French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  “Then what?” Holly asked, confused. She struggled to sit up as well. How could they have been attacking each other, like, an instant before? “Tyler, tell me.”

  Tyler brushed his arm across his forehead, not looking at her. A blush was creeping up his bare chest, into his face. “I don’t think we should—” He cleared his throat. “I guess I sort of feel like we’re…rushing.”

  “Rushing?” Holly echoed. She checked her watch—almost eleven. “Well, I do need to get to the airport,” Holly conceded, feeling a prickle of worry about making her flight. “But—I thought you wanted to—”

  Tyler shook his head, pushing his fingers through his thick hair. “Not rushing right now. More like, in general. You know?”

  “No,” Holly replied truthfully. “I don’t.” She slipped up the straps of her tank top, dread building inside her.

  Tyler stared down at his hands in his lap. “I’ve just…made that mistake before.” He cleared his throat again.

  Before? Holly wondered. With Alexa? Holly’s skin turned cold. She pictured her old friend—her long, fairy-tale blonde tresses and delicate, heart-shaped face; her slinky-sheer designer dresses; her flirty, tinkling laugh…Alexa defined sexy. And even though Holly had grown a lot surer of herself in the past year, whenever she was around Alexa, she felt pretty much invisible.

  How could I not? Holly thought, glancing down at herself. At seventeen, she still looked like a little girl—all freckles and stick-straight hair. Only her decent-sized boobs made her seem remotely mature. But it didn’t matter. Alexa was the kind of girl boys always lusted after. And I’m not, Holly realized, as tears began to burn her throat. This explained everything. Holly had gleaned enough from Gilmore Girls, He’s Just Not That Into You, various movies, and countless teen magazines to know that, regardless of the circumstances or the timing, if a boy was attracted to you, he was not going to turn down sex.

  Holly needed to face the harsh truth: Tyler had gone all the way with Alexa St. Laurent. But he didn’t want to go all the way with her.

  Tyler must have picked up on Holly’s mounting misery, because he turned to her and touched her arm. “Maybe we should, um, talk about this…” He trailed off.

  “Forget it,” Holly said, her voice coming out in a sob. She jerked away, opened the back door, and stormed back to the passenger seat, the bitter March air biting her exposed skin.

  “Holly, wait.” Tyler was scrambling to get his clothes on.

  Holly slammed the door, jerked on her cardigan and fleece, and snapped her seat belt into place. Hot tears hovered on her lower lashes, and her lips quivered. What had she been thinking? That perfect, golden-boy Tyler Davis would want her? Just last year, she’d been eating lonely lunches at the unpopular table with Meghan and Jess, worlds away from having a boyfriend.

  Tyler got into the driver’s seat and immediately reached for her, but, again, she moved away.

  “Holly, I’m sorry. You didn’t let me—I need to explain the whole thing better—”

  “I get it,” Holly replied through gritted teeth. “Just drive.” Her face on fire, she stared straight ahead at the pitch-black dead end. Suddenly, she wanted to be as far away from Tyler Davis as humanly possible.

  Tyler seemed about to say something else, but then he cleared his throat and gunned the engine. In a very un-Tyler manner, he spun the car around and sped back to the main avenue, screeching through yellow lights, until they reached the highway. There, they hit a block of traffic that made Holly count the seconds on the clock and nervously rotate the chunky silver ring on her finger.

  “We’ll make it,” Tyler said.

  “Don’t talk to me,” Holly replied, her voice still shaky.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence and arrived at the airport with twenty minutes to spare. Holly’s stomach was in knots. Her coach and teammates were going to kill her if she didn’t show. And what would she tell her parents? Before she could leap out of the car, Tyler grabbed her elbow. When she glanced at him, his handsome face was sorrowful.

  “Please don’t get on that plane all mad at me,” Tyler said, his voice choked with emotion. “There’s so much stuff we still need to talk about, and just—know that—” He paused, studying her solemnly. “I love you, Holly.”

  Holly felt her chest seize up. She and Tyler had crossed the overhyped “I love you” hurdle back on—even Holly had rolled her eyes at the predictability—Valentine’s Day. Still, hearing Tyler speak that phrase—and speaking it herself—always gave her shivers.

  But now the words made no sense to Holly’s ears. How could Tyler love her and not be into her that way? Holly’s head spun in confusion.

  Since she was deathly afraid of flying, Holly didn’t like getting on a plane angry at someone. So she leaned close, whispered a quick “I love you, too,” and kissed Tyler on the lips. He cupped her face in his hands, trying to hold her there, but she pulled back, opened the door, and jumped out into the night.

  “Don’t go hooking up with David Beckham, okay?” Tyler called through the window as she raced around to the trunk to get her bag. His voice was half-teasing, half-worried.

  “I’ll try my very best not to,” Holly called back with a wave, letting Tyler know, in her way, that she wasn’t all-out furious at him.

  But maybe she was.

  There was no time left to ponder the sticky situation. Her thoughts whirling, Holly sprinted into the airport, waited on pins and needles in a long, snaky ticket line (where she squeezed in a phone call home), flashed her passport, raced through security with her carry-on—but got held up when the house keys in her back pocket set off the metal detector—and finally tore toward her gate, thanking her lucky stars she’d worn her Adidas and could run like nobody’s business. Panting and sweaty, she stumbled onto the airplane at seven minutes to midnight, avoiding the glares of the flight attendants and collapsing into the empty seat between Meghan and Jess.

  “Oh, my God! Where the hell were you?” Jess cried

  “We were so worried!” Meghan added, poking Holly in the ribs.

  “I’ll tell you guys later,” was all that Holly could get out between gasps.

  Instantly, Ms. Graham, the usually cheerful track coach, turned in her seat—which was right in front of Holly’s—and shot daggers at her.

  “Holly Jacobson,” Ms. Graham intoned, her curly, ash-blonde bob shaking with anger. “Showing up so grossly late is not a good indication of team spirit—or leadership. This had better not become a habit on the trip.”

  Holly stared back at Ms. Graham in silence. She knew the coach was married (to Mr. Sweeney, the balding golf coach), but Holly was certain that Ms. Graham didn’t know what it was like to be caught in the swirling currents of desire and frustration, to gaze into a boy’s golden-flecked eyes and wonder what secrets lay there. After what Holly had just been through with Tyler, how was she supposed to care about freaking team spirit?

  “Of course not,” she replied, folding her shaking hands in her lap. “I’m one-hundred-percent committed, Ms. Graham.”

  She’d do this. She’d get through the week in Wimbledon, throw herself into running, be there for her friends…and try her darndest not to obsess over her love life.

  A clipped, British-accented voice came over the loudspeaker. “We welcome you aboard this Virgin Atlantic flight, nonstop to Heathrow.”

  Virgin Atlantic? A wry smile spread across Holly’s face as the plane began to taxi. Here she was, crossing the Atlantic, and still a virgin. She wasn’t sure if she should burst into tears or burst out laughing. That’s perfect, isn’t it? Holly thought, settling back in her seat for the long flight. Just perfect.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paris in the Springtime

  Taking a deep breath, Alexa opened the French doors and tiptoed out onto the balcony of the hotel. Though she wore only a lace cami and Juicy boy shorts, Alexa didn’t shiver in the misty afternoon chill. Instead, she rested her hands on the damp, wrought-iron railing and
gazed down, beaming, at the tree-lined boulevard St-Germain.

  Petite, slender women—filmy silk scarves knotted around their necks and fluffy Pomeranians peeking out of their Chanel totes—click-clacked along the rain-slick sidewalk in sky-high stilettos. An old man with a baguette under his arm pedaled past, his red bicycle a splash of color against the gray afternoon. In front of the Sonia Rykiel boutique, a teenage couple was making out, staying pressed together even when a fleet of guys on sleek mopeds zoomed noisily up the boulevard. Fragments of French phrases—“Mais non!” “Ça va, chérie?…”—floated up to Alexa, along with the rich scent of fresh bread from a nearby café.

  Alexa’s heart soared. She was home.

  “Baby, could you come inside? It’s freezing.”

  Oh, yeah. Reluctantly, Alexa turned away from the marvelous view and peered into the dimly lit hotel room behind her. She’d been so caught up in her rapturous return to Paris, she’d—oops—kind of forgotten about Diego.

  He was sitting up in the rumpled bed, wearing his boxers and rubbing his eyes with his fists like a little boy. Alexa melted at the adorable sight. Her boyfriend had been so jet-lagged after their grueling overnight flight that he’d crashed as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel that morning. Alexa had curled up beside him for a bit, but it had been impossible to sleep, knowing all the fabulousness that was waiting right outside their window.

  Alexa cast one last glance at the kissing couple below. They’d separated and were now arguing loudly, the boy gesturing with his cigarette and the girl sobbing. So French, Alexa thought with a smile, slipping back inside. She shut the doors, drew the heavy drapes, and started toward the bed, passing the minibar, the flat-screen TV, and the luggage she’d dropped in front of the gleaming armoire. Theirs wasn’t so much a double bed, Alexa noticed as she flopped down beside Diego, as two twin beds pushed together, with the narrowest of gaps between them—a typical, if bizarre, feature of European hotel rooms.

  Which was pretty much the only thing Euro about this place, Alexa mused as she stretched out on the crisp white sheets. The Hôtel Rive Gauche, where Diego had booked them for the next three days, was super-posh, very modern, and, in Alexa’s opinion, utterly bland. She couldn’t wait until Tuesday, when they’d relocate to her cousins’ small, shabbychic apartment. Alexa vividly remembered the charming place from her last visit two years ago: the yellow shutters, the claw-footed bathtub, the slanting floors. That, to Alexa, was the true Paris—old-fashioned, artsy, bohemian…

  But, still, it was pretty yummy to be all alone in a luxe hotel room with her boyfriend.

  Alexa propped herself on one elbow to study Diego, who was lying on his back once more and holding a pillow over his face. His smooth, caramel-colored chest rose and fell steadily.

  “Don’t go to sleep again, lazy,” Alexa murmured, yanking on the edge of his pillow.

  “Cut it out,” Diego muttered, his voice muffled. “I’m really tired.”

  “Boo-hoo,” Alexa teased. She’d noticed that traveling overseas had somehow turned the usually suave, mega-mature Diego Mendieta into a nine-year-old. Feeling mischievous, Alexa slid over to Diego’s side of the bed and tickled her boyfriend along his ribs, down his flat stomach, and over to the waistband of his boxers. Finally, Diego started laughing. He lifted the pillow off his face and hurled it right at Alexa. She shrieked and grabbed her own pillow, mashing it in Diego’s face until he took hold of her arms and pinned her back against the bed.

  “Do I win?” Diego asked softly, his black eyes dancing. He grinned, flashing his deep dimples. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he leaned in closer.

  “You win,” Alexa laughed, tilting her head all the way back in a gesture of surrender. Her blonde hair fanned out behind her. “Hands down.”

  “Good,” Diego said. He brushed his full lips lightly up her neck, taunting her. Alexa wriggled to get out of his grip, even though she was more than happy where she was. She could feel her skin heating up. Diego’s skin, as always, was warm and smelled like Cool Water.

  Diego slid his lips up to her mouth, but let them hover there, barely touching hers. Alexa grinned; this was one of their favorite games—to see who would give in first and start the real kiss. When she didn’t think she could bear it another second, Diego dove in and kissed her—fiercely. Alexa kissed him back with equal hunger, delighting in the sensation. When it came to hooking up, she and Diego were so in sync that Alexa sometimes felt as if the two of them were giving off actual sparks. Even after a year together, their chemistry was still as intense as ever.

  “Alexa,” Diego murmured, slowly ending the kiss. He ran his hands down her bare arms and over to her hips, pulling her in even closer. “Te quiero.”

  Instinctively, Alexa drew back a little. Normally, she adored it when her Cuban American boyfriend spoke to her in Spanish—as he often did when they were together like this. And she did quiero Diego, too. But here, in Paris, Spanish felt…wrong. Alexa longed to speak her native language—which Diego didn’t know a word of, except maybe for bonjour or merci (but he pronounced even those with a Spanish accent). Alexa turned her head toward the balcony, now hidden behind the drapes. As luscious as Diego made her feel, he couldn’t quench her lust for the city outside.

  “You okay?” Diego whispered. He rolled to one side and put his arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder. “Listen, I meant to tell you before—I’m sorry about the flight.”

  Alexa looked back at him and sighed at the regret in his dark eyes. The flight had sucked—mainly because Diego had failed to warn her that he sometimes got airsick. When the plane hit a pocket of turbulence somewhere over the Atlantic, he had to keep popping Dramamine pills and making emergency runs to the bathroom—not quite the sublimely sexy voyage Alexa had been envisioning. And, as if Diego’s restroom visits weren’t mood-killing enough, sitting behind Alexa was a cackling demon child who seemed to take immense pleasure in bopping her on the head with his monster Tonka truck every twenty seconds—that is, until Alexa had finally whirled around to snap at his frazzled nanny in French.

  For the rest of the trip, she and Diego had dozed fitfully, banging elbows over the armrest and bickering over the volume on Alexa’s portable DVD player. When they’d finally landed, cranky as hell, in Charles de Gaulle airport, Alexa had felt a quick stab of apprehension: What if the flight had been a bad omen for the whole trip?

  But then, just as quickly, she had swept the worry away.

  “Who cares about the flight?” Alexa whispered as she snuggled closer to her beau. “We’re here now—so we’d better start making the most of it.”

  Though Alexa had intended those words as a gentle prod for Diego to get his gorgeous butt out of bed, her boyfriend clearly had a different interpretation. Grinning, he leaned in and started kissing her again. Figuring Paris could wait a little while longer, Alexa responded happily, wrapping her arms all the way around Diego’s back. The two of them started to roll over to Alexa’s side of the bed—and Alexa was thinking about how much this felt like some lush romance movie (a French one, of course)—until Diego suddenly stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Alexa asked, her skin still tingly from their kissing. She pulled back to gaze down at her boyfriend, who now only had one arm around her waist.

  “I’m stuck,” Diego replied, sounding both amused and annoyed.

  Shaking back her tousled hair, Alexa sat up all the way and saw that, in fact, her boyfriend’s elbow was tightly jammed between the two twin beds, rendering any movement impossible.

  “Oh, no,” Alexa whispered, unable to stop herself from bursting into giggles. “We can’t leave you like that forever, can we?”

  “No,” Diego retorted, now looking one hundred percent annoyed. He tried in vain to wrest his arm from the narrow gap, biting down on his full bottom lip. “This isn’t funny, Alexa.”

  Um, yes it is, Alexa thought, fighting back her laughter. Alexa was a seasoned traveler, and though she couldn’t stand roughin
g it, (any kind of camping was a big no-no) she was quite accustomed to sleeping in all sorts of conditions. She hoped Diego would be able to deal with her cousins’ less-than-swank setup once they left the hotel.

  Through various efforts, the two of them finally managed to free a disgruntled Diego from the beds. By then, it was almost two o’clock, and, as far as Alexa was concerned, high time to head out. They dressed—Alexa in a heather-gray Marni scoop-neck sweater and Chip & Pepper jeans tucked into shearling boots, and Diego in baggy cords and his hooded Princeton sweatshirt, which Alexa, appalled, demanded he trade for one of his zillion striped button-downs. To Alexa’s slight distaste, Diego’s style tended toward conservative/preppy—she preferred guys who dressed more scruffy/sexy—but anything beat loud-and-proud Princeton gear.

  “Otherwise, we might as well walk outside with giant ‘tourist’ signs stuck on our foreheads,” Alexa explained as she and Diego walked into the corridor and locked the door. “Trust me, in Paris, you want to downplay the whole ‘ugly American’ thing.”

  “Ugly American?” Diego echoed as the elevator zipped them down to the lobby. He furrowed his brow, looking confused, but also a little defensive.

  On cue, the elevator doors slid open to reveal three teenage girls in jeans, white sneakers, and dark blue anoraks, all clustered around the front desk. “Can you believe how much bread people eat here?” one of them, whose puffy dark hair was hidden under an Atlanta Braves cap, complained loudly. “Have they even heard of low-carb?” “Here’s the Eiffel Tower!” her blonde, pig-tailed friend was squealing, jabbing at a spot on her enormous city map. “My aunt Doreen said it’s the only thing worth seeing in Paris!” The third, a chubby redhead, was accosting the dapper concierge: “Please tell me you speak English,” she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “Um, them, for example,” Alexa murmured, taking Diego’s arm as they passed the embarrassing trio. Despite the girls’ sub-stylish wardrobes, they reminded Alexa of her friends. She could easily picture Portia and Maeve behaving exactly the same way in Paris—right down to Portia bemoaning how hard it was to stick to Atkins (the French found the idea of diets hilarious), and Maeve assuming no one spoke English (when most everyone in Paris was bilingual). Alexa hadn’t been in touch with—or given much thought to—the girls since their blowout on Thursday. Now, she felt supremely thankful that she’d never traveled to France with them.