A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

by Sarah Mlynowski

  My life flashed before my eyes. My dog, Becca, my mother. My mother who was going to kill me if the rocks didn’t. Tommy.

  Tommy?

  Once I hit the subzero water, and realized that I was still alive, I caught my breath and spotted the panicked look on Becca’s face. Then I saw that Tommy was hanging out of the raft, trying to grab on to me. The guide was yelling at him in both French and English to sit down, and motioning for me to swim to a shallower area.

  “I’m okay!” I sang out. And I was. Cold, but fine.

  But is my fall responsible for my hospital visit?

  Nope.

  The guide hoisted me back into the raft.

  “Are you all right?” Becca and Tommy asked simultaneously.

  I nodded yes, my teeth chattering.

  “Did zat hurt?” he asked, quickly warming me up by wrapping his arm around me.

  “A little,” I said, hoping he would not move his arm. EVER.

  “You’re shivering,” he said, rubbing my shoulders.

  “Cold in there.”

  “Yes, but we will be chaud in hot springs next.”

  “Right,” I said. That was the next stop for today. I didn’t know exactly what hot springs were, but I was guessing they were like some sort of natural hot tub. Hot tubbing with Pierre? Sounded good to me.

  When we were done, we unsnapped our jackets, took off our helmets, picked up our paddles, and walked back to the boathouse. Becca was beside me, red cheeked and laughing, when she clucked her tongue. “Penny with a Y hooked up with my brother on Bastille Day and on the train. How gross is that?”

  And that’s when the paddle slipped out of my hand, landed on my foot and sent me to the hospital.

  When it first landed, I howled in pain.

  Joanna ran over.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her. “This happens all the time.”

  She crouched in front of me. “I think we need to go to the hospital,” she said.

  “No!” I whined. “It’s my middle toe. There’s nothing they can do. Trust me, I’ve broken it twice already.”

  “Maybe,” Joanna said. “But we’re legally responsible to get it checked out. I can’t have your parents suing me.”

  “They won’t! I promise!” If they’ll blame anyone, it’ll be me. “I’m sure I’ll feel much better once I soak my foot in the hot springs.”

  “No way,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “You guys go on ahead to the springs. We’ll see you back on the lodge.”

  The shuttle bus dropped us off. Us being me and Joanna.

  No hot springs for me. And no Pierre either. I convinced him that the rest of the group would need his translation skills more than I would. This was humiliating enough without him being there.

  So now Joanna and I are sitting on plastic chairs in the waiting room. My foot is shoeless and resting on the seat beside me. Two of my toes are bright blue. It’s not pretty.

  “Poor you,” she says.

  “C’est la vie,” I say, with a sigh. I’m used to it.

  Four hours later

  My foot isn’t broken—but one of my middle toes is. And just like I said, there’s nothing they can do for it either, except wrap it to the big one and hope for the best.

  I missed the hot springs. I missed dinner too. When I got back to the lodge (hungry, cranky, and in pain) I unlocked my door and walked in on Becca and Harold making out.

  I slammed the door.

  “Sorry, hold on one sec!” Becca yelled.

  I waited. And waited. And hobbled.

  Finally, she allowed me into my own room.

  Becca and Harold went for a walk, and now I’m sitting up in my bed grumbling. And annoyed. And in pain. Becca is making out with Harold, and the Pennies are missing, so Penny could very well be making out with Tommy. I can’t believe they’re an item. How could he try to kiss me, and then hook up with her right afterwards? See, that’s why relationships are scary. A guy says he likes you and them, BAM! He likes someone else.

  And Pierre . . . well Abby spent the entire evening with Pierre showcasing her fabulous booty in the hot springs. If reality TV has taught me anything, it’s that they are right now rolling around together as I write.

  Everyone has someone.

  And what do I have? A broken middle toe and burnt boobs.

  Tuesday, July 17, 3:30 P.M.

  It’s drizzly and cold. I’m sitting at a café, drinking café au lait, miserable. This trip sucks. France is evil.

  And then things got worse:

  “Today we’re going on a hike!” Joanna exclaimed this morning.

  I cannot go on a hike. Those with incapacitated toes barely walk, never mind climb the Alps. Becca offered to stay and hang out with me, but I insisted she go. She loves to hike, and I didn’t want to suck her into my personal web of misery.

  So I hobbled over to a nearby boutique. I saw a pretty purple dress in the window. I asked the salesgirl if I could try it on. She said oui. It didn’t fit.

  She then yelled, “Zut alors! You waste my time! Why you are waste my time?”

  I hobbled out.

  Now I am alone. Sitting at a café. Eating a croissant and brie.

  Tomorrow we leave for Nice, the last leg of our trip. I can’t wait for this to be over. I want to go home. To my house. To my family. To my dog.

  The waiter who keeps bringing me cheese is kind of cute.

  Kind of. Not really. But kind of.

  Maybe I should grab him by the collar, plant a wet one on his lips and that would be that.

  I’ll guava-fie and smile pretty and see what happens.

  Two minutes later

  My guava is missing. I emptied my entire purse on the table and I do not see it. It must be in my backpack. It must.

  5:00 P.M.

  It’s not. It’s gone.

  I must have left it on the train. Or in the Alps. Or in Paris. It’s probably partying it up with my camera.

  I have looked everywhere. I wish Becca were here to help me, but she’s too busy traipsing through the countryside with Harold.

  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! France has not only stolen my camera, my walking capability, my potential flings, and my happiness, but it has now stolen my guava!

  Wednesday, July 18, 12:30 A.M.

  I have good news and I have bad news.

  First the good.

  We were in the restaurant of the chalet, about to have steak frites. We were sitting at a long rectangular table. I sat next to Becca at one end. Abby was sitting at the other. The seat next to her was empty. The seat next to me was empty. And that’s when Pierre walked in.

  Who did he chose? Me. He chose me. He sat down right next to me. Hah! Go me! And to think that last night I was ready to write off the entire trip. Yet here I am back in the game, even without my guava.

  “Hi Pierre,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I don’t understand you. Can you ask me how I am in French?” That is what Pierre is supposed to do, after all – encourage us to speak French.

  I picked up my fork, and twirled it in my fingers like a baton. “I don’t know how to speak French.”

  He leaned in closer to me. I could smell the cologne on his neck. “Repeat after me. Bonjour, Pierre. Comment ça va?”

  “Bonjour Pierre,” I parroted. “Comment ça va?”

  “Bien. Et toi?” he said.

  “Bien. Et toi?” I repeated.

  “No, now you have to answer me. I said, ‘Good and you?’ And now you must tell me how you are.”

  “I’m good. Thank you, Pierre. I’m starving and looking forward to dinner. What do you recommend I order? How do I say that?”

  “Ça va bien,” he said, sounding extra accenty and sexy. He was rolling his R’s and everything. “Merci, Pierre. J’ai faim, et je veux manger. Queseque tu recommandes manger?” Then he added with a laugh, “Comment je dis cela?”

  “That was way too much to repeat,” I said.

  He gav
e me a big smile. “You must try.”

  So he spent the rest of le diner teaching me le French. Did you know that plate is plat? That fork is fourchette? That glass is verre? How smart am I? I can now name my entire place setting in French and my name in Russian.

  If any of my actual teachers had been this sexy, I’d be multi-lingual.

  Anyway, there I was enjoying my educational dinner when Tommy and Penny with a Y had to come and annoy the heck out of me. First of all, they walked into dinner TOGETHER, and his cheeks were all flushed and she was all giggling, and then he held out her chair for her. Puke. But that’s not what really bugged me. It’s when I saw it.

  Her lips.

  They were glossy. They were orangey. They’d been . . . guava-fied. Oh, yes. I am 99.9999% sure that Penny with a Y stole my Grandma’s guava. Not that I can accuse her. Yet.

  I spent the rest of dinner trying not to stare.

  First she steals Tommy, and then she steals my lip gloss? Did she take my camera, too?

  12:32 A.M.

  Not that I think Penny stole Tommy.

  12:45 A.M.

  Because he wasn’t mine. He was my friend, sure, but he didn’t belong to me. One thwarted kiss does not a boyfriend make. I don’t even like Tommy! I mean, I like him as a friend but that’s it. I am not looking, or wanting another boyfriend.

  1:15 A.M.

  Obviously I’m going to have to search Penny’s stuff right now while everyone is asleep.

  2:10 A.M.

  Well, that didn’t work out as planned.

  I shimmied down the bunk bed and then snuck over to her backpack. Which was unlocked. And which was also red and covered in designer labels. Instead of flags, Penny with a Y decided to sew I ♥ Juicy patches onto her bag. She’s a citizen of Bloomies.

  I got down on my hands and knees, unzipped it and began feeling my way through her clothes. And that’s when I heard:

  “Lindsay, what are you doing?”

  I froze. Penni with an I was awake and even in the dark I would see her glaring at me.

  “I’m uh . . . looking for a tank top. It’s so hot.”

  “But that’s not your bag.”

  “What?” I feigned confusion. “Whoops! It’s so dark in here I can’t see anything.”

  “Why would yours be under our bunk bed?”

  Excellent question. “I thought I put it there.”

  I don’t know why I was making excuses to her, when it was her friend who (99.9999% sure) stole my stuff.

  Once I removed my hands from inside her friend’s bag, took out a tank top from my own (kind of had to), and returned to my sleeping bag, Penni reluctantly stopped glaring at me. Although first she double checked both her and the other Penny’s bag and locked them both.

  And here I am. Writing. With my flashlight. Again.

  In case you’re wondering—my toe still hurts. And so do my boobs.

  5:30 P.M.

  Nice is not that nice.

  We arrived by train this afternoon. We once again had to divide into rooms of four, but this time the Pennies arranged to stay with Max and Kristin. Wonder why. Anyway, Becca and I bunked with Abby and Joanna. We quickly changed into our bathing suits and met the rest of our group on the “so-called” beach. I write “so-called” because there is no sand. Only rocks. Okay, fine, it’s still pretty gorgeous. The coastline goes on forever and the water is bright emerald. Large, glamorous hotels line the beach and boardwalk. We hung out on a public beach, but right to the left of us was a private club area complete with white beach chairs, fluffy plum-colored towels and bar service.

  Because of the rocks, some of the guys had already bought foam mats to put their towels on, so we followed their lead and bought our own from a little shop on the boardwalk.

  Then I set myself up – and declined to remove my bikini top, thank you very much. Becca kept hers on as well.

  But Abby, and the Pennies? They were on full display.

  I enjoyed the sun for an hour, but then felt my skin sizzling and thought I should take a little stroll, broken toe be damned. I walked down the beach, passing cafés and bars and beach clubs and sun umbrellas, and yapping dogs, until I reached path that took me uphill. I walked and walked until I reached the cobblestones of old Nice and a railing that showcased the most incredible view of the beach I have ever seen. And now I’m sitting here, taking it in.

  Breathing. Seeing. Riviera-ing. Actually, Nice is nice after all.

  You know what I realized? I have three nights left on this trip, and I am not going to spend them being miserable.

  So what if I have no camera? I have you, TJ. You’ll always remind me of my trip.

  And so what if I have no fling? I have . . . well, I doubt you’re a good kisser.

  Thursday, July 19, 3:00 P.M.

  See? It works. As soon as you make peace with yourself, good things happen. You’ll never guess who I saw on the beach . . .

  I had set up my foam mat next to Becca’s and closed my eyes when I felt someone blocking my sun.

  Vlad! Looking hot and Slavic. “Hello,” he said. “I have been searching for you.”

  He! Was! Looking! For! Me! I quickly sat up. “Hi, Vlad,” I purred. “How was Switzerland?”

  He sat down at the foot of my mat, and told me all about Zurich. They had arrived in Nice two nights earlier and had been looking for us.

  “Want to swim?” he asked.

  “Sure, but I’ll need some help,” I said, motioning to my foot. He took my hand (took my hand!) and led me down to the water.

  Now the beach may be covered in pebbles, but the ocean is as gorgeous up close as thought it would be. And it feels almost as warm as bathwater. Azure blue, sparkling bathwater. Almost as stunning as Vlad’s green eyes . . .

  Sigh.

  “Will you meet me tonight?” he asked. “It is my last night here. Tomorrow we go to Spain.”

  “Yes! I have to go to dinner in the old city, but I can meet you as soon as I’m done.”

  “Perfect. You will meet me at Whiskey Disco? At 10? We will dance?”

  Hooray! Of course I agreed. Dancing with Vlad! Kissing Vlad on the dance floor? Hello, fling! “Why don’t you stay two more nights? And then go to Spain on Sunday?”

  He shook his head. “That is not plan.”

  OK then. Must stick to the plan.

  Don’t forget,” he said, putting his hand to his shirtless, now wet chest. “Tonight.”

  Forget? How could I?

  Now that you’re all filled in, I gotta go shower and look extra fabulous.

  9:50 P.M.

  Oh my. I need to think. Think, think think. I am sitting on a lounge chair in the Marriott’s private beach area trying to clear my head.

  I have big news. BIG NEWS.

  Pierre came on to me.

  Yes! Finally! Really! We all walked over as a group to the old city. The cobblestoned roads were so old and quaint, and the streetlights flickered like candles, and the entire area smelled like garlic and warm pasta and wine emanating from a nearby restaurant.

  We sat down at yet another long table. Pierre sat beside me. Becca and Harold sat next to me. Tommy and Penny sat across from them.

  Abby, at the other end, glared. I looked at my watch.

  We ordered. Pierre had a glass of merlot.

  Tommy started talking in a French accent. Penny kept giggling.

  We ate more fries and mussels. Abby continued to glare. Penny continued to giggle.

  Pierre had another glass of wine.

  I looked at my watch again.

  Pierre, very gently, put his hand on my thigh.

  No one else could see, because his hand was under the table. He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “Lindsay, comment ça va?”

  “Um, bien. Merci.” Had I just thanked him for touching me thigh? I think so, because he then started to caress said thigh.

  “After dinner, you want to promenade on ze beach? I have merveilleuse spot to show you.” Still caressing. “
It is romantic. Just we deux?”

  Just the two of us? Tonight? Of all nights? “But I—”

  He put his finger to his lips, and then said, “We will meet at ten. We will practice your French.” He winked and then removed his hand from my body and returned to conversing with the rest of the table.

  When it rains it rains buckets of men.

  My heart was pounding hard and I glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed to conversation…and caught Tommy’s eye. His expression was . . . well it wasn’t nice. His nose and forehead were wrinkled and his lips were pursed like he’d just eaten something disgusting. A bad moule? He shook his head and turned away.

  What is HIS problem? HE’S hooking up with some random person. Why shouldn’t I?

  After dinner I walked to the beach to regroup. Not only could I not physically meet both Vlad and Pierre, but I wanted ONE fling. Not two! Not two on the same night! That was just…dirty.

  Now what am I supposed to do? I have plans with two different flings at 10! But who should I chose? Who do I like better?

  Vlad is a sexy Russian. He looks like a supermodel.

  Pierre is a sexy Frenchman. He may or may not have already hooked up with someone else on the trip.

  Who is a better fling?

  Here’s what I need to do. Visualize kissing both of them, and see which one I prefer.

  I’ll start with Vlad.

  Yes, I can see that . . . kind of . . . I mean . . . I’m not getting excited by the idea or anything. I don’t know anything about him. Nothing. Just that he’s Russian, smokes clove cigarettes, and likes to travel.

  Hmm. Interesting. Pierre? He’s a charmer. Good teacher. Kind of sweet.