Die for Me

by Amy Plum

  “Have you ever . . .” I paused, unsure of how probing my questions could be.

  “What?” Charlotte asked, intrigued.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Charlotte sighed. “It would be just as hard for me to have a boyfriend as it is to have girl friends. I guess that in the beginning I could make excuses for vanishing three days every month, but that wouldn’t work for long. And then disappearing for a few days every time I died. No, it just couldn’t work. And I can’t do the casual relationships like Jules and Ambrose do. When I fall in love, it sticks.”

  “So you’ve been in love before?”

  She blushed and looked down at her hands. “Yes. But he doesn’t . . . he didn’t feel the same way.” Her words were almost inaudible.

  “Then why not date a revenant?”

  She leaned forward, a sad smile forming on her lips as she wrapped her arms around herself and looked out over the water. “There aren’t many of us around, so the choices are rather slim.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I took her hand in mine and gave it an encouraging squeeze. She smiled, and then said, “I better be getting back home. For Charles. Thanks for the chat. I can’t even tell you how nice it is to hang out with a girl.”

  I felt the same way. I hadn’t made any friends here in Paris. And even though it meant spending time with someone who was practically a member of Vincent’s family, I had to admit I really enjoyed being with Charlotte. “We’ll do it again,” I promised.

  If you are friends with Charlotte, you’re bound to run into Vincent at one point or another, a little voice in my mind nudged me. Oh, shut up, I told it, wondering if the pain in my heart would ever subside. It had to, I decided. The longer I spent away from Vincent, the better I would feel. I was sure of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  INSTEAD OF IMPROVING, THE NEXT WEEK I FELT worse, and by Friday a creeping despair began to engulf me as I realized the entire weekend stretched ahead with not a single activity planned as a distraction.

  At lunch, I turned my phone on to see my daily texts from Georgia:

  Have you seen you-know-who’s ho outfit?

  Calculus sucks.

  Going out tonight, wanna come?

  I hesitated, and then forced myself to respond to the last text: Where?

  She wrote me back immediately:

  Meet you after school.

  At four o’clock, Georgia was waiting for me at the gate wearing an expression of sheer amazement. “No way, Katie-Bean . . . you’re really coming out with me tonight?”

  “Depends,” I said blithely, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s a dance party at this underground club. The owner’s a very good friend of mine.” She flashed me a sly smile. My sister, the incorrigible flirt. “Seriously, it’s a really cool place, in this labyrinth of old wine cellars that runs under a couple of buildings near Oberkampf. It’s always packed with musicians and artists; you’ll love it.”

  Although my heart wasn’t into clubbing, this was my only offer for the weekend. Actually, for the month, if I was being realistic. “I’m in,” I said. “What time are you going?”

  “Around nine.”

  We took the bus into town, and then changed to the Métro. Once on our street I told Georgia, “I don’t feel like going home yet. I think I’ll wander. Don’t leave without me.”

  “I’ll pick your outfit,” she said, smiling, and headed up our street. I turned in the other direction and made my way past the busy boulevard Saint-Germain to drift through the small winding streets crisscrossing the area next to the river.

  On a busy corner stood a café with a large terrace where my grandmother took me as a child for the delicious tarte tatin, a baked apple tart served upside down with a caramelized glaze. The café was called La Palette, as in an artist’s palette, its name dating back to when it was a hangout for local painters and sculptors. It was too far from home to have chosen as my local café, but totally worth the occasional visit.

  A frigid wind gusted through the streets, and the normally teeming terrace was almost deserted. I pushed my way through the front door into the warm, delicious-smelling café. A waiter caught my eye and gestured toward an empty table tucked into an almost hidden niche behind the front door. Perfect. Anonymity was exactly what I wanted today.

  I sat down, stowed my book bag under the table, and began to check out the café’s clientele as I waited for the waiter to return. A group of students rowdily chatting in one corner. Several tables of businesspeople with drinks set atop their documents. A striking-looking woman in her late twenties sitting by herself.

  I focused on the last of these. Thick blond, almost white, hair flowed down her shoulders, and her high cheekbones and light blue eyes made her look vaguely Scandinavian.

  A man with his back to me approached her from the café’s bar. He sat down in front of her, picked up the coffee cup sitting across from hers, and drained the dregs with one quick motion. Then he reached across to hold her hand, which was lying delicately on the tabletop.

  He said something to her, and her gaze dropped from him to the table. I saw a tear run down her lovely cheek, and the man’s hand rose automatically to brush it away. He smoothed a loose lock of her platinum hair back behind her ear in a motion that I recognized.

  And with a sudden realization, my heart stopped. As an icy chill overtook me, I grabbed for my bag and knocked the glass salt shaker to the floor, where it shattered loudly. The woman’s eyes flew to me as she said something to her companion.

  He turned in my direction, and then froze with a look of devastation marring his handsome face. My instincts had not been wrong. It was Vincent.

  Just then the waiter materialized in front of me, holding a broom and a dustpan. “Sorry,” I managed to blurt as I grabbed my coat from the chair and pushed by him to stumble out of the café.

  I ran all the way home, my face so numb it felt like it had been shot full of Novocain. I left him, I reminded myself, not the other way around. Why shouldn’t he have found someone else?

  The thought came to me that he might have lied about not being in love with anyone since his childhood romance. He might have been with the gorgeous blonde the whole time. My shattered heart told me that was wrong, though. Vincent wouldn’t lie to me. And neither would Charlotte, when she said I was the first girl Vincent had fallen for since becoming a revenant.

  Unfortunately, conceding that he was free of blame, and that I was the one who had walked away, didn’t make the pain in my chest hurt any less.

  When I got home, I went straight to Georgia’s room and threw the door open without knocking. “Let’s go,” I said breathlessly. She smiled and held up a short, lacy dress.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  AROUND NINE WE LEFT THE HOUSE AND CLIMBED into a car waiting outside. I squeezed into the backseat with two girls I recognized from school, while Georgia leaped into the passenger seat and gave a handsome guy I’d never seen a peck on the lips.

  I knew that this was Georgia’s way of saying hello to boys she liked, so decided to ask for details later. She made introductions. “Lawrence—British; Mags—Irish; Ida—Swedish; this is my sister, Kate, who is in desperate need of a good night out. If she goes home bored, I will hold you all personally responsible.” She cranked up the radio, Lawrence steered the car toward the river, and we were off.

  The bar was in a slightly rough neighborhood on the east side of Paris, an area popular with artists, models, and musicians who hadn’t yet made it to the big time. Several trendy bars had popped up there in the last few years, and the sidewalks were crowded with small clusters of ultra-hip people, shivering in the cold as they smoked outside.

  We stopped in front of a building in an alley that seemed to quake from the pounding beat of the music inside. A huge bouncer stood at the door, wearing only jeans and a white tank top stretched tightly across his impressive chest muscles. Lawrence y
elled something over the blaring music, and the man cracked the door open to let us in.

  The space was as big as a ballroom, but only about eight feet high. A DJ booth stood to one side, with a long fluorescently lit bar running the length of the opposite wall. The room was carved out of rough stone, with scattered concrete columns supporting the ceiling. White spotlights set up in the corners made the uneven cave walls eerily theatrical.

  “Drinks!” shouted Georgia, and we headed toward the bar. In a buttery British accent, Lawrence asked me what I wanted, and got both of us a Coke. “Designated driver,” he said, winking at me and smiling. We clinked our glasses together in a toast, and then turned to lean back on the bar.

  “So are you and Georgia . . . ?” I asked Lawrence, letting him fill in the blank.

  “Nope,” he responded, his smile creasing his cheeks with dimples. “I like guys.”

  “Got it,” I said, sipping on my straw, and we turned back to scoping out the room.

  I never failed to marvel at Georgia’s impeccable talent for finding the newest, hottest places to hang out. Beautiful people danced in the middle of the floor, while others mingled at the edges, shoulders slumped in skinny, brooding hipness. I noticed a famous young actress sitting in one corner, with a gaggle of admirers pretending not to fawn on her, and sprawled across a pile of cushions in an alcove carved out of the wall, I spotted a singer from a trendy British band.

  My sister stood a few feet away from me, kissing a model-looking guy on the cheeks, when I saw a rugged figure walking slowly but steadily across the room in our direction. People clapped him on the back as he made his way through the crowd.

  When he was a few feet away, Georgia set her glass on the bar and threw her hands in the air as he picked her up by the waist.

  “Georgia, my sexy Southern belle,” he said, lowering her to the floor. I smiled. The fact that we had never actually lived in the South was a moot point. Georgia had used the dozen or so holidays we spent in my mom’s home state to cultivate a molasses-thick accent that Scarlett O’Hara would have traded her petticoat for. When she was in the mood, she used her drawl, along with her name, to imply that we came from somewhere more “exotic” than Brooklyn. Foreigners, at least those who spoke English well enough to notice accents, ate it up.

  The man leaned in to give her a kiss on the lips. The fact that this one lasted a whole second longer than the others she had been bestowing left and right made me suspect that this must be someone special.

  Taking him by the hand, she dragged him in front of me. Finally getting a view unhampered by the crowds, I saw that he was everything that Georgia always went for, combined into one man. At least six-five, he looked like a mix between a surfer and a football player: windswept blond hair and suntanned skin but massive enough in build to single-handedly plow through an entire defensive line. His brown eyes were so light and crystalline that they looked like frozen butterscotch. And the way he held Georgia in a proprietary way confirmed they were an item.

  “Finally we meet! Georgia’s little sister, Kate. I’ve heard about you. You didn’t tell me she was so pretty, Georgia.”

  My sister drawled, “Now why would I go and do a thing like that?” Turning to me, she said, “Kate, this is Lucien. He owns the bar.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  He squeezed Georgia’s shoulders and leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Then, stretching back to his full height, he made a signal to the bartender indicating our group.

  “Sweet Georgia Brown,” whistled Lawrence from my side. “Free drinks all night. Your sister has the magic touch.”

  “I know,” I admitted as I watched Lucien kiss my sister’s hand before letting himself be pulled away by a frantic-looking manager. As he disappeared into the crowd, he grinned and gave me a wink.

  A group of scruffy-looking guys walked into the room and headed our way. Lawrence leaned over and said, “Band alert. These guys are the hottest new group in town.”

  “Then they’ve got to be friends of Georgia,” I sighed.

  He smiled and nodded as they approached. One walked right up to Georgia and wordlessly pulled her out onto the dance floor. She leaned over and shouted something in his ear, and then smiled at me as one of his friends came over and took my hand. “Alex,” the guy yelled, brushing the long hair out of his eyes.

  We danced next to Georgia and her friend for the next couple of songs. Alex’s flashing blue eyes and flirty grin definitely got my heart beating again. The way he smiled appreciatively at me showed me he didn’t mind being assigned as my “party boy.” He was handsome. He was human. So why wasn’t I able to relax and enjoy myself?

  I finally leaned over to tell Alex I was going to get a drink. He gazed at me regretfully and mimed a sexy kiss as I walked away. I mentally kicked myself for my stupidity, but knew I couldn’t do anything else. Not tonight. Not for a while. Not until Vincent’s face left my aching brain in peace.

  Lawrence had left by the time I got back to the bar, but seeing me, the bartender automatically poured another glass of Coke. I took it and went to sit on a giant leather cushion against the wall.

  Leaning back against the cold stone, I squinted as I watched the wavelike movements of the teeming masses for a few minutes before closing my eyes. I let the music work its trancelike beat on my brain. A few seconds later, I heard a low, smooth voice say, “Tired?”

  Opening my eyes, I saw that Lucien had grabbed a cushion and was sitting next to me. I smiled at him. He didn’t look quite as tough now that he wasn’t fighting off crowds of hangers-on, but there was a slight aura of permafrost hovering about him. Owning one of the trendiest bars in town had to have an effect on one’s ego, I told myself.

  “Not really tired, just not in a dancing mood.”

  “So. Does Georgia’s sister have a boyfriend?”

  Okay, this guy is really direct. “Ah, no,” I said. “Not at the moment.”

  “Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together for effect. “That’s good news for my friends!”

  “Um. I’m . . . not really in the market.”

  “But you wouldn’t be opposed to meeting people.” He raised a bushy blond eyebrow.

  “Actually . . .”

  Unwilling to hear my response, he stood and took my empty glass back to the bar, returning with a full one. “You’ll have to come with Georgia to a party I’m having in a couple of weeks. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.” He squatted down and handed me the glass. “And so will you!”

  His playful pat on my shoulder gave me an unexpected visceral reaction: I recoiled. From the way his body tensed as he stood, I could tell that he had noticed. What is wrong with you? I chided myself, surprised by my reaction. He was just trying to be friendly—but I must be sorely out of practice at social interaction. Before I could say something to make up for my unintentional cold shoulder, he turned to talk to someone who had been impatiently waiting for his attention. I sipped my Coke and checked my phone: It wasn’t even midnight.

  Rising to my feet, I threaded my way between the dancers until I reached Georgia. She gave me a concerned smile, and I shook my head. “Sorry, Georgia. Just can’t get into it. Going home,” I yelled over the music, gesturing toward the doorway in case she couldn’t hear me.

  She nodded. “Are you going to be okay getting back alone?”

  “I’ll take a taxi.”

  Georgia gave me a hug and then said something to the guy she was dancing with. Smiling, he took my hand and led me across the floor to the entrance. While I got my coat, he pulled out a cell phone and ordered a taxi for me, walking me out to the street and waiting with me until it pulled up to the curb. “Thanks,” I called after him. He waved, already walking back toward the club.

  As I opened the cab door, I glanced back down the alley and saw Lucien standing outside, talking on his cell phone. As he looked up he caught my gaze, and I raised my hand to wave good-bye. He shot me a confident smile and saluted.

&n
bsp; A slender redheaded boy standing with him turned his head to see who Lucien was waving to but quickly looked away.

  I breathed in sharply and continued to stare as the car drove away. One second had been enough for me to recognize the boy with the bitter look on his face. It was Charles.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I DIDN’T HEAR GEORGIA GET HOME THAT NIGHT, and slept late into the morning. When I awoke, it was to a feeling of expectation.

  Half dreaming, Vincent’s face from the day before floated through my mind. As he scanned the café with a brooding expression, I was overwhelmed with a mix of longing and pride. The dark, handsome boy was mine. At this thought a delicious feeling enveloped me, and I slowly opened my eyes.

  And then my conscious mind kicked in and my heart plunged. Vincent wasn’t mine. He was someone else’s. And I was right back into the black hole of sadness and regret that had been my prison for the past three weeks.

  Resolving to get out of the house, I decided to have my breakfast at the Café Sainte-Lucie, which I noticed had reopened the previous day.

  On my way past the living room, I spotted Papy in his armchair, reading a newspaper and looking every bit like an older version of my father. He still sported a full head of hair at seventy-one. His noble looks, which had been inherited by Georgia, had unfortunately skipped right over me.

  He peered over his paper. “How’s my princess?” he asked, pushing his reading glasses up to his forehead.

  “Fine, Papy. I’m just going out to have breakfast with J.D.” I held up my copy of The Catcher in the Rye before stuffing it into my bag. He caught my hand in his and placed it on the chair arm next to him, using grandpa sign language for, Stay for a minute.

  Papy spoke softly. “Mamie says she’s worried about you. Do you want to talk?”