French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  If running was Holly Jacobson’s greatest talent—and that definitely felt questionable now—then her second greatest was avoiding confrontations.

  The proof? For an entire year, she’d avoided getting into a single real argument with her boyfriend. There had been tensions over minor matters, like which movie to rent (Tyler nixed anything with subtitles; Holly hated horror) or what kind of food to take out with the movie (Tyler was only happy with Applebee’s or Arby’s; Holly preferred Middle Eastern or Indian). But Holly was so adept at smoothing out these wrinkles in their relationship, and Tyler was so laid back, that no misunderstanding ever turned too serious.

  Now, their transatlantic tension felt suspiciously like an actual fight.

  Holly reached under the beer-sticky table for her blue Vans tote and, almost out of habit, withdrew her red T-Mobile.

  Still no messages.

  She knew she could call Tyler herself, or e-mail him from the local Internet café, but—not to get all Wimbledon or anything—Holly felt like it was totally Tyler’s serve. After all, he was the one who’d rejected her in Oakridge. She sighed heavily.

  “Oh no—does your ankle hurt?” Meghan asked worriedly, glancing at Holly.

  Holly shook her head, looking back at her cell. Just my heart.

  “Girl, what is up with that phone?” Jess asked, leaning across the table and grabbing the cell. “It’s been, like, glued to your hand since Saturday.”

  “Stop, Jess—give it back,” Holly pleaded, reaching across the table. Chuckling, Jess hurriedly passed the phone to Meghan, who stuffed it into the pocket of her Champion hoodie. A group of shaggy-haired guys drinking Guinness at a nearby table laughed at their antics, and Holly’s face burned; she and her friends must have looked like kindergarteners fighting over a toy. Why did hanging out with Meghan and Jess make her feel so young sometimes?

  “Tell us what’s going on and we’ll give it back,” Meghan challenged, her brown eyes sparkling.

  Holly bit her lower lip, hesitating. She’d fully intended to spill the Tyler story to her best friends, but for some reason, she’d held off. Back in the day, Holly used to tell the girls every detail of her humdrum life—unrequited crushes, failed exams, gym class triumphs—and they’d always reciprocated with their own similarly benign tales. Since she’d met Tyler, though, Holly had found herself leaving out certain juicy details. And on this trip, she’d kept completely mum. It wasn’t like Meghan and Jess weren’t sympathetic listeners. Of course they were.

  They were just utterly clueless about boys.

  Holly was sure that Meghan, with her dirty-blonde, pixie-ish haircut and little-girl smile, and Jess, with her long ballerina’s neck and dark brown bun atop her head, could both get boyfriends if they really wanted them. But both girls were so involved in sports and schoolwork that guys ranked low on their priority lists. Though Jess had briefly gone out with Marc, the cocaptain of the lacrosse team, and Meghan had once hooked up with Jeff, Oakridge High’s soccer star, neither girl had ever had a real relationship.

  Not too long ago, Holly had been as innocent as her friends, if not more so. But now that she was having some very real drama with her very real boyfriend, she suddenly felt like she was in a very different place than Meghan and Jess.

  Holly took a fortifying sip of ale. The alcohol was making her feel warm; she unzipped her light green Kangol hoodie. Really, what could be the harm in confiding in her friends? It might be therapeutic to get all that worrying off her chest.

  “Okay, here goes,” Holly began, drawing a big breath and huddling in close to the girls.

  “Jeez, you make it sound so serious,” Meghan giggled.

  “It is serious,” Holly snapped—but then felt bad. She never got testy with her friends.

  “Wait,” Jess said, her voice hushed. “Don’t tell me. Your parents. They’re making you keep the cell on you at all times.”

  Holly shook her head, annoyed at how off the mark Jess’s guess was. Her parents had been checking in every day, but surprisingly, they’d been pretty mellow. “We’re sure Coach Graham is keeping you busy,” her dad had said when he’d called on Sunday night. “So we won’t bug you.” Clearly, Holly’s parents found the idea of a school-supervised trip reassuring—and she hoped they would keep to their word. She hadn’t yet called to tell them about her ankle, because she knew they’d freak.

  “Okay, then…are you waiting for someone to call?” Meghan offered, pouring herself more ale.

  Holly tried not to roll her eyes. Pulling teeth. “It’s Tyler,” she burst out in frustration. “On the way to the airport on Friday, we had this—this thing happen—It was pretty intense…”

  “Ooh, you were making out?” Meghan teased, wiggling her eyebrows at Holly. The gesture used to crack Holly up when they were freshmen, but now, she was not in the mood.

  “We were about to have sex,” she replied flatly.

  “Oh,” Meghan said, her eyebrows going still and her cheeks coloring.

  “Ew, on the way to the airport?” Jess asked, looking flat-out disgusted. “Like, in his car or something?” She shook her head, her tight bun not budging an inch. “You told us last month that you guys had this whole perfect moment planned or whatever—”

  “Well, we didn’t—you know—finish what we started,” Holly managed to reply, her face growing warm. She hated how the subject of sex instantly made her uncomfortable. And Meghan and Jess were clearly so unable to imagine the situation Holly was describing that she wondered if it was even worth elaborating.

  “It’s probably for the best,” Meghan said consolingly, patting Holly’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t let him pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to—”

  “Actually,” Holly cut in, feeling a flash of irritation. “It was…the other way around.” She bit her lip and glanced down at her hands as she heard Meghan let out a small gasp.

  “Wait…Holly, you initiated it?” Jess asked, sounding bewildered. “That’s—that’s so not like you.”

  Maybe you don’t know me that well anymore, Holly thought, caught off guard by her own sentiment. Holly didn’t doubt that her friends understood her—but just maybe not the her that had a boyfriend.

  Instead of getting into all that, Holly simply shrugged, still studying her lap. “I just…really wanted to right then,” she offered, unsure how else to explain.

  “But,” Meghan began, her voice low and uncertain, “aren’t you…you know…scared?”

  Holly tilted her head to one side, considering this notion. Scared wasn’t quite the right word. Whenever she thought about sex, Holly experienced a mixture of nervousness and excitement and curiosity that felt like a distant cousin of fear—only somehow more pleasant.

  “Of course, a little bit,” Holly replied, choosing her words carefully. She traced a circle on the dewy pitcher of ale, thinking of how at ease Tyler put her. “But with Tyler, it feels—or at least it felt—right.” Then she lifted her eyes to meet her friends’ gazes. They were regarding her with blank expressions, as if she were a three-headed alien who had materialized at their table.

  God, I wish Alexa were here. The thought sprang into Holly’s mind, surprising her. Yes, Alexa was a big part of Holly’s conflicted feelings toward Tyler. But that was also why Alexa would get where Holly was coming from—and could probably provide some helpful insight. She had dated Tyler, after all. If anyone had vast reserves of boy experience to draw from, it was the bold, adventurous Alexa St. Laurent. Holly knew, from the week they had spent together in South Beach, that Alexa didn’t think anything was scary.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Holly muttered. She accepted her cell phone from a shaky-looking Meghan and rolled her eyes. “Let’s talk about something…else.” Like sports or school or American Idol or whatever it is we usually talk about, she added silently. Holly was aware that the vibe she was giving off might be a little condescending—a first for her—but she couldn’t help her aggravation toward her friends.


  “We’re just trying to help,” Meghan insisted, putting one arm around Holly. “Keep going about Tyler—we want to know.”

  “But she doesn’t think we can help,” Jess observed accurately, frowning at Holly across the table. “Because, you forget, we don’t have boyfriends, Meghan. We wouldn’t understand.”

  “I never said that,” Holly protested weakly, unable to meet Jess’s laser-beam stare. “But it is kind of different…You guys will see…” Holly trailed off, practically visualizing the hole she was digging for herself.

  “Thanks a lot, H,” Jess snapped, huffily taking a sip of ale. “Way to make us feel good about ourselves.”

  Holly felt her chest clench. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean it that way.” The last thing Holly wanted to do was argue with her friends. But she also didn’t think she could remain with them a second longer. Between Jess’s glare, Meghan’s arm around her shoulder, the laughing Guinness boys, the groping couples at the bar, and the close, sweaty quarters of the noisy pub, she felt like she was choking.

  “I’m gonna get some air,” Holly announced, shifting away from Meghan and swinging her legs over the side of the bench. She stood carefully, testing her ankle. It was a little tender, but not too achy. Still, she knew she’d never be able to convince her coach to let her run tomorrow.

  “We have to head back to the hostel soon,” Meghan pointed out, looking up at Holly.

  Holly checked the time on her cell phone. Curfew was nine sharp, and it was now eight forty-five. Coach Graham was already at the hostel, no doubt waiting in the dank lobby with a checklist of names. Since the girls had to be up and at ‘em at five every morning, going to bed super early made sense.

  But sucked.

  “Meet me outside and we’ll walk back together,” Holly sighed, lifting her tote. She was sick of all the boot camp rules, the way Coach Graham treated them like infants. Didn’t Holly get enough of that at home? What was the point of spring break if not to have at least a little fun?

  Holly elbowed her way through the crowd, cell phone in hand. She was so focused on making it to the door that she skidded on a puddle of beer and, losing her footing, tumbled forward in an oh-so-graceful repeat performance of that morning. Gasping, she threw out her hands and grabbed on to the nearest solid object—the arm of the Prince William lookalike.

  He turned slowly, a smile lighting up his chiseled, aristocratic face.

  Holly froze, forgetting about her ankle. Wait. Was it…could it be? There were no bodyguards around…no photographers…it seemed impossible…but that face…

  She might have to apologize to Meghan later.

  “All right, there?” the possible-prince asked in a smooth, sexy British accent.

  “Um, me? I’m, um, I’m awesome,” Holly stammered. Her face flaming, she righted herself and gave him a quick thumbs-up sign. The boy nodded, flashed her another royally gorgeous grin, and turned back to his friends at the bar.

  Oh my God, Holly realized in horror, her Adidas glued to the floor. Did I just give the thumbs-up sign to the future king of England? It seemed that her list of embarrassing moments was growing by leaps and bounds. I really am a mess, Holly thought, making her way outside.

  Rain was falling in slow, heavy drops, like tears. Shivering, Holly zipped up her hoodie and gazed down the Broadway, Wimbledon’s main drag. Ugh. Despite the pubs, restaurants, and quaint little “shoppes,” the area still felt kind of lackluster to Holly. She’d dreamed of traveling abroad her whole life, but so far, England had let her down. She wondered if another country, another city, might suit her better.

  And that was when Holly’s cell phone rang.

  Glancing down at the T-Mobile in her hand, her heart thrummed with hope. Could it be Tyler? Was he finally, finally calling to say that the car-tastrophe didn’t matter, that he adored her, and that he couldn’t wait to jump her the minute she got back? Holly squinted at the weird number flashing on the small screen: a plus sign followed by a series of digits. Huh? New Jersey was five hours behind England; maybe Tyler had been driving home from volunteering and, in a fit of passion, pulled over to a pay phone. Who else could it be?

  “Tyler?” Holly finally answered, her teeth chattering. “Where are you calling from?”

  There was a moment of buzzing silence, and then, like a dim echo from very far away, Holly heard the distinct sound of sobbing.

  Her throat tightened in horror. Tyler was crying? Did he really feel that bad about what had happened? Or was something else wrong? “Tyler?” Holly demanded once more. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s—it’s not Tyler,” a girl finally sobbed on the other end, startling Holly. The line crackled angrily.

  Holly felt shivers all down her spine. Despite the heinous reception, she recognized that voice. Of course. She’d known it since she was seven years old.

  “Alexa?” Holly whispered.

  “It’s me,” Alexa confirmed, sniffling.

  Holly felt a stab of worry. Back on Thursday, she’d told Alexa to call her, but considering her friend’s blasé response in the cafeteria, Holly hadn’t expected to hear from her. And since Paris was one hour ahead of London, it was about ten o’clock over there. Why would Alexa be calling so late on a random Monday night—in tears, no less?

  “Alexa, what’s going on?” Holly asked, almost too frightened to hear the answer. She looked over her shoulder and saw Meghan and Jess emerging from the pub.

  “Hol, I need you,” Alexa sobbed. “Can you talk? I’m in really, really big trouble…”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Au Revoir

  I can’t believe I’m here, Alexa fumed as she rose up through the star-sprinkled night sky. It was eight o’clock on Monday, and she and Diego were squeezed into a tiny, glassed-in elevator that was gliding toward the very tip-top of the Eiffel Tower.

  Over the past two days, Alexa had tried to remain firm. But whether they were holding hands in the Jardin du Luxembourg or strolling across the wide Pont des Arts, Diego had sulked and sighed and whined about the Eiffel Tower until Alexa wanted to go up there just so she could push her broken-record boyfriend off it.

  That morning, at the Louvre, she’d finally surrendered for real. Standing on her tiptoes in her Lanvin zebra-print pumps, Alexa had peered through the hordes at the serenely smiling Mona Lisa. Even though Alexa had seen the painting in person about fifty-seven times, she still secretly loved it. There was something so mysterious and independent about the Italian grande dame that it never failed to give Alexa shivers.

  “Careful,” Diego teased, squeezing her waist. “Someone might mistake you for a tourist.”

  Alexa laughed, turning to stick her tongue out at him. “Never.”

  “Speaking of which…” Diego began, clearly about to launch into another Eiffel Tower soliloquy, but Alexa shut him up by placing her hand over his mouth. Maybe it was being in the huge sun-drenched gallery, surrounded by so many incredible works of art, but she suddenly felt light and airy and gracious. What would Mona Lisa do?

  “I’ll go,” Alexa whispered.

  So here she was in her new Zac Posen golden flapper dress and sparkly white Cesare Paciotti mules, her pale golden hair rippling down her back. In an attempt to make the best of this little visit, Alexa had dressed to outdo the tower itself, which—though lit up all night—shimmered from top to bottom for ten minutes on the hour, every hour, like a long-necked jewel.

  Stepping out of the elevator, her fingers laced through Diego’s, Alexa suddenly regretted wearing the flimsy Zac Posen confection—it was bitterly cold on the third level. The wind gusting through the tall wire barrier rattled Alexa’s topaz teardrop earrings. Trembling, she let go of Diego’s hand so she could wrap her arms around her slender frame. She wished Diego would get a clue and slip his J. Lindeberg suit jacket around her bare shoulders, but he was clearly too distracted by the dizzying view.

  “Wow,” he whispered, stepping closer to the edge, his long-lashed black eyes shini
ng. “Alexa, come see—it really is the City of Light.”

  Alexa rolled her eyes as she teetered over in her spiky heels. Hadn’t her boyfriend—whom she’d always considered worldly—ever seen a nighttime panorama before? Granted, Alexa realized as she joined Diego, that view from last year’s South Beach rooftop hadn’t been anything quite like this. In spite of herself, she caught her breath as she scanned the dazzling cityscape. A thousand feet below, the whole of Paris sprawled, elegant and glittery as a strand of emerald-cut diamonds. Alexa had been to the top of the tower before, but never at night. She rested one hand on the wire netting, drinking in the spectacular sight and feeling—okay, yeah—grateful that Diego had dragged her up here. She wished she’d brought her camera but it hadn’t fit into the Miu Miu clutch she was carrying.

  Alexa reached for her amant, aching to slide her arms around him, but, from behind her, there suddenly came raucous laughter. “What the hell is this?” someone guffawed, and Alexa and Diego both turned around.

  A guy and girl, each weighed down by monstrous backpacks, were cracking up in front of the wax figures of Gustave Eiffel (the architect who’d designed the tower) and Thomas Edison. Alexa had always found those wax models random, but they weren’t cause for such commotion. Alexa raised a disdainful eyebrow as the girl—who was petite, with long brown hair and a lip ring—clapped her hands to her cheeks and shrieked, “They’re aliiive!” while the guy—backwards white baseball cap, tan shell necklace—laughed even harder.

  Alexa shook her head and turned her attention back to Diego, but, to her astonishment, her boyfriend was watching the couple with a wide smile.

  “What’s up?” Diego called to the rowdy strangers. He raised his arm to wave to them as if they were long-lost siblings.

  “Waddup,” White Hat Boy called back, lifting his chin by way of greeting while the girl continued to convulse with giggles.