by Natasha Boyd
All I heard was my own breath.
She was gone. Our calls had dropped every now and again over the intervening days since our nighttime calls had begun. It was an annoyance of long distance over apps. And that was okay now. I waited and heard nothing.
I needed to do this next part alone, anyway.
It was like being in a confessional of darkness. Of forgiveness. Without judgment or repercussion. “I want … I want to love you, Josephine. Maybe I do. But I don’t trust that it’s real. I’m sorry. Mon dieu. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I squeezed my eyes closed against the burning behind them, my free hand coming to rest over them for a moment—a useless instinct.
The phone was pointless now too, and I slipped it from my ear to turn it off. But then I saw the call was still connected. My breath froze in my chest, and I slowly brought it back to my ear. It was milliseconds before I realized the call was now truly gone. But not before I heard the quiet sob before she ended it.
What had I done?
Chapter Fifty
JOSIE
Charleston, SC, USA
Buried under my pillow, my sheet damp from my stupid tears, I heard the muffled sound of my bedroom door opening, then closing. I felt Meredith sitting on the bed beside me. She took the phone I still held in my hand and laid it on the bedside table.
“This can’t go on,” she said gently and removed the pillow, wincing when she saw the state of me. “You can’t just put your life on hold so you can speak to Xavier Pascale every night. Especially not when it’s killing you like this.” She reached over and grabbed the box of tissues, ripping a handful out and pressing them into my palm. “It might be the middle of the night for him, but for you it’s prime socializing time. You are young and hot and deserve a real relationship. Not to lie here crying in the dark every night over a man thousands of miles away who couldn’t see what he had when he had you.”
“I don’t cry every night.” How did I explain our normal phone calls? “I—you’re right. Of course.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what are you going to do about it?” she asked.
Tonight notwithstanding, mostly it had been comforting to lie here in silence connected to Xavier. Even though it was seriously fucked up. “Nothing. I’m not going to do anything. He needed me. I wanted to be there for him.” And now we probably wouldn’t speak again.
“Nothing? I need you. You’re supposed to be my friend, yet between your new job and your nightly phone calls, I never see you.”
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry.”
“What does he talk about, anyway? I mean you just lie there listening. That’s some weird shit.”
“We don’t talk. Usually. I just let him fall asleep. He-he doesn’t sleep well, and—”
“You have to be kidding me. You’re blowing me off so you can listen to a guy sleep?” She threw her arms up. “Fuck that shit. Get up.” She stood.
“Meredith. No.”
“Yes. I’m getting an ice pack for your eyes and we are going out. What the hell, Josie? This isn’t you. You are not one to let some guy gut you of your self-esteem.”
“I don’t need tough love right, now, Mer. I hear you, okay? I know. I know. Xavier and I won’t be talking anymore. I told him we’re done. So just let me grieve tonight. I’ll go out soon with you, I promise.”
She towered over me, hands on hips. “Promise?”
“Yes.”
She sank onto my bed again. “I’m sorry. I just hate to see you like this. And I really hope if you ever, ever, caught me in the same position, you’d kick my ass.”
I squeezed her arm. “Pay back will be a bitch, I promise,” I said sincerely.
“Fine. That was warranted. But seriously, it’s killing me to see you like this. Your mom is worried, too. She called me. She also noticed how different you’ve been since you got back.”
“I am different. Sure, I have a renewed sense of purpose about what I was doing with my life. But mostly, I fell in stupid, big, all-consuming love. Like I even dream of the smell of him kind of love. Of the way he spoke while we … you know.” Meredith scrunched her nose up, but I continued. “And like, I-want-to-be-a-mom-to-a-little-girl-who-isn’t-mine-but-feels-like-mine-because-she’s-a-part-of-him kind of love. It was as though I left Charleston like an overgrown teenager, and I came back as a woman. That’s the closest explanation I can give you. And not to mention the sex … other worldly. I mean I’ve always enjoyed sex, but it’s never been like it was with Xavier. Never. So freaking intense. And I’ll probably never find that again … for the rest of my whole life.”
“Well, fuck. I’d be crying too then,” Meredith said, a legitimate expression of horror on her face. “Scoot over, I’m going to get ice-cream delivered, and we’ll hold a wake for your sex life.”
I laughed, but it morphed into a fresh round of tears. “I-ice-cream s-sounds good.” I hiccupped.
“Christ, you’re a mess.” She sighed and pulled me in to lie on her shoulder while her other hand found the food delivery app on my phone.
I was a zombie for the next week or so.
Dauphine still called, but sometimes it was every two or three days now. It felt as though she was getting better. Finally able to move on from her grief and recent trauma. I knew Xavier had organized for her to see a therapist again after the incident with the kidnapping, so with that and having me to talk to, she’d sounded lighter and lighter. However, I hadn’t heard Xavier’s voice again, and my gut ached to hear it.
But then Tabitha came back and the energy in our apartment began to slowly shift back toward the happier times we’d had pre-France. It was Friday and we’d planned a girls’ night so I could fill Tabitha in sparingly about the fact I’d broken all her rules about not fraternizing with one of her families, and she could fill us in on what, or who, had kept her away from Charleston so long. The late September heat in Charleston was relentless and would continue to be for the next few months at least, and it was always jarring to see people start to decorate with fake fall foliage and real pumpkins that promptly rotted on doorsteps.
Every time I was on East Bay Street, I looked to see if the builders had broken ground on the hideously designed hotel. But today, jogging past, sweat dripping off my chin, I saw all the developer signs had been removed. I slowed and called Barbara, Donovan and Tate’s assistant at my old job.
“Barbara, it’s me, Josie. Don’t say my name,” I hastily added.
“Jo—hiii!”
“Johigh? That’s a new one.” I laughed.
“How are you?”
“Great, actually. You?”
“Mr. Donovan isn’t in today. It’s just Mr. Tate.”
“So, pretty shitty?”
“That’s exactly right,” she sang.
“What can you tell me about the East Bay Street hotel job?”
“Um … it’s a doozy. Whoo boy, I’ll have to check the schedule. But could you perhaps do something later in the day?”
I frowned, and then realized she must not be alone. I played along. “Today?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Meet at King Street Tavern at five?”
“About a half hour later, and I can fit you into the schedule.”
“Perfect.” I grinned, though she couldn’t see me. “See you then. I’m buying you your favorite Margarita, so plan on grabbing an Uber home or have Jeff come get you?”
“That’d work wonderfully. I have you on the schedule. Okay, bye now,” Barbara sang and clicked off.
I chuckled as I put my phone away. It was true, every day was better than the last. I would come out of this broken heart stronger. I continued my jog up toward King Street. As I ran past the window of the fancy yacht company, I couldn’t help thinking about Xavier. Ugh. That was why I didn’t normally run this way. Then I saw the French lady I recognized from Armand’s coffee shop just heading to the glass front doors and coming out. I slowed.
She came out and flicked open a silver cigarette case. Her lips were bright vermilion.
“Hey,” I said. “Sylvie, right?”
“Oh. Oui. How are you?” She removed a cigarette and offered one to me.
“Oh, no thank you. I’m doing great. You?”
She snapped the case closed. “I don’t see you at Armand’s anymore.”
I smoothed my damp and frizzing hair back off my forehead. “I still go, but my schedule has changed. I don’t have to be in officially for an hour later, which is nice. How about you? How’s …” I laughed, because it was odd having a conversation with someone you barely knew more than to say hello to every day. “How’s life? Are you French or French Canadian? I’ve never been sure.”
“Both. I spent lots of time in Paris.” She said the word exactly as a French person would, with no S. Paree. The sound of the accent caused my stomach to clench.
“I know your name, but we’ve never been properly introduced.” I held out my hand. “Josephine Marin.”
She paused in the act of putting her silver case away, her unlit cigarette dangling between two fingers. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What?” I asked. My hand dropped between us.
She shook her head. “The strangest thing. Someone—one of my clients—mentioned your name the other day. Actually, yesterday, uh.”
“Oh? Did I do some architectural design for them?”
“Him.” She chuckled. “I don’t think so. He asked if I knew you. Of course, I said no. I didn’t realize I did.” She looked closer at me, her gaze moving from my sweaty face down over my shirt sticking to me, my leggings, and my dirty running shoes. “Huh.”
“Umm…” I raised my eyebrows. What a peculiar moment.
“You know the name Xavier Pascale?” she asked.
My blood drained, and I swayed. “What?” I whispered. “What did you say?” But I’d heard.
Sylvie looked past my shoulder, her eyes going round.
And I knew. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
She looked at the state of me again and winced. “Desolée. But yes.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Bonjour, Sylvie,” he said.
Oh.
My.
God.
His voice.
Right here. In real life. In my city.
His tone was jovial and friendly.
Why are you so happy? I screeched in my head. How dare he come here? He should be home, back in France, crying into his leek soup and regretting letting me go. Bitterness and pain rose up. I should keep moving. He wouldn’t recognize me from behind.
Plus, I looked like shit.
And I was mad at him, dammit. I was light headed with the intensity of both shock and anger in equal measure.
“Joséphine?” His voice was rough. Unsure. Incredulous.
It was too late to move. I took a brief look down at my outfit, the sweat on my scalp making my head itch. There was no God. Then I turned. “Xavier,” I managed, my voice feeling like sandpaper.
Chapter Fifty-One
“It is you.” Xavier’s face was alight with wonder and relief and joy—emotions I simply didn’t understand or expect.
“Why do you look like that?” My hand came up and vaguely waved at him.
His eyebrows pinched together slightly. “Like what?”
“Happy to see me.”
“Because I came to America to see you, and here you are.”
I looked at Sylvie, who had one perfectly plucked eyebrow arched as she took us both in. “So you didn’t come to see Sylvie and check on your yacht? Because apparently you didn’t just arrive today.” Bitterness crept into my tone.
“No. I mean, I did, but there were some things I had to take care of.” His blue eyes pinned me. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Now? I—” I cut myself off. “No. I’m actually late for work.” Or would be if we continued to talk. Besides, my shock was wearing off, and I was beginning to feel weak and dazed. I shook my head. “Sorry. I … this is a shock. I have to go.”
“Wait.” He reached out a hand for me, and I flinched back. Surprise and hurt flashed across his features. “Josephine …” He lowered his voice. A lock of dark hair dropped across his brow.
Sylvie said something in French, which I belatedly understood as her going to wait for him inside. She tucked her unused cigarette back in its silver case and went back in the shop.
“Xavier,” I started, shifting my weight nervously. My gaze lowered to his white shirt buttons revealed between the lapels of a dark linen blazer, anything but look at his eyes. Over the untucked tails of his shirt, his distressed jeans and pristine navy and white sneakers. God. He was so euro. And so fucking hot. Could he not just look like a slob for one second so I could get my bearings? “Please don’t do this. I have to move on. I have to get over you. Please just sort out your fancy boat and go back to France.”
“What if I say no?”
“No?”
“No, I’m not going back to France. Not right now, anyway.” Both his hands came up and raked through his hair, leaving it untamed. “And no, I don’t want you to move on, and I don’t want you to get over me. I—Merde!” he bit out the curse. “This is not how I wanted to see you.”
I pinched my damp exercise shirt off my chest. “Trust me, me neither.”
His eyes were drawn back to me, raking over my face, my hair, down my body. “You are beautiful, Josephine. Always. But your heart, your heart inside you is the most beautiful thing about you.” His hand reached out, and his palm pressed hot against my chest.
I froze. And burned. And stared.
“And I surely don’t deserve it,” he said and let go just as quickly, leaving me wildly bereft. “I know this. S’il te plaît. Please let us talk. If not now, then later. A place of your choosing. But hear me. Please hear me.”
He stared at me for long moments. Around us the city bustled, and people walked past and around us, oblivious to our moment and us to theirs. His gaze was bottomless, and I struggled not to sink into it. Into him.
Shaking my head, I took a step back.
“Josephine,” he pleaded, his voice going hoarse. “Please don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I snapped, trying to fight the emotion crawling up my throat.
“Don’t … break me.” He flinched as the admission left his lips.
My breath left my chest. My eyes were filling, my nose burning, and a golf ball increasing in size in my throat.
He swallowed, audibly, and stepped toward me, closing the distance I’d created.
Trying to breathe with him invading my senses was torture. I stepped back again and he followed, his hands coming up and cradling my face and tilting my face up. My legs weakened and I leaned against the side of the building. My hands grasped his wrists, meaning to push him away but not letting go. His lash fringed eyes roamed over my face. And behind him curious glances moved over and past us. “Mais, if you mean to do it, do it properly,” he begged, his voice low, his eyes burning. “Destroy everything that’s left of my heart. Leave nothing behind. I can’t do it again. There will be no one after you. Be thorough. Merciless. Finish me.”
‘“Wh-what are you saying?”
“I’m in love with you, Joséphine.” His eyes pinned mine, delivering all his secrets openly and helplessly.
The sound of my name uttered in that way, his accented French falling from his lips, curled into my insides.
“You have given life to a dead heart and soul. You brought me back to life. Hungry and gasping and desperate … for you. My heart beating … for you. No.” He frowned. “It’s as if it didn’t exist before you. I’m alive now in this world that might not have you in it? No. It’s impossible. I don’t want the world to turn another day, the sun to burn another day without you.”
“Xavier,” I whispered, my voice failing me. Liquid spilled hot down my cheeks and my heart pounded.
“I’m sorry it took me so lo
ng to see. To see you. To feel you. To believe you could love me. To believe my own heart. Mon dieu.” His forehead fell forward to rest against mine. His thumbs brushed my tears. Our breath mingled, stuttered.
My hands gripped his wrists tighter, his pulse strong and yet erratic beneath my fingertips. His mouth was so close. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.
“So please,” he said, whispering now. “If you mean to break my heart, leave nothing left. I beg you. Leave nothing left. I will not survive it, otherwise. But do not break my heart, Josephine. I’m offering it to you. Completely. Take it. Take it … or destroy it.”
And then his hands slipped to the nape of my neck. His mouth, hungry and desperate, took mine. His lips opened, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, taking and tasting and begging. “Je suis complètement amoureux de toi,” he whispered as his mouth left mine and skated to my ear. His tongue dragged over my skin, setting me on fire. He groaned. “I love you.”
I was drowning. His words and his touch overwhelmed every one of my senses. Vaguely aware we were standing in the street in full view of curious passersby and probably Sylvie, I struggled to find my common sense, or any of the bitterness or anger I’d felt moments before. But all I wanted to do was sink into his touch. My heart was on fire.
His body, held a respectable distance from mine, told me he was aware of our surroundings too. “Please. Josephine.” He pulled back, his blue eyes dark eclipses. “See me later? Tell me where. Tell me when.” His fingers ran over my face.
I nodded, breathless, my veins singing with his words. His confession. He loved me. But … he’d told me himself he didn’t trust his feelings. Could he really have changed?
