by Jill Cox
He stared at my hands resting in his for a long time. His fingers brushed softly over my skin as he thought, but I didn’t respond. So he lifted his eyes to mine and let my hands go. “Is that the reason you moved to Paris, Fee? Because I hurt you?”
There it was. Drew had just spoken the truth that had been hanging between us since I got the Beckett Scholarship. But I’d never told him – had never wanted to admit it – because the truth was, I loved Drew. No matter what.
Somewhere deep inside, the younger version of me rattled her cage, demanding that I stop wasting everybody’s time. I didn’t blame her. I finally had the one thing I’d wanted for as long as I could remember. Drew Sutton was in love with me, not Lindsay Foster.
So why couldn’t I let it go? Why was any line that Drew had crossed more of a betrayal than my lingering confusion over Pete?
THIRTY-TWO
I never answered Drew’s question about Paris. Well, not with words. I kissed him, and I guess that was the answer he wanted, because he kissed me back like it was all he needed to know.
The next morning we went snowboarding on Mount Bachelor with our high school friends. Drew ate my snow dust all day long and never mentioned Paris once. In fact, he never mentioned Paris or Lindsay again for the rest of break. We ran together on the beach every day and spent New Year’s Eve on a boat decked out with fairy lights. He said all the right things about starting a new year together. I waited and waited, but the Paris question never reared her ugly head again.
Eight hours before we were supposed to head back to Portland – Drew for school, me for the airport – we lit the fireplace inside my little white gabled house on Neptune Avenue and watched The Sandlot for the millionth time. When the credits rolled, Drew rested his forehead against mine.
“I hate this semester already,” he smiled sadly. “What am I supposed to do without you?”
“You could take up needlepoint.”
“Maybe I’ll become a ski bum. I need to make a trip back to Mount Bachelor anyway.”
“Why? Because your girlfriend snowboards better than you do?”
“You wish,” he grinned. “Hey, do you have some quarters?”
“Why? Do you need them for laundry or something?”
“Not laundry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Novelty items. Did you see that sweet claw machine at the Mount Bachelor ski lodge? I know for a fact I can score you at least a couple of fancy-looking rings so you don’t feel frumpy next time you’re invited to a ball at the Tuileries.”
“Aren’t you thoughtful?” I snuggled into the crook of his arm. “But don’t you think I’d impress Count Halitosis von Wartburg more if I blinged the whole way out? One ring per finger, please. And see what you can do about a faux emerald necklace. It would go great with my hair.”
“So greedy.” He opened his hand toward me. “Come on, Fee. I know for a fact there are twelve quarters in your wallet. Be a pal and hand them over, okay?”
“Wait, how do you know that? Did you dig through my purse?”
“Look, mademoiselle, I’m not sure whether you’ve heard this or not, but the French are so snobby that they refuse to take American money. And since you insist on leaving me tomorrow, the least you can do is hand over your spare change to fund my new collection of water guns.”
“Oh, I see how it is. So all of that about adding pieces to my jewelry collection was just a trick to fund your prank arsenal? You are aware that you’re nearly twenty-one years old, right?”
“This isn’t an either-or situation, Fee! I’ll win you all the jewels you could ever wear, just so long as your quarters score me a water gun or two.”
“Why? Are you heading back to Wyoming this summer to work at the dude ranch?”
“You’re hilarious,” he scowled. “No, see, there are all these superlative pictures lining the staircase at the frat house. You know, Best Attendance. Most Philanthropic, blah, blah, blah. For two years in a row, Russell’s gotten the highest GPA in the whole fraternity, and his picture is at the top of the stairs. Every morning when I walk downstairs for breakfast, there he is, judging me. So I figured I’d counter his psychological warfare with a little passive-aggressive water therapy.”
I studied Drew’s expression for a moment. “Okay, I have to know – why in the world do you hate Pete Russell so much? Don’t you know how much the two of you have in common?”
“I do know,” he said softly, crossing his arms. “But we got off on the wrong foot, mostly because when he found out I knew you freshman year, he taunted me for half of October, threatening to make a move on you at the quad Halloween party.”
Drew might as well have knocked the air out of me with a canoe paddle. “But… I wasn’t even in town on Halloween that year. Ian made me come see him in Seattle that weekend.”
“I know. That’s because I panicked and told your highly protective older brother that you were getting too friendly with a senior psych major. A really, really good-looking one.”
“What? Why would you do something like that, Drew?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Fee? Russell wanted to ask you out! I couldn’t let that happen. Anyway, he must have figured out my scam because from that moment on, he’s had it in for me.”
I breathed in deeply, then breathed in again for good measure. “If you didn’t want me to go with Pete to the party, why didn’t you just ask me yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I was an idiot every day of my life until ten weeks ago. Haven’t we already established this fact?”
I slid my fingers into his hair again and tugged his face toward mine. “What am I gonna do with you? Violent thoughts, compulsive lying, and auditory hallucinations are bad signs. Like, one hundred percent of the time. Just ask my imaginary psych major boyfriend.”
“Why do you always ruin my fun?” He pretended to pout. “That picture’s like the Mona Lisa. Shooting water in Russell’s smug eyeball every time I pass will be incredibly cathartic. Hey, maybe I can send you a water gun, too, so you could squirt him in the actual eyeball for me.”
“Drew.”
“Yeah?”
“I know I’m leaving tomorrow. But I’m not going anywhere, okay? I love you.”
“I know you do.” Drew’s face softened, and he brushed his lips against mine. “So does this mean you’ll cancel that boring old Italy trip and spend your spring break with me instead?”
“You claw out that emerald necklace at Mount Bachelor, and maybe then we’ll talk.”
THIRTY-THREE
Three cups of vending machine espresso swirled steam into the air next to Anne when I arrived in the Grande Salle Monday morning, straight from the airport. Across the room, Pete nodded in greeting, then turned back to Meg. A few minutes later, Dan and Marshall joined us up front, but the rest of Meg’s minions plus Harper and Kelly were nowhere to be seen. In fact, half of the room seemed vacant.
Just like in September, Madame Beauchamp held a little mini-orientation for our first day back. After she outlined the coming weekend’s school trip to the Loire Valley, she explained what I already suspected about the empty chairs. The coastal Northeast had been slammed with blizzard conditions over the weekend, so nearly half of our classmates were stuck at home. Anne and Meg would have been snowed in too if they hadn’t spent their holidays in France this year.
Two hours later, as Dan dragged my suitcase along the rue Bonaparte, Pete turned to Anne and me. “Do you guys have plans this afternoon?”
“Coffee,” Anne pointed accusingly. “This one needs lots of coffee.”
Pete turned and looked at Dan, then me. “I heard Le Galway pub down the street from us is replaying yesterday’s NFL playoff game. Cowboys versus Giants. What do you think, Meredith?”
“Let’s do it,” I yawned. “Should we meet at your place after I unpack?”
“Sure,” he beamed. “I invited Meg to join us. We’re both huge Cowboys fans.”
Anne shot me a knowing look, then plaste
red on a smile. “Isn’t everybody? They are America’s Team, after all.”
Pete picked up the pace so rapidly that Dan was practically running behind him. Which might explain why neither of them noticed that Anne and I were now walking in lock step – left, right, left, right – in sisterly solidarity. Was Pete Russell delusional? When a New Yorker suddenly claims allegiance to the Dallas Cowboys, RED ALERT. Hide your boyfriend, hide your brother, your best friend, your grandpa. Most of all, watch your own back.
That afternoon, while Anne and I seethed in a corner booth of Le Galway, Meg held court on top of the bar as Pete, Dan, and about sixty of their newest friends cheered the Cowboys to victory. After the game, I heard Pete say that her cute pink jersey must have brought them luck. For real, Pete? The game happened yesterday.
I guess the laws of physics don’t apply in the Meg-ozoic Era.
THIRTY-FOUR
Over the next several days, it became obvious how much time Pete and Meg had spent together over the holidays. She joined us every day for lunch in the Luxembourg Gardens. She monopolized every conversation, including our sacred time by the coffee machine each morning. Her strident voice became the soundtrack to the wintry January fog, and I wondered on more than one occasion why Paris had seemed so much better than Portland only a few days earlier.
Which is why I cast all my hopes on our weekend trip to the great castles of the Loire Valley. Now that Pete and Meg were joined at the hip and the Addison girls were still stuck in Maine, our quiver of arrows was down to three.
So Dan dubbed our little subgroup “The Riders of Brohan,” a play on something from Lord of the Rings. We tried to make the best of things, dutifully exploring the hallowed halls of France’s royal past. Always the first off the bus, always the last back on.
But then Dan and Anne realized they’d spent the same summer in high school on different exchange programs, each of them living on opposite sides of Place Plumereau, the medieval, half-timbered quarter of Tours. Which meant I spent both nights of the trip straggling behind my friends as they journeyed together down a cobblestoned memory lane.
“Would you mind pressing pause on the charm button until we get back to Paris?” I begged Dan Saturday night when Anne excused herself to the restroom of some quaint pub they both loved. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little too skint right now in the friend department to be subjected to this third wheel nonsense.”
“Aw. I’m sorry, éponine. Are you gonna start singing at me now under the lamplight?”
“Mock me all you want. But you’ll only have yourself to blame when the gendarmes find me walking the streets alone, muttering about flying kittens and stealth bombers.”
Dan laughed so hard the locals at the next table scowled. “What a visual, Sullivan. Maybe you should sign up for creative writing next semester. You’ve already gotten plenty of practice with all the Dan Thomas fan fic you’ve been feeding Anne lately.”
“Fan fic?” I frowned. “There’s no fic when it’s true.”
“Is that a fact?” Dan’s blue eyes twinkled behind his specs. “So when you told her I didn’t post much on social media because I had a stalker at Highgate named Katrina, that wasn’t fiction?”
“Well, yes. But I thought it sounded better than the truth: that you actually study in your free time.”
The left side of his mouth hitched up, then he slid his fist toward mine and bumped it gently. “Thank you, my fellow Brohan rider. I owe you one.”
As the waiter brought our drinks, I noticed several Lafayette types invading our off-the-beaten-track bar. Dan followed my gaze, and our eyes both locked on the Russell-Green duo as they peeled off from the group and settled in a corner booth with their backs to the world. Within two seconds, Pete’s arm was around Meg, their faces so close together, talking in that way couples do – eyes soft, staring at each other’s lips.
Anne, who had just rejoined the table, followed our rubbernecked stares just in time to see Meg close the tiny gap between them.
“Well, perfect,” Dan groaned. “I guess this means they’re taking things public. Just what I need: more Green in my life.” When Anne and I didn’t respond, he rolled his eyes. “Believe me, what you guys see at school is nothing. You would not believe what a shambles my world has become. Meg spends every single afternoon at our apartment, right up until her host family expects her home for dinner. If I’m there, I have to hide out in my room because those two occupy every inch of the sofa. And thanks to the genius who invented video chat, I can never quite get away from the insanity. Well, except when I’m with you guys.”
“Oh, I know all about the schmoopy chat dates thanks to the hyper thin walls on the seventh floor,” Anne scoffed, shooting me a dirty look. “Lucky for me, there are time constraints in Meredith’s case. Not that it’s stopped Drew from calling her twice a day, every day.”
“Not every day,” I mumbled. “Look, guys, we all saw this coming, right? Meg Green is beautiful. She’s smart, she’s funny, and I get the distinct feeling she’s gone out of her way to be nice to us this trimester. So maybe we should all try harder to return the favor.”
“If the next words out of your mouth are that we want Pete to be happy, you will wake up tomorrow with L-I-A-R Sharpied all over your face,” Anne glared. “Do not let Meredith fool you, Dan. She and Kelly co-author a Twitter account called @vertismes. It’s a virtual log of all the nonsensical stuff that comes out of Meg’s mouth every time she speaks.”
Dan’s mouth gaped. “Is that why you two always take out your phones whenever she’s around? You’re live-tweeting what she says?”
“Not live-tweeting,” I scowled. “I mean, we might be taking notes for later, but it’s no big deal, Dan. Our tweets are protected, and we have exactly two followers besides ourselves. One of them” – I held my hand over Anne’s head and pointed downward – “was the brainchild behind the whole idea in the first place, just so you know. But more importantly, you cannot tell Pete.”
“You have my word,” he grinned, lifting his hand to his heart. “But only if you let me follow, too.”
Pete and Meg were still smooching away in the corner, and even though she’d embarrassed me, Anne was not wrong to call me out. Really? Out of every girl on the planet, Pete chose Meg Green? Didn’t he see how insipid she was? Of course he didn’t. He’s a guy. Resistance was futile against the Queen of the Fembots: that perfect body plus an aura of mystery equaled Pete Russell reduced to his testosterone-y core.
THIRTY-FIVE
I defy anyone to dispute that January and February are the two dreariest months of the year. At least in the Northern Hemisphere. At home, this time of year means constant drizzle from a cold, gray sky that bleeds horizonless into the cold, gray Pacific Ocean. Minus the large body of water, Paris was no different.
So even though the Centre Lafayette was back to full capacity now that every classmate had returned, an odd sort of darkness loomed. And after one too many days indoors, Kelly came up with a brilliant plan: a weekend in London would snap us out of our funk.
So on that last Friday in January, we boarded the Eurostar with hope in our heart and a few pounds sterling in our pockets. But gloomy London was far worse than Paris. Even the silver umbrella charm I bought for my bracelet looked like it was covered in soot.
The following Friday after Promenade Parisienne, Harper dragged us over to Maya’s of Montparnasse, our failsafe remedy for the dreary, homesick blues. The chips, queso, and margarita combo cheered even crabby old me. And, because Anne had heard nothing but glowing reviews about some new American romantic comedy called April in Paris, we dropped a small fortune to see it on the Champs-Élysées, certain that it would be the answer to all our February prayers.
Bad call, Anne. Every last warm fuzzy from the Tex-Mex goodness immediately faded as the latest Hollywood It Girl and her on-screen suitor gallivanted around a brightly lit, Technicolor Paris that resembled Oz more than the capital of France.
“Where�
�d they film this?” I whispered. “It rains half the year in this town.”
“Probably Burbank,” Kelly grimaced, her blue eyes narrowing. “Would you look at that? They have Montmartre in the southern half of the city on this wide shot. What is wrong with these people? I know they were on a budget, but come on. Not a single one of their unpaid production assistants knew how to access the map app on their phone?”
The four of us crossed our arms simultaneously in disgust.
But Harper refused to let the evening be a bust, so she invited Anne and me back to their apartment to watch the first season of Gilmore Girls. Paris (Geller) for the win, I say. We stayed up all night, busting out Kelly’s secret Tootsie Pop stash, begging Luke and Lorelai to get together.
By eight a.m. on Saturday, I felt ten years younger and a hundred years saner. When Anne suggested we walk the four miles back to the apartment, I was happy to oblige her. We were back in love with our city again. Right on cue, the clouds broke for the first time in weeks, and a tiny ray of sunshine bathed our path in golden glory.
Weaving our way through the Right Bank down to the Seine, we stumbled across a Chinese New Year parade between the Centre Pompidou and the Hôtel de Ville. It was one of those peculiar Paris moments that had vindicated my splurge on a high-end smartphone when I first moved here. You need a high-pixel camera with a lot of extra storage when these are the sights you find just around the bend every day.
Only this time, what I found around the next bend was a string of text messages on my phone screen. One by one, the mini-diatribes scrolled in rapid succession.
Six hours later I’m still sitting here waiting
Yep I’ve wasted my entire Friday night on you
Trying not to imagine you dead in a ditch right now
