted her head and shrugged, and we shared a wry smile.
The music quieted, and the priest began to speak: “Jean-Luc et Mallory, nous vous souhaitons que votre amour soit solide comme une pierre.”
Benji whispered to me, “On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese.”
I shot a glance at him and tried my very best to give him the stink eye.
The priest continued, “et qu’il soit constant comme une étoile.”
“I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed.”
I reached over and pinched his hand hard. Marie-Laure’s sharp intake of breath reminded me it probably wasn’t traditional to grasp the hand of another man at your own wedding even if it was just the rehearsal. At least that stopped him, and he began to translate something approximating a wedding service.
“When two people pledge to love and care for each other in marriage,” he whispered, waiting for each pause the priest left for him to catch up, “they create a spirit unique to themselves.” He nudged me slightly as he said, “which binds them closer than any spoken or written words.”
He cleared his throat before he translated the last words of the priest. “Mawage is a pwomise made in the hearts of two people who wuv and takes a wifetime to fulfill.”
I resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. Standing in the church, before a priest, even in jeans, had a certain gravity. Besides if we started to brawl, Jean-Luc might lose his nerve and bolt. I concentrated on the directions the priest gave us.
At this point, he explained, Jean-Luc and I would turn to one another and say our vows, and then we would exchange rings. Jean-Luc turned to face me, but he stopped and looked around the church as if counting the exits or hoping to find a life raft. Pascal waved his hands to encourage us to hurry up.
Jean-Luc took my hand in his and recited his vows, statement by statement. With Benji repeating them to my right, the ceremony took on the odd appearance of a bigamous union.
“Mallory, moi, Jean-Luc Benoît Julien Emile Chevalier, je te prends, comme épouse.”
“Mallory, I, Jean-Luc Holy Middle Names Chevalier, take you to be my beloved wife.” Benji emphasized the word beloved as though to point out the sham of this marriage a little more.
Jean-Luc said his words with a voice that sounded like audible cardboard. “Je promets de t’encourager, de te chérir, de te respecter et surtout de t’aimer.”
Benji’s own voice cracked as he continued on, but his intonation was more convincing than Jean-Luc’s had been. “I promise to encourage you, cherish you, respect you, and most of all love you.”
He said love like a third grader accusing another third grader of having cooties.
“Dans la santé aussi bien que dans la maladie, à travers la peine et la joie, pour tous les jours de ma vie.”
Jean-Luc got the last of his words out, but his mouth was a straight line of terror. Where had that affable, charming man gone?
Benji translated the vow, slowly, deliberately: “In sickness or in health, in sorrow and in joy, for all the days of my life.”
There was no trace of irony in his tone, so I shot him a look, expecting to see the sarcasm etched in his half-smile. But he locked onto my gaze, dead serious, and an unexpected butterfly kicked the wind out of me. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him for several inappropriate moments.
A throat cleared, breaking the spell. I tried to focus back on the ceremony, praying my wobbly legs would continue to hold.
When it was my turn, I repeated the vows in a fog. We pretended to exchange rings, and Jean-Luc kissed the bride for real—a courteous brush of the lips. A memory of a Paris discothèque flashed before my eyes.
Jean-Luc and I shambled back down the aisle together, lost in our own separate thoughts.
The wedding party moved up the street to an Italian restaurant where a long table had been set. Jean-Luc sat at one end, white as the tablecloth. I poured myself a glass of wine without waiting for it to be offered.
Once everyone had been served a glass of champagne, Pascal stood and offered a toast. “Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.”
We all clinked glasses and sipped the champagne. Jean-Luc explained for my benefit, “It is a quote from Saint-Exupéry.”
“Rémy?!” No surprise, Rémy hadn’t joined us for the rehearsal or for dinner.
He frowned. “No. Antoine Saint-Exupéry, the author. It says, love doesn’t mean looking at one another, but looking in the same direction.”
“Oh, that’s sweet.” I thought it was pretty banal and safe, lame really. But at least it didn’t call attention to the fact that there was no romantic love here.
But then Nathalie lifted her glass. She already had a few drinks in her, and her words slurred slightly. “To the happy couple. It is written, when children find true love, parents find true joy.”
I nearly choked on the irony.
Jean-Luc cleared his throat. “Mallory. I have heard you say many times that you are cursed with bad luck, but if that is true, it has been in service to my own good luck. I don’t think I could have found a better mate with whom to start this new adventure in New York.”
He was going to have a hell of a time finding a Hallmark card for our anniversary that so neatly side-stepped the fact that he wasn’t in love with me.
Nobody expected me to make a toast, all the saints be praised.
Food and drink followed, and the company grew loud with chatter. Everyone ate. I must have eaten. Soon coffee was served, and I noticed Jean-Luc had left.
My eyes drifted again and again over to Benji, who sat quietly watching me. He’d pushed his food around until the server took his plate away, and the coffee sat before him untouched. Whatever fun he’d had at the rehearsal, he wasn’t smiling now. The words from the wedding vow had rattled in my head ever since I’d left the church, like hammer blows against a rock wall, and I found it hard to maintain eye contact with him.
In sickness and in health. Oh, God. Just last week, he’d sat by me while my head was in the toilet. He’d brought me toast with his own burnt fingers.
In sorrow and in joy. Always. He’d always been there for me. Even when I pushed him away. He’d been there all along.
I thought I might be sick. I darted another glance at him, and a quizzical expression crossed his face. “What is it, Mal?”
A rush of images from over the years washed over me.
How Benji would always check on me, bring me a cold compress for a twisted ankle or a chocolate croissant for emotional support.
How he’d taken me ice skating that time at Rockefeller Center. How he’d waited with me at the hospital while I got my broken arm set later that night.
How one time we’d skipped class and driven out to Point Pleasant to spend a day at the beach. How we’d ended up stuck in his car, singing Queen songs at the tops of our lungs, while we waited out the thunderstorm.
How he’d always put up with the catastrophe of me.
How he’d never once called me unlucky.
My heart drummed in my head. He started to stand. “Are you okay? Mallory?”
I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were being crushed, and I couldn’t suck in any air. Black spots appeared before my eyes.
Where was Jean-Luc? I had to talk to him. I pushed my chair back and ran from the restaurant.
Benji called after. “Mallory?”
But I left him there. I needed to talk to Jean-Luc. Immediately.
