Mr. Write

by Monica James

  I pack my laptop, eager to forget these pathetic woes and focus on making some headway with this book. That’s one thing I feel good about. Carrie appears, bundled up in her coat and scarf. I attempt to busy myself but can’t help but notice when she snags her cell from the table and sees the text from Mason.

  She instantly looks my way, but I play it cool. “Ready?”

  Quickly slipping her cell into her coat pocket, she nods.

  The staleness between us has me shouldering my satchel and heading for the door. Once we’re in the elevator, I can’t help but compare this ride to the one we took only yesterday. It’s bloody freezing out, so I suggest we ride a tour bus. Carrie happily agrees.

  Armed with her camera, she takes pictures of everything and anything while we ride the bus for hours. It appears the quieter she is, the more vocal her photography becomes. It’s hard not to admire her as she is a true artist at work.

  When we’re stopped at a light, she crouches to one knee and points the camera upward. I wonder what she’s doing. We’re on the top level of the bus, but it’s undercover, so I have no idea what she’s doing until I crane my neck to see what has captured her attention.

  A butterfly with bright orange wings has somehow managed to hitch a ride. It’s clinging to the clear roof, appearing to be trapped on the wrong side.

  The moment we reach our stop, Carrie leaps onto her chair and cups the creature into her palms. Tourists think she’s mad, but I can’t help but compare her to that butterfly. A colorful, spirited creature clearly trapped. Is she waiting for someone to set her free?

  We step from the bus with Carrie’s hands still interlocked gently. I have no idea where we are, but ahead is a small patch of greenery, and Carrie immediately heads for it. When we reach the modest park with a bench seat and small rotunda, Carrie unclasps her palms, and the sight of the butterfly taking flight is breathtaking.

  She watches mesmerized, almost jealous that this creature can fly free. It flies high and strong, and it’s pleasing to know we had a hand in its liberation. Carrie begins snapping photos, appearing happy with the silence.

  Looking around, I scope out my surroundings and soon realize where we are. Morbid to most, but to me, this place pays homage to many who changed the world.

  “Père Lachaise Cemetery is up ahead. Would you like to take a look with me?”

  Carrie turns to look at me through her viewfinder. I wonder what she sees? Charm or a damned soul?

  She clicks the shutter release and takes a picture. It pleases me that I am now a memory. “Yes, I’d love to.”

  We walk toward the stoned main entrance and regardless of the dismal weather, the place is packed with tourists. I don’t know what it is about the dead that appeals to the living. I suppose it’s the sense of the unknown. They’ve experienced what we’re bound to sooner or later.

  I’ve come here many times; the last time was with Liz. She bitched and moaned the entire time, saying the winding potholed paths were giving her motion sickness.

  Shaking my head to dispel such thoughts as I don’t want my ex to ruin my experience a second time around, I walk over to the signage that details the layout. There are so many final resting places, and many of these individuals have inspired me throughout my life. We decide to start at the beginning and make our way around at our own pace.

  This place is tragically beautiful, and if the towering trees could speak, what a tale they would tell. It’s hard to believe some of the dates on the headstones. When we reach Oscar Wilde’s tomb, Carrie gasps and instantly focuses her camera.

  This happens for the next countless hours, us stopping by each grave—some well-known, others not—but each name represents a life that once lived. I wonder what purpose they served and if they died happy.

  My inner rock child comes out to play when we stop by Jim Morrison’s grave. It’s merely rubble now, but that doesn’t matter. Its symbolism is what people come here for. Surrounded by all this death makes me appreciate the life I have, but it also has me wondering who will pay their last respects for me. What will my headstone say?

  He was loved…but loved by whom?

  We turn a corner and come to a small passage where an elderly man kneels by what looks like a relatively new grave. He’s in a suit and bow tie; his tan hat hangs limply in his hand. There is nothing but sorrow and reflection shrouding him.

  We’ve encroached on a private moment because this place isn’t home to just famous poets, rock stars, and actors; it’s also the final resting grounds for people just like me. Carrie senses my thoughts, and we attempt to turn to give this man some privacy, but he smiles.

  “My wife is buried here,” he explains in French. “She passed away two years ago.”

  “Je suis désolé,” I reply, expressing my sympathy.

  But he surprises me when he shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. We all die, but it’s what we do when we’re alive that matters. My Gaelle, she lived life to the fullest. She had no regrets when she died. Not many people can say that.”

  Carrie sniffs beside me.

  “Never take one moment for granted. La vie est belle.”

  And he’s right—life is beautiful. Each breath proves that.

  He blows her a kiss with his weathered hand, promising he’ll see her soon.

  The sight is beyond touching, and I don’t realize how much it effects Carrie until she chokes out a strangled, “Excuse me,” then sprints away. I bid the man farewell and go to follow Carrie.

  She hasn’t gone far. I find her hidden beneath a tree, her back turned as she clearly wipes her eyes.

  “Dove?” I don’t know if she wants me to leave her alone because today has been full of surprises.

  “I’m sorry, Jayden,” she says, her voice wavering.

  “There’s no need to apologize. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” I stop a few feet away, unsure if my touch would be welcomed.

  “That was so sad. You wanted to see all the sides to love, and that was so beautiful. To find that sort of love…” She leaves the sentence unfinished because there’s no need for her to explain.

  Her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath, and when she feels better, she slowly turns to face me. Her eyes are rimmed red, tears sticking to her lashes. I want to console her, but I don’t. “How about we get out of here?”

  She nods, quickly wiping away a fallen tear.

  We walk in silence, both lost in our heads, but that’s Paris—Je ne sais quoi.

  Deciding to take a break from this ominous cloud that hangs over our heads, I’m struck with a brilliant idea. Carrie is scrolling through the pictures she took, oblivious to what I’m doing on my phone.

  When I see a cab, I hail it down. “We’re not getting back on the bus?” she asks, peering from left to right, attempting to decipher what she’s missed.

  “No, we are not.” I open the door for her, hinting if she wants to know why that is, she needs to get into the cab. She slides in without a second thought. I rattle off the address to the driver, thankful Carrie hasn’t figured out where I’m taking her.

  Thanks to Paris traffic, a half an hour ride takes close to an hour, but it’s perfect because where I’m taking Carrie, the magic truly comes alive at nightfall.

  The mood has finally lifted, and whatever was troubling Carrie seems to have settled for now. She sits taller in her seat, the slightly grungier feel to the neighborhood piquing her interest. However, when the unmissable red glow from our destination lights up our faces, Carrie squeals and claps her hands.

  “No?”

  “Yes,” I confirm when the driver pulls up in front of Moulin Rouge. I pay him while Carrie can barely wait as she bursts from the cab.

  The vibe is electric and fun. It’s exactly what we both need.

  When she peers up and examines the flaming red windmill, the blades shining brightly, she smiles wide. I have missed that smile. “Are we going in?”

  “No, I thought we could stand out here in the
freezing cold and hope to catch a glimpse of those smashing topless dancers.”

  She playfully slaps me in the stomach and winds me. I love her spunk.

  Seeing as I purchased the VIP tickets, we skip the line and are welcomed by our host. The moment we enter, both Carrie and I gape as we look around because this place is pretty remarkable. Moulin Rouge is the one place in Paris I’ve always wanted to go but have never been. Liz said it was filled with prostitutes who shamefully shook their can-cans for everyone to see. It wasn’t a fight worth having.

  So being here, it makes me happy that I’m experiencing this first with Carrie.

  Everything is red and dimly lit, and it’s fucking sexy. Our host leads us upstairs and shows us to our own private balcony. The view from up here is beyond words. We take a seat at our table, and when I see the expensive bottle of bubbly and macaroons, ripe for the picking, I know we’re in for a great night.

  Carrie’s excitement is palpable. “The stage is like, right there.” She points, unbelieving. “How much did this cost? Let me pay you back.”

  “It’s my treat,” I say, shaking my head as she will not be paying me now or ever. I pour us a glass of champagne, unsure if she’d want to drink after last night, but she accepts.

  She fluffs her hair and unwinds her scarf as it’s a lot warmer in here than it is outside. “If I knew we were coming here, I would have worn something a little nicer.”

  She peers around self-consciously, examining the furs and jewels. But her modesty is far richer than she’ll ever know. “I’m sure you’ll be wearing a lot more than the dancers.”

  She rolls her eyes playfully. “Is that why you brought me here? To gawk at boobs and asses?”

  “It’s not the only reason,” I tease, relishing in Carrie’s snort giggle.

  The snobby couple to the right of us purse their lips, clearly not accustomed to having fun. If Liz were here, she’d fit right in.

  “What’s the other reason then?” she asks, snatching a macaroon from the table and popping it into her mouth. She moans when the sweetness hits her tongue. That lucky, lucky macaroon.

  “I’ve always wanted to come but never had the chance.” I refuse to mention Liz because after last night, I don’t fancy a trip down misery lane.

  But Carrie can read between the lines.

  “Well, in that case, let’s make a toast.” She raises her glass, so I do the same. “To new beginnings.”

  “To new beginnings,” I affirm as we clink glasses. “I couldn’t have phrased it better myself.”

  “I’m honored, considering you’re supposed to be a writer and all.” And just like that, the sassy minx is back. We drink, unable to break our stare as we peer at one another over the rim of our glasses.

  The ripple of her throat as she swallows the champagne stirs a longing in my loins. My fuck. I need to get a grip.

  Her cell chimes, and just like that, my good mood fizzles.

  “It’s fine. You can answer it.” I down the contents of my glass, desperate to drown this dread in the pit of my stomach.

  But she firmly states, “No, I’m here with you. There’s no one I want to talk to anyway.”

  Well, that’s interesting.

  I shouldn’t press, but I’m tenacious and curious. I have to be—look at my day job. “Not even the waiter?”

  “Mason?” she asks, the rise in her tone indicating she’s nervous.

  “Yes, Mason.” His name feels like venom eating away at my vocal cords.

  “He’s texted me a couple of times. That’s all.”

  “You do realize he has a massive hard-on for you, don’t you?” I almost give everyone in earshot a heart attack, including our server, who makes a beeline for another table.

  “What?” she says, curling her lip and shaking her head. “I don’t even know him. And besides, it’s not like that.”

  “It’s so like that.” His grammatically riddled text comes to mind. I’m surprised he didn’t send her an emoji of an eggplant and a winky face.

  “He wanted to hang out tonight,” she reveals, and I’m thankful for her honesty. “I haven’t replied, though.”

  “Why not?” I lean back in my seat, watching her closely. She’s flustered, and it’s not from the wine.

  “Because I didn’t come to Paris for romance. I came here to get away from it. I’ve made some mistakes, ones I can’t take back.”

  Arching a brow, I pose, “That seems a little strange, considering that’s why we came here.”

  But she stubbornly presses her lips together. “Romance from afar, not involving me, is why I came. I wanted to help you because you clearly have zero clue when it comes to women. Your track record proves this.”

  She instantly bites her lip and reaches for her glass. She’s said too much. On the contrary, Cherie, she’s said just enough.

  “Well, we are a pair then. Your stellar list of losers also hints at the fact we’d be better off single. I am awfully curious, however, as to why your twenty-one beaus didn’t make the cut. Care to share? Call it research.” And this has nothing to do with my book.

  She shakes her head with a smile. “Nuh-uh. I’m not your lab rat. I don’t want you dissecting me.”

  “Why not?” I counter because the more she talks, the more intrigued I become.

  “Because you won’t like who you see.” She lowers her chin, embarrassed.

  The playful banter simmers.

  “Carrie”—I hesitantly reach for her hand—“that’s impossible. I’ve known you for three, four, five days, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter because regardless of what time zone we’re in, I’ve liked you from the beginning. A lot.”

  “Why?” She’s not asking for an ego booster. She’s asking because she’s genuinely curious.

  “Why do I like you?”

  She nods.

  Running my thumb over her knuckles, I smile. “Because you’re unlike anyone I have ever met before.” I could list a dozen other reasons, but that sums it up.

  She’s still not convinced. What happened to her to leave her this untrustworthy? “I’m no one special,” she expresses with a limp shrug. There is no way in hell I will have her saying such blasphemy.

  “Well, you are to me.”

  A gasp leaves her. “Th-thank you, Jayden.”

  The waiter finally gathers the nerve to approach our table and announces what’s on the menu. But as Carrie’s hand sits snugly in mine, I’m suddenly ravenous for something else.

  Regardless of the fact I was surrounded by bouncing, jiggly supple flesh all evening, all I could focus on was Carrie. Dinner and the show was absolutely spectacular even though at every corner I turned, I was faced with boobs and more boobs, and they did nothing, zilch, nada for my libido.

  Carrie in her skinny jeans and sweater turned me on more so than the girls who were dancing around in costumes resembling dental floss.

  The way her eyes lit up as she leaned forward in her seat, spellbound by the music and the dancing, held me so captivated, I barely watched the show. When it ended, she discreetly wiped away the tears from her eyes and thanked me for taking her.

  All in all, it was a perfect evening, and the moment we slid into a cab, that spark that has been ever present since we first met sparked brighter than it ever has before. I literally sat on my hands to stop myself from reaching out and touching her.

  We exited the taxi and rode the elevator to our room, ensuring we stood on opposite ends of the cart. Not that it made much of a difference because, in the small confines, I was certain I could hear her heart thrashing wildly within her chest.

  She all but flung herself from the elevator when the door opened and ran to our room.

  She excused herself, saying she needed to use the bathroom, and that is where she’s been for the past twenty minutes.

  It’s bloody freezing out, but I can’t stay inside, so I’m out on the balcony. Sipping my scotch, I’m hoping I’m struck with some revelation as to why Carrie is hiding f
rom me. I thought things were going well, but it appears I was wrong.

  “Hey. What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” Her voice is like a salve to my constant ache.

  “I grew up in London, dove; this is summer for me.” I’m attempting to deflect the situation with humor, but the strain shows.

  “Is your family there?” she asks, her footsteps slow as she walks toward me. I don’t move an inch.

  “We moved to the US when I was sixteen, but my parents moved back to London about five years ago. My younger brother lives in New York.”

  “What’s he like?” She’s making small talk, which betrays her nerves.

  With elbows resting against the railing and my scotch glass sitting loosely in my right hand, I give off the appearance of being aloof and uncaring. But the closer she gets to me, the harder it is for me to control myself.

  I don’t even know what I want. I just know I want more.

  Raising the glass to my lips, I take a long drink before replying. “He’s an even bigger mess than I am. At least I attempted to stay on the straight and narrow.”

  Elijah is not only proud of his bachelor status; he’s also proud of the fact he’s slept with half of New York and its surrounding boroughs.

  “You haven’t strayed too far off the path,” she says, coming to a stop a few feet away from me. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “I like to think so. At least I can still hold on to a small scrap of my dignity.” Her gentle breathing hints that she’s listening. “I may have shagged my share of women over the past six months”— I don’t see the point in being coy—“but I didn’t kiss a single one. I know that’s not something to be awfully proud of, but a kiss is something treasured.”

  Realizing what an utter wank I sound like, I raise my glass and drink my damn scotch to stop the whimsical dribble.

  “I respect that,” she reveals a moment later. “Having sex and having feelings are two entirely different things. I thought Donny was different, but he proved to me that he wasn’t. He’s just like all the other guys I’ve dated.”

  “So the twat was the only man who ever came close to being your Mr. Right?” I peer at her over my shoulder, hoping she doesn’t flee.