French Kiss, page 19
“Bonjour. Um… un café, s’il vous plaît,” I said, remembering how Josh had asked for coffee the night before. I felt a sharp pang, thinking about how happy I’d been then and how angry I still felt toward him now.
The woman returned a few minutes later with a pot of coffee and a small white pitcher of hot milk. I poured the coffee into the cup and watched the milk turn the liquid from dark brown to a medium chocolate color. For a while, I just stared at it, lost in thought. Or just lost.
But the first sip reminded me why I’d come to Europe in the first place. It wasn’t for a guy. It wasn’t for a fuck buddy or a friend or anyone else. It was for me.
I vowed from that point onward to make my trip the best it could be. For me. I had a little over two weeks before I had to come back to the real world of work and responsibilities. I couldn’t spare a single moment on regret. With each sip of the delicious hot coffee, my brain felt a little more alert and I felt a little better about what my next two weeks could bring.
A tray of pastries sat on a sideboard, croissants and pains aux raisins lined up in neat rows. I chose a croissant and sliced a chunk off a wide baguette next to the platter, adding a pat of butter and grabbing a small jar of strawberry jam to go on it. It was hard to believe I could have any appetite at all after the butter and sauces I’d already eaten, but since any semblance of a diet had been damned to hell days ago, I doubled down on the butter. It was not a struggle to down that plate of carbs.
Outside the window, I could see the waiters at the outside tables at Bar de la Marché, where just hours earlier, I’d huddled with Josh under the awning in the rain.
Damn him.
Thinking about him made me wistful for what might have been, but seeing the café in the light of day made it clear how much I’d been swept away by something that wasn’t real. How could I have misread that whole situation?
It would take a few more hours for the train from Amsterdam to arrive at the Gare du Nord, where I planned to meet Shelby and Amrita, so I took the time to walk around the city by myself. I needed to clear my head, and my best remedy for that was to take a long walk.
My biggest mistake had been turning a vacation into a quest for a romantic fling. Med school and residency had kicked my ass, which was part of why I’d wanted this trip to fulfill all my needs and wants. But those needs and wants never included a guy.
Somehow, I’d allowed Maddox to flip my script.
It had been ages since I’d been on a first date and experienced that nervous anticipation before a first kiss. The perfect moments I’d had with Josh the night before had satisfied that yearning, but it had all been based on my Paris dreams of romance and the rebound from rejection.
I saw that now.
If all I wanted was a Paris fling, I should have found some nice young French guy who’d be only too willing to satisfy my longing for a first kiss on a boat or under a bridge. There had to be thousands in this city who were available for just that purpose. That was all I needed, but I’d complicated things by trying to involve my closest friends.
Walking along the Seine, I let my expectations go.
I browsed at each stall of the bouquinistes—vendors who had green boxes set up to sell used books, posters, and memorabilia along the banks of the river. I’d read that French law gave each vendor ten meters of railing apiece along the river, and more than nine hundred of them were open daily, each selling slightly different antiquarian wares.
I must have browsed through a dozen of them, selecting an old cognac poster from one and a set of souvenir coasters with pictures of French monuments from another. I kept moving, trying to focus on sights and sounds, anything to prevent my mind from wandering back to Josh. Thinking about him was just too painful.
The water was calm, not yet disturbed much by the boats crushing through, and it reflected the sky and the historic buildings on both sides of the river. One building was under repair, so it was blanketed under a giant tarp, on which was painted a replica of how it would look once finished. At first glance, it was easy to mistake the picture for a real building facade.
It was late morning, so most Parisians were already at work, and the majority of the people walking alongside me were tourists, some taking selfies every few feet, others looking out at the views. I didn’t have a destination yet, but I had a vague sense of wanting to follow the river and see where I ended up, crossing over bridges when I felt like it and leaving the waterfront when I saw something interesting.
After I’d made my way past Notre-Dame again, I crossed a bridge to the Île Saint-Louis, a second island in the middle of the Seine, next to the Île de la Cité, which was almost entirely occupied by Notre-Dame and the plaza and gardens that surrounded it. This second island had one main street down the middle, with shops and restaurants on the ground floor of apartment buildings that I was certain had beautiful views of the river.
I passed Berthillon Glacerie, looking away and trying not to remember the scoop I’d shared with Josh when my heart was still full, and soon, I’d crossed another bridge to leave the island and continue walking down one street after another, vaguely heading in the direction of the Père Lachaise Cemetery, where Balzac and Jim Morrison shared space in the quiet expanse of headstones and grassy walkways. It was like an enchanted forest of moss-covered trees and gravestones the size of small stone houses. Some were ten feet high and elaborately carved. Others looked like buildings with painted doors or weathered bronze statues, busts, and figurines posed over rooftops that contained mausoleums or remains.
I never thought I’d use beautiful to describe a cemetery, but there was no other word for it. I walked down tiny lanes lined with stone structures, all placed in their own quiet quarters under tall trees.
After I left the cemetery, I continued through the eleventh arrondissement to L’Atelier des Lumières, a museum I’d read about on the plane. By then, the sun was high in the noon sky, and I was dripping with sweat from being outside.
I had no idea what to expect from the museum, so I just bought my ticket and went inside.
The first thing to hit my senses was the cool air in the cavernous space. The next thing I noticed was the music, operatic and lilting to accompany an unusual display. Art was being projected on the entirety of the indoor space, like a kaleidoscope of paintings being brought to life because they were moving up the black-painted walls and around the room.
In colors like stained glass, the works of Van Gogh came to life, choreographed to the music. Starry skies and haystacks crawled up the sides in glowing, swirling relief, climbing to the ceilings and reflecting over everyone in the museum. I walked up some stairs in a corner of the room and looked down on the display of light, marveling at that view of people milling around the gallery, looking like walking pieces of Van Gogh paintings.
After a few more minutes, I walked back down and took a seat on the floor with many of the other patrons, who sat and watched, the projected art reflecting on their faces and bodies and making them look like part of the exhibit.
I sat in that cool room for over an hour, until the series of filmed paintings had run all the way through and I began to see repeats of images I’d already seen. The coolness in the room and the opera that accompanied the images made me forget about everything else.
When I walked back outside into the bright sun, my day had been transformed.
27
Merde
July 13
Gare du Nord
The train pulled onto the platform, and I looked from car to car, waiting to catch sight of Amrita and Shelby. Finally, they hopped off, holding hands and laughing at something. Neither one of them had luggage, and I realized they were planning to go back to Amsterdam later on, which made me even more grateful that they’d come. Not everyone would spend three hours each way on a train to take care of a friend, but Shelby was that kind of person.
She was also the kind of person who solved problems by keeping busy, so the first thing she said after wrapping me in the hug I needed was, “I’ve always wanted to see Montmartre, so I hope you haven’t already been there.”
“Nope, not yet,” I said, relieved that they weren’t coddling me and asking about my feelings.
“All right, let’s go. I looked at a map, and we can walk from here.” Of course Shelby had already looked at a map.
It turned out that Montmartre was pretty close to the Gare du Nord, and as we chugged up the final hill, circling the white-domed church, Sacré-Coeur, I could see why Shelby had been so insistent we make the trip. From where we stood on the wide steps leading up to the church, we could see the entire city. The views spread out beneath us, and I tried to divert my gaze from the places I’d gone with Josh. Paris was starting to become a checkerboard of good and bad memories.
We sat on the steps beneath the church and for the first time, finally let out the big sob that had been welling in my chest all day. Sitting on either side of me, Shelby and Amrita put their arms around me and waited while the tears continued to come.
“Guys are shits,” Amrita said, finally. “That’s not why I’m a lesbian, of course, but it certainly helps.” I couldn’t help but laugh through my tears.
We wound our way down a small street where a dozen painters had easels set up, their canvases splashed with paintings of the neighborhood buildings and a red windmill—the Moulin Rouge—and portraits of tourists. The area was touristy, but it didn’t matter. The charm was still palpable in the streets of the historic area that can-can and burlesque dancers had made famous.
“Who’s hungry?” Amrita asked.
“I’m in full pity food mode. The more fat and sugar, the better.” I couldn’t believe I was actually hungry, but I’d spent a good two hours walking around, and my metabolism didn’t seem to be in communication with my heart. We grabbed an outdoor table under the red-and-green-striped awning of Le Consulat, a corner bistro with a traditional French menu and a great view of people passing by in all directions. I knew Amrita would love the vantage point for taking photos. “Lunch is on me, it goes without saying. I love you both for coming to scrape me off the floor.”
“You seem to be doing pretty well, actually,” said Shelby. “I was expecting worse. Though I can’t say I’m shocked about Maddox. He’s motivated by his penis, not his brain. So if he met someone…”
“But he didn’t. Josh made that up.”
“He could still be off with some foreign hottie. You know Maddox.”
“Yeah, some Nordic blonde named Brigitte or whoever,” I said. “Doesn’t really matter what her name is. They’re all the same.”
“Who gives a rat’s bum about him?” Amrita asked. “I want to know what happened with Josh. He sounds like the better guy.”
“Except he’s not,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re all the same.”
“I hate to think that’s true, but you did have your heart handed to you twice in two days,” agreed Shelby.
“Thanks for the recap. When you put it that way, it really does sound pathetic,” I said. “I can’t believe I fell for Maddox’s crap. I mean, he weaves these stories about this intense connection he has with you, and you feel like it’s unique.”
“I remember,” Shelby said.
“But Josh isn’t like that. Or at least I didn’t think he was. How did I fall for him too?”
“Well, you’re a romantic,” Shelby said, looking at the menu. “You always have been. Maybe those guys just knew what they needed to do to play on that.”
“Yeah, well, they did a good job,” I said.
Instead of trying to decipher the French on the menu, I looked around to see what other people were eating. Two tables down, a woman in a blue beret and red pants was having a salad with thinly sliced ham and cheese on top of frisée lettuce and tomatoes. Maybe I’d just point to that. I didn’t even care what I ate.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, but when I pulled it out, I didn’t recognize the number. I did recognize, however, that it was coming from somewhere in Europe, and I thought maybe it was the hotel or something otherwise important, so I answered.
There was a lag, followed by a familiar voice. “Hey. What’s up?” Maddox said casually. My stomach did a backflip. I felt nauseous and dizzy hearing his voice.
I immediately got up from the table and walked a few paces down the block, not knowing what to say and not wanting an audience. “Um, not much. Just, um, having lunch with my friends.”
“Yeah? Nice. Me too.”
He always had friends, even if he didn’t know a soul when he walked in a room. Why would Europe be any different?
“Cool.” I didn’t know what else to say to him. His letter had been so honest and heartfelt, but I couldn’t deal with any of it. I still hadn’t sorted out what it meant to me, and I didn’t know what I wanted.
“So… you’re not too pissed at me?” he asked. “I mean, you answered the phone, so I guess you don’t hate me.”
“I didn’t know who it was, actually.”
“Oh, right. This is Courtney’s phone,” he said, like I should know who Courtney was. “Geez, what am I thinking? Sorry, it’s been kind of crazy here.”
“Yeah, so how is it? How’s Germany?”
“Oh, I ended up only being there for like a day. I’m in Greece.”
That didn’t make sense. Hadn’t he been in Germany for a week with Josh and his family? My heart sank, and I felt duped again for having believed Josh when he said he’d spent time with Maddox. Nothing he’d told me was true at all.
“So, wait. Did you not see Josh?”
“Like I said, just for a day. Things got nuts when I met Courtney, and her friends talked us into buying these cheapo tickets to Athens.”
Still, he’d left the letter with Josh and asked him to give it to me. I remembered exactly what it said, and its words made me want some sort of a connection with Maddox, even if he was in Greece with other people. I wanted him to know I appreciated his honesty and that I understood why he hadn’t come. Well, not really, but I understood it about as much as I could relate to anything else he said.
“Anyway, thank you for your letter. It meant a lot to me.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone, and I thought we’d been disconnected.
“Wait, what?” he asked.
“Your letter.”
More silence. And then I realized. “You didn’t write me a letter? To explain why you couldn’t come to Paris.”
“A letter? Who writes letters? But I do owe you an apology. For bailing.”
“That’s why you called just now?”
“Um, yeah. Were you not here for the conversation? I’m with some friends in Greece.”
“I understand that, but I came to Paris to meet you. Like you said.” Now I was getting angry. And loud. Amrita turned her head to look at me, her expression asking if everything was okay. “I got on a train. A three-hour train from Amsterdam. I followed through on our plans and went to the Eiffel Tower because that’s what normal, respectful people do when they make a promise to their friends. Jesus, Maddox. This isn’t flaking on showing up to the bar on Haight. This is another country. And you couldn’t even send me a text letting me know you weren’t gonna show?”
“And I’m sorry about that. Totally my bad. I think I was still on the plane. Then we were in a part of Greece with sketchy cell service—”
“You could have texted before you even went to Greece. You clearly knew you weren’t gonna make it to Paris.”
“True, but you said you were gonna go in Paris anyway. So at worst, I dragged you there a little early, for which I apologize. As I called to tell you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He really didn’t give a shit about me or our supposed connection. After stoking my infatuation with Maddox over years, I so badly wanted it to play out that I set myself up to be disappointed by a guy who, at best, had a fractional chance of following through on any plan.
“Yeah. Okay. So thanks for calling, then,” I said, not really meaning it but not really believing I’d ever see Maddox again. It was better to part on decent terms. But I needed to be clear. “Just one more time—you didn’t write me a letter and give it to Josh to give to me.”
“Seriously, who writes letters? I could lie and say I did, but… no, sorry.”
“It’s okay. No lies. I can’t take any more lies.”
He sighed like he was regretting having called a crazy person. “Well, okay, then. Great to talk to you.” He sounded sarcastic.
“You too. Enjoy Greece,” I said through gritted teeth. I hope someone breaks a plate on your thick dumb skull. I hung up before he could say anything else.
Amrita and Shelby had abandoned the café table and walked over to where I stood on tiny Rue des Saules, a cobblestoned street temporarily devoid of people. “You okay?” Shelby asked when she saw me standing there looking glassy-eyed, tears welling.
I was on the verge of tears, but not because of Maddox. “Yeah, I’m… good. Maddox is a self-centered asshole, but we already knew that. And I’m also an idiot.” I recounted the conversation with Maddox, which left us all drawing the same conclusion about the letter.
“So Josh wrote it,” Amrita said.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he did.”
“Why would he do that? Why try to give you the impression that Maddox said all those nice things?” Shelby asked.
“I have no idea.”
28
The Plan
July 13
Saint-Germain
We ditched our table in Montmartre and took an Uber back to the Left Bank. I needed to see the letter again, so we stopped by my hotel and walked to the gravel-covered square across the road from the Saint-Germain church. I stood there with the letter in my hand, like a lost schoolgirl, glancing down all the streets I’d walked on with Josh, like I’d misplaced my lunchbox instead of my best friend. Cars were passing on the cobblestone road that divided the church from the Café Deux Magots, whose sidewalk tables were still full with a late-lunch crowd.
