The Bridge

by Jill Cox

  “Hey,” he said, kissing me briefly on the cheek before fist-bumping Drew. “Thank you guys for coming. Did you have a hard time finding this place?”

  “No,” Drew grinned, glancing nervously around. “Are we the last ones here?”

  “Apparently so,” Anne snarled. “Tell me, do all people in Oregon value spur-of-the-moment adventures over someone’s once-in-a-lifetime birthday? Because where I’m from, that’s just rude.”

  Dan winced, then gestured for me to sit down in the seat to his right and for Drew to sit beside me at the head of the table. I looked around the rest of the group. Everything appeared normal enough. At the opposite end of the table from Drew sat Anne, tapping furiously away on her phone. To her left, across from Dan and me, were Harper and Kelly, both smiling so uncomfortably that I finally realized why.

  Pete Russell was missing in action.

  As Harper and Kelly re-introduced themselves to Drew, I watched Dan shredding the end of his napkin between his thumb and forefinger while taking huge gulps from his baby bottle. When he noticed me watching him, he set the bottle back on the table, a watery smile on his lips.

  “Sorry,” he shrugged. “I should probably slow down.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” I said softly so that Drew wouldn’t hear.

  “Not especially,” Dan muttered. His whole demeanor reminded me of the Degas painting we’d been studying in art history earlier in the week of the lady drinking absinthe. Face forward, eyes downcast, nose slightly red, sad expression. Poor Dan looked helpless, forlorn, and in desperate need of his bed.

  The waiter delivered a new round of baby bottles to the group while Drew jabbered on to Kelly about his first impressions of Paris. So I took the opportunity and bent closer to Dan. “Why isn’t your flatmate here?”

  “Officially?” He half-chuckled, half-sighed. “Pete doesn’t drink. You know that, right?”

  I did know that. I’d noticed it first in Rouen, then every Wednesday night at Marie-France’s dinners. There hadn’t been a single time we’d gone out as a group that I’d seen him drink anything harder than coffee, but I’d never asked him about it. “What are you saying, Dan? That Pete left town so he wouldn’t be tempted? That’s a little extreme.”

  He shook his head. “I think that’s what he wants everyone else to believe. But here’s the truth: Pete’s grandmother called yesterday morning to let him know her cancer isn’t responding to treatment. They’re going to get her into some experimental trials, but it’s risky.”

  “Cancer?” I remembered Pete’s face yesterday in the courtyard. “Did Pete know she was sick?”

  “Yeah. She got diagnosed sometime early this summer. Stage four breast cancer. I thought for sure he would’ve told you by now.”

  I thought back on Pete’s arrival that day we flew to Paris. Disheveled, harried… and now I knew he had a good reason. I felt a little bit sick remembering how ugly I’d behaved.

  “Dan, if Pete’s grandmother is sick, why is he in Paris with us? He should be at home.”

  “That’s what he thinks too, but Gigi didn’t give him that option. She made him promise to spend at least a semester with us, and once he got here, she put restrictions on all his credit cards and airline miles so he couldn’t book a flight home without her permission. He was on the phone all morning while we were in class yesterday trying to convince someone somewhere to lift her rules. No dice. Not in the era of identity theft.”

  “That’s… I don’t know what to say. He must be devastated.”

  “Listen, don’t fret about Pete,” Dan said quietly. “This is sort of his shtick – he freaks out, he bails on all his plans, and then he comes back like nothing ever happened. I should have known he’d leave town to blow off steam after he spent most of yesterday locked up in his room. I’m just thankful he left a note this time.”

  “What did it say?”

  “That he was sorry he would miss my birthday, but he was headed to Gare de Lyon to take the first available train this morning. He promised to be back by the time class starts on Monday.”

  I turned to look at Drew, who had his phone turned toward my friends, showing them old YouTube videos of my Irish dance competitions. Merci, free Wi-Fi. I turned back to Dan, who was mid-swig on a fresh bottle. “Dan, I need you to focus for just a minute. How can you be so certain Pete’s okay? Have you checked in with him or something?”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and then he smiled. “Oh, I’m certain alright. And you would be too if you’d taken a look at your Facebook feed today. I guess Sutton’s kept you occupied.”

  While Drew cracked himself and the rest of the table up with Mini-Meredith and her championship flailing legs, I jumped on Facebook to send Pete a message about his grandmother. But as soon as I did, I finally caught Dan’s meaning.

  My news feed was full of pictures featuring Pete Russell on a train, flanked by some classmates I recognized but barely knew. In another post, he was standing with those same guys beside a cogwheel train, then again on top of a mountain. In the last tagged picture, Pete was by himself, bending out from a covered bridge that I recognized from the thousand and one pictures my brother had taken at this same spot: the medieval Chapel Bridge in Lucerne, Switzerland.

  Photo credit: Megan Elizabeth Green. Manhattan, New York.

  I couldn’t believe it. From the second I’d seen the two of them dancing on top of that chair in Rouen, I’d wondered if Meg was into Pete, but I’d really never wondered the reverse. It was an impossible pairing. They didn’t have one thing in common.

  At least, that’s what I’d told myself.

  Meg and her little coterie of Upper East Side pals left town every weekend on a whim for some mind-blowing destination. The Addison girls and I took bets every Thursday on where they’d go.

  Night skiing in Chamonix!

  The Montenegro Film Festival!

  The ice hotel in Reykjavik!

  Cocktails in Capri!

  Wherever their destination, Meg and her minions would arrive back at school every Monday, cackling over photographic evidence of all-nighters hanging out with the fabulous crowd, like some outcast from a British boy band or an up-and-coming YouTube star. And always, at the vortex of fabulous and famous, Queen Meg ruled.

  Numbness crept over me. When Pete had asked me to hop a train with him this weekend, is this what he’d had in mind? Hanging out with a bunch of jetsetters in Switzerland? No way. I couldn’t believe it. Pete Russell had more depth in his toenail than Meg Green had in her entire soul.

  And yet, in this photo, he looked serene. Contented. Like he was right where he belonged.

  I stared at his face for so long that I forgot to send him a message. And when I finally looked up again, I found Drew’s eyes on my screen, his lips drawn in a thin line. Then he lifted his eyes to mine, and the look he gave me filled my veins with ice.

  For the next hour, Drew laid on the charm. When Harper asked him to tell them all something about me no one else knew, he told them about the stories I’d written as a kid, recounting with cringeworthy accuracy my masterpiece about two pebbles on either side of the Atlantic Ocean that passed messages to each another on the fins of a whale. When I got up to go to the restroom and came back, Drew was sitting in my seat, his arm draped lazily across Dan’s shoulder. For the next quarter hour, the two of them belted every song in the Sigma Phi Beta pledge book.

  Everyone declared Drew the wine-sodden winner of Dan and Kelly’s birthday party. I was the only one who noticed that, in fact, the liquid level in his bottle hadn’t even dropped by one milliliter.

  When the check came and the rest of the group decided to take the party to some bar near Kelly and Harper’s place, Drew flashed his brightest smile and punched Dan’s shoulder playfully. “Thanks for including me, Danny boy. Sorry I’m no substitute for your buddy Russell. You really have no idea how sorry.”

  “’Z’okay,” Dan slurred back. “I love you guyzz. And you love e
ach other, right?”

  Drew’s eyes met mine, then he patted Dan chummily on top of his head. “You’re a good man, Daniel. Promise you’ll keep my girl honest for me once I’m gone.”

  After more hugs and promises to be best friends forever and ever times infinity, Dan and the Addison girls headed off on foot while Drew and I caught the Métro home. Everything about us pulsated fatigue. I didn’t want to entertain any other explanation for the total and absolute silence between us.

  That silence followed us through Marie-France’s apartment and up the back stairs to the chambres de bonne floor. I opened my mouth to speak as I unlocked my bedroom, but Drew slid past me through the doorway, his eyes avoiding mine.

  “Good night,” he mumbled miserably. And without another word, he closed my bedroom door behind him, locking the deadbolt so viciously that the door twanged in protest.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I did not sleep one minute that night. Well, maybe I did, but by five o’clock my eyes refused to stay closed for more than thirty seconds at a time. So I got up, got dressed, locked the door to Anne’s room and crept quietly down the stairs to Marie-France’s apartment.

  Sitting there in the kitchen stillness, I breathed in the smoky haze of the coffee rising from my mug while I replayed the night before in my mind with digitally-enhanced closed captioning. None of the scenarios ahead of me today were good. So I waited. I drank my coffee. And I prayed for the best.

  I had just brewed a second pot when Drew pushed open the back door to Marie-France’s apartment at six. He looked wretched – damp hair and puffy eyes behind his adorable glasses. “Hi,” he muttered, sliding into the chair at the far end of the table. “Add jet lag to the list of things I’ve failed at this weekend.”

  I poured him a cup of coffee, set it down on the table in front of him, and slid my fingers into his hair. “You look pretty good to me.”

  “Meredith, come on,” he sighed. “Don’t play around with me this morning.”

  “Who says I’m playing? Those glasses are my Kryptonite and you know it, Sutton.”

  Drew eyed me strangely for a minute, then shook his head. Then he took the coffee cup from my left hand, placed on the table next to his and lowered me onto his lap, pulling me toward him like I was the only person in the world. “You asked me Friday why I came to Paris? Here’s the truth: I am legitimately terrified right now that I might lose you.”

  I pulled back slightly and pushed his glasses up his nose. “What makes you say that?”

  Drew tightened his grip around my waist. “Do you even know how much I’ve missed you since August? My heart actually ached, Fee. And I can’t stop thinking that once I get on that plane tomorrow, that’s it. Your life here will continue on without me. You’ll go your way, I’ll go mine, and I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering how exactly you slipped through my fingers.”

  “Look at me.” I lifted his chin with both my hands. “You have created some storyline inside that Drew brain of yours, scripting every single moment based on how you thought this weekend was supposed to look. The problem is, you never accounted for my side of the equation. I’m not some girl you met in a bar last night, Drew. You helped me pull my first loose tooth. When I got my driver’s license, you were the first person I drove up and down Highway 101.”

  “Yeah, and you were barefoot. That’s illegal some places, you know.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  Drew ran his fingers through his hair, then nudged me off his lap and motioned for me follow him to the living room. We sat on Marie-France’s sofa for a long time without speaking, both of us staring at his fingers tangled in mine. I counted almost to a hundred before he looked me in the eyes again.

  “I know you’re not some girl I met in a bar,” he said gently. “You and your family are my world, Meredith. That means every decision I make about you has bigger consequences. I never wanted to risk taking this step before now.”

  “So what changed?”

  “You tell me. Because we both know that wasn’t my picture you kept staring at on your phone last night.”

  When you’ve known each other as long as Drew and I have, you know the truth without saying it out loud. I had seen it in his eyes at the restaurant – whatever he’d suspected about my feelings for Pete before he got here, the truth was far worse. And now Drew had proof.

  But what he also knew, much to my humiliation, was that the object of my affection was probably cozied up by a fire in some Swiss chalet next to a gorgeous snow bunny who couldn’t have been more my opposite if she’d tried.

  I felt my cheeks flushing and looked down, tugging at a loose string on my t-shirt. I was nearly twenty-one years old, and I still had no clue how to understand the male mind.

  “Hey.” Drew reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, then cupped his hand under my chin. “How about we make a truce? Just you, just me. Let’s promise each other that no one will ever come between us ever again.”

  I leaned into his touch, relieved. “No one? Not even my new boyfriend, Count Halitosis von Wartburg?”

  Drew laughed. “Not even him.”

  I pretended to think for a minute. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a truce. And as a symbol of our new truce, I’ll let you pick what we do this morning.”

  He tapped his lip, then turned to me, beaming. “Versailles?”

  “Look at you with your double entendre! Picking a truce symbol for our truce symbol.”

  “Yeah?” Drew grinned. “Wait, what do you mean?”

  I tucked a bit of his hair behind his ear, then sighed. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  What a glorious autumn day – cool, crisp, and sunny. We toured the château and the gardens at Versailles, documenting ourselves with Drew’s phone all along the way. He insisted that we paddle a boat around on the Grand Canal, although he nearly tipped us over when he shifted over to my side for a quick selfie. After lunch, we hung out for most of the afternoon exploring Marie-Antoinette’s hamlet of little cottages. Drew posted a whole series of snaps as we roamed, each with one line from the ‘to be or not to be’ speech he remembered from high school.

  I’m only ninety percent certain he knew this hamlet had nothing to do with that Hamlet.

  On the train back to Paris, I convinced Drew that Ian might kill him for missing out on so much of Paris, so he let me buy us tickets for a hop-on-hop-off bus tour. Only we never hopped off. We just rode around and around on the top of the double-decker bus, seeing the sights, kissing our way through the City of Love.

  It was maybe the best idea I’d ever had.

  After a late dinner on the Champs-Élysées – Drew’s idea – he asked if we could walk our way back across the city to Notre Dame. When I told him that might take hours, he smiled sweetly. “Yeah, I know,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “That’s all the time I need.”

  So, back down the Champs-Élysées we strolled, toward the Place de la Concorde. But as we approached the Seine, Drew asked me the way down to the river bank. It was already past two in the morning, and I’d heard some sketchy things about the Quai des Tuileries after dark. But he insisted, so we trotted down the stairs and ambled along the river bank until the Île de la Cité split the river Seine in two.

  Somehow, we made it safely back up to the street level, and before I knew it, we were walking past Notre Dame and over the tiny bridge to Île Saint-Louis. The island was silent in the darkness, and while this should have creeped me out, I was too thrilled to show Drew the apartment where I wanted to live and write someday, two stories up and halfway down the rue Saint-Louis-en-L’Île, the island’s main artery. I was all prepared to head back to Marie-France’s apartment afterward when Drew suddenly turned me back in the direction of Notre Dame.

  “Come with me,” he said, his blond hair glowing in the moonlight. “There one thing left I wanted to do.”

  When we got halfway over the tiny bridge between Île Saint-L
ouis and Île de la Cité, Drew stopped. It was just the two of us, Drew leaning forward against the railing with me standing in front of him, Notre Dame looming large to our right as the river flowed all around.

  “This is Pont Saint-Louis, where I was going to bring you on Friday,” he whispered quietly into my ear, sliding his arms around my waist. “You like it?”

  “Of course.” I pulled his arms tighter around me and leaned back against his chest. “But why here?”

  His lips brushed against the skin just below my ear. “Because it sounds like this part of Paris is where you come to dream up your future. And I want you to remember me whenever you’re here.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, yeah. I flew across the world to tell you I love you, Meredith. I’m in love with you.”

  I shifted to face Drew, looping a finger between the buttons on his shirt. “Good to know. Because I’m sort of in love with you, too.”

  He smiled goofily down at me. “Are you sure? Because you don’t have to say…”

  Before he could finish, I closed the space between us, and mid-kiss, FLASH! I’d swiped the phone from his shirt pocket and recorded the moment for all eternity.

  “Didn’t anyone warn you about the pickpockets here?” I whispered against his lips. “They’ll steal things you didn’t know you had. Right out from under your nose.”

  “I’ll never let it happen again,” he whispered back, and then Drew kissed me like the wind, pushing us closer and closer until I couldn’t tell where he began and I ended.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  My life had become a really bad reality show. Choose the guy? You’re living in the wrong century, sister. Choose Paris? Hope you’re ready to share your future with a lot of cats.