“You know them?” Alexa whispered, instinctively reaching up to jerk Diego’s arm down.
Diego ignored her. “Hey, where are you guys from?” he shouted over the wind, indirectly answering Alexa’s question.
Ugh, Alexa thought furiously. If Diego didn’t know these people, why was he chatting them up? He could easily befriend these types back in New Jersey.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Alexa noticed another couple cuddled together in front of the wire barrier, murmuring in what she guessed was Japanese. They were observing Diego’s conversation with White Hat Boy closely, clearly intrigued by the antics of crazy Americans.
“Florida,” the guy replied, adjusting his backwards cap on his small head. “Orlando.”
“Proud home of Disney World,” the girl chimed in drily, curling her lip, and Alexa thought that, under different circumstances, she might almost like her.
“No shit—I’m from Miami!” Diego laughed, his eyes dancing, as if this were the happiest coincidence of his life. The couple started laughing, too, loudly commenting on how dope South Beach was.
“I guess it really is a small world after all,” Alexa muttered, eager to put an end to Diego’s insta-love affair with the Disney World Duo. She tugged on her boyfriend’s arm again, hoping he’d get the hint: She was cold, hungry, and absolutely ready to head back down.
But, apparently, Diego and his new best friends had other plans.
“Have you guys seen this freakiness?” Lip Ring Girl was asking, gesturing to the wax models, while her partner in crime dug around in his mammoth backpack. “I don’t get the French at all.”
“Nuts,” Diego agreed, and then pointed to the view beyond the wire barrier. “But that is something else, huh? It’s too bad it’s not completely open.” Diego made a pouty face, as if, Alexa thought, the people of France had personally betrayed him by not making the Eiffel Tower open-air.
“You know you can stick your face outside, right?” White Hat Boy exclaimed, still wrestling with his backpack. He finally pulled out what looked like a train schedule. “I’m serious, it’s so cool—you should try it.”
“Really?” Diego replied, grinning, and Alexa’s stomach sank; she could just see Diego and Mr. All-American bonding over silly Eiffel Tower stunts all night. But, fortunately, the next thing White Hat Boy said was that he and his girlfriend had to make a late train to Amsterdam—“Dude, we can’t wait to blow Paris”—so they needed to take off.
After Diego had bid a hearty farewell to his newfound buddies—Alexa was surprised they all didn’t exchange e-mail addresses—he promptly turned around and walked back up to the wire barrier.
Her irritation mounting, Alexa watched as her boyfriend, acting on the instructions of White Hat Boy, poked his face through one of the diamond-shaped openings. “Bonjour, Paris!” Diego shouted, his atrocious accent echoing through the night sky. The Japanese couple stared at him unabashedly, and the smattering of other people up there—a sleepy guard, and a few chatty Italian twelve-year-old girls in cashmere capelets—all glanced Diego’s way as well, clearly wondering where this lunatic had come from.
Alexa went rigid with shock. Forget throwing him off, she decided. Now she was the one who wanted to jump. Plunging onto the Champ de Mars, her filmy golden skirt flying over her head, would put an appropriately dramatic end to her humiliation.
“Stop…embarrassing…me,” Alexa said through gritted teeth, marching over to Diego and yanking on his arm. “Everybody’s looking.”
Diego pulled his head back inside. Alexa expected him to apologize, but instead he angrily set his jaw. “Alexa, give it a rest,” he snapped. “Why are you always so hung up on what other people think?”
Alexa recoiled, pressing a palm to her bare collarbone. What was Diego babbling about? “That’s not true—” she began, ready to point out that anyone would have been mortified by his display of dorkiness.
“Oh, please,” Diego cut in. “From the minute we’ve arrived in Paris, you’ve been totally paranoid that everything I do might make you look like a fool—or God forbid—a foreigner!” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring her down. “You’re a snob, Alexa—I don’t know why I didn’t see that before.”
Alexa narrowed her eyes at Diego. How dare he? Nobody reamed out Alexa St. Laurent and got away with it. She opened her mouth to tell Diego just that, but then stopped herself. The top of the Eiffel Tower was so not the place to have this kind of argument. “This can wait until later, sweetie,” Alexa hissed, glancing over her shoulder to see if the Japanese couple were listening in on their lovers’ spat. Why did her boyfriend have to make such a scene?
“There you go again,” Diego pointed out smugly, apparently pleased to be catching Alexa red-handed.
That did it. Infuriated, Alexa spun around to face him, fists on hips.
“I’m only paranoid,” she spat, not bothering to lower her voice this time, “because you, Diego, have been acting like—a jackass.” Her boyfriend’s dark eyes widened, but Alexa forged ahead, her frustrations spilling out in a torrent. “You’ve been completely loud and obnoxious—like with those American back-packers—”
“It was nice to talk to someone from back home,” Diego mumbled defensively, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Well, you haven’t been making an effort to talk to anyone from here,” Alexa retorted, remembering an incident from that morning. “Hey, just a news flash for you? Spanish isn’t French! You can’t say por favor to the ticket guy in the Métro and expect him to understand you!”
“Sucks for him,” Diego muttered, frowning down at his shoes. “You know I don’t speak French. And I don’t want to.”
Typical. Alexa rolled her eyes. “Plus, there’s that. Your whole immature schoolboy act.”
“Schoolboy?” Diego repeated, looking miffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, Alexa, I took important time off from college for you—for this trip.” He shot her an accusatory glare.
“So what are you implying?” Alexa challenged, taking a step closer to him. “That college is more important to you than…us?”
Slowly, Alexa sized up her boyfriend—his conservative suit and neat tie, his shiny hair and shinier shoes, his clean-shaven face, now twisted in an angry—and unattractive—grimace…In that instant, Alexa realized that, for all his fiery passion, Diego Mendieta was, well, boring. She’d found him exciting and even dangerous when they’d first met in South Beach, but now, a year later, here in Paris, Alexa saw how ordinary her boyfriend truly was.
Diego sighed, glancing away from Alexa and back toward the sparkling lights of the city. “Alexa, you’re still in high school. You don’t know what it’s like—”
Bad move, Diego.
“Don’t you belittle me,” Alexa shot back, her hot temper now sizzling. She saw the Italian girls gawking at them, but Alexa no longer cared.
Diego looked at her, steely-eyed. “Come on, Alexa. Admit it. We have different lives back home. I mean, look at your friends. Portia and Maeve—they’re so small-minded and shallow.” He shrugged matter-of-factly.
Fresh fury swept over Alexa. Diego knew she had recently ditched said shallow friends. How could he lump her with them? “If you think I’m so immature,” she snapped over the roaring wind, “then maybe we shouldn’t even be together! Maybe you should be dating a college girl!”
There was a long moment of silence as she and Diego studied each other, and Alexa wished with all her might that she could take that last remark and rewind it back into her mouth.
Then the corner of Diego’s lips curled up in a cruel smirk. “I’ve had opportunities, Alexa,” he said softly. “Plenty of opportunities.”
Alexa swallowed as Diego’s words cut into her skin, sharp as a blade. She thought of Cynthia, the curvy brunette who lived in Diego’s dorm at Princeton and was always wiggling around in low-cut Victoria’s Secret slips, knocking on Diego’s door to “borrow index cards,” and shooting Alexa dirty looks in the bathroom. Dieg
o was surrounded by girls in college. Girls who probably all wanted him.
And, though the possibility had never occurred to Alexa before, it hit her then: Had Diego…cheated on her? Maybe, on some weekend when she’d slept over at Portia’s mansion instead of Diego’s dorm, he’d gone out to a party and stumbled home trashed, only to find one of his sultry hallmates outside his door. Maybe they’d started kissing drunkenly, and…
Impossible, Alexa decided in the next heartbeat. What college girl could compete with her? Alexa might still be in high school, but she gave Diego everything he wanted—and then some. No boy—and Alexa had dated an impressive number—had ever been unfaithful to Alexa St. Laurent. It simply wasn’t done.
But Diego had planted a seed of doubt in her head. And that was enough to drive Alexa to the brink.
“Opportunities?” she repeated, her voice strangely calm. “How interesting. Here’s another opportunity for you.”
And there, on the top of the Eiffel Tower—in full view of the Japanese couple, the Italians girls, and the now wide-awake security guard—Alexa raised her hand and slapped Diego Mendieta square across his flawless face.
Talk about making a scene.
Steaming, Alexa stalked out of the Eiffel Tower’s entrance, her high-heeled mules slapping the pavement. Diego ran up behind her, grabbing her arm. When she twisted around to confront him, she saw the red handprint on his high cheekbone and felt a tiny pang of remorse.
Diego’s own eyes were full of regret. “Alexa, look…maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” he mumbled. “We need to talk…”
“You know what?” Alexa replied icily. “I think what we need is some serious time apart from each other. Because, as far as I’m concerned, I am done with you, Diego.”
And she was, Alexa realized as Diego held her gaze. Diego clearly wasn’t cut out for Paris—and he wasn’t cut out for her.
Wordlessly, the two of them caught the Métro at Trocadéro and rode it back to their hotel, remaining on opposite sides of the car like strangers. Tonight was supposed to be their last in the hotel, but Alexa knew that she couldn’t stay another minute. Right there on the train, she decided that when she got back to their room, she’d pack, check out, and call her cousins, whose number she had stashed on a slip of paper in her wallet. Alexa wasn’t positive they were back from Avignon yet, but she’d take a chance. Let Diego sit and stew in the soulless Hôtel Rive Gauche alone for one more night.
But after they’d walked into their hotel room, Diego immediately took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and retrieved his suitcase from under the bed. Alexa, who’d started pulling huge handfuls of clothes from the armoire, raised a curious eyebrow. Was Mr. Princeton—homesick for college—catching a flight back to New Jersey tonight?
“You’re leaving?” she demanded, a Richard Chai satin tube top dangling from one finger.
“What, did you expect me to stay and subject Paris to my rudeness?” Diego asked quietly. “I think I’d be better off elsewhere.” Diego paused to refer to his trusty Frommer’s guide, which he’d been keeping on the bedside table. “Like Barcelona,” he offered curtly, avoiding Alexa’s gaze. “Or any Spanish-speaking place. Barcelona’s only an overnight train ride from Gare Austerlitz.”
Alexa knelt to unclasp one of her bags, a little unsteady. So Diego, too, had formulated a plan on the Métro. She’d been half-hoping that he would follow her to her cousins’, begging for forgiveness.
Since Diego was a meticulous packer (or, in Alexa’s opinion, simply anal), and Alexa had practically the whole of Bloomingdale’s SoHo to stuff into her six bags, the two of them finished packing at the exact same time. They locked the door, took the elevator down to the lobby in hostile silence, checked out, and exited through the hotel’s sliding doors for the last time. Holding their respective bags, they stood on the boulevard St-Germain, regarding each other…perhaps also for the last time.
“I guess this is good-bye?” Diego asked gruffly, looking down.
Alexa nodded, feeling a tug of sorrow. How had things fallen apart so abruptly? That morning, she and Diego had been cuddling in the Louvre. Now, their glorious vacation was over, ruined. So much for having the best week of their lives.
For one crazy moment, Alexa wondered if she should follow Diego to Barcelona. It would be easy—she’d trail him to Gare Austerlitz, hop on his train and, in the middle of the night, sneak over to his seat and start kissing him. By morning, they’d have made up and arrived in sunny Barcelona; Alexa had been to Barci before, and though the city wasn’t as romantic as Paris, it would do in a pinch.
But no, she realized. She didn’t want to go to Barcelona. And she certainly didn’t want to follow some boy there.
After all, Alexa was fiercely independent.
Wasn’t she?
So she reached up, touched Diego’s cheek—her fingers caressing the very spot she had smacked—and, her throat thick with tears, whispered, “Au revoir.”
In French, the expression literally meant “until we see each other again.” Alexa wasn’t sure if she and Diego ever would. But who knew?
Then they turned and headed in different directions—he for the Métro, she for the nearest pay phone to call her cousins. Unfortunately, the closest phone was several blocks down, and Alexa, lugging her heavy bags down the empty boulevard, was cursing the mules that pinched her feet. When she made it to the phone booth, Alexa dropped her bags in relief, but then realized she’d never bought one of those little phone cards that were needed to place a call—that was why she’d never gotten around to calling her dad.
Crap.
Alexa drew a deep breath. She’d work it out; she always did. She was nothing if not resourceful. Miraculously, she spotted a tall man with a trim moustache, wearing a double-breasted coat and a cockeyed black beret, striding down the boulevard toward her. A real Frenchman, Alexa thought, catching his eye and feeling a warm rush of familiarity. He reminded her of her father’s brother, Uncle Julien. He’d definitely be able to help her.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Alexa called, waving him over.
He stopped before her with a ready smile. “Oui, mademoiselle?”
In her fluent, fabulous French, Alexa explained the phone card sitch, asked if she could borrow his card, and—gesturing to her Miu Miu clutch—promised to repay him.
Alexa noticed that the Frenchman’s eyes lingered a beat too long on her clutch—and on her Coach bags—and she felt a flicker of hesitation. But then he shot her another smile, reached into his pocket, and said, “Pour une belle jeune fille? Mais bien sûr.”
Alexa grinned and fluttered her eyelashes, accepting the phone card he was extending. She was a sucker for being called a beautiful girl, especially when she’d just broken up with her boyfriend. Then, the instant the phone card touched her hand, the Frenchman reached over and snatched her clutch out from under her arm, scooped up four of her Coach bags and took off down the boulevard in a flash.
“No!” Alexa screamed after him. In her blind panic, she found herself shrieking in English. “Come back here, you asshole! Give me back my bags! Somebody stop him! Thief!” Of course, there wasn’t another soul on the boulevard, so Alexa grabbed her remaining two bags and started off after him. But it was impossible to run in her mules, and by now, the nimble thief was a mere spot in the distance. Alexa let out a helpless sob. She’d never catch him.
Her whole body shaking, Alexa quickly assessed her bags to confirm that—whew—the thief hadn’t made off with the one that contained her passport. But since he had taken her clutch—and with it, her wallet—she now had no money, and no scrap of paper with her cousins’ phone number, which she’d never bothered to memorize.
And by far the worst news of all was that the bastard had snatched the precious suitcase that contained her new lilac-colored piqué Behnaz Sarafpour strapless dress—and most of her best outfits.
She was screwed.
Clutching the phone card and her bags, Alexa limped into the phone
booth. With wildly trembling fingers, she dialed her dad in New Jersey; she knew he’d calm her down and give her the cousins’ number. But the answering machine picked up, so Alexa, craving emotional support, tried her mom in New York. No luck there, either—Alexa was left sniffling to the sound of her mother’s “Kiss, kiss, dahling” voice mail prompt.
Who was left? Alexa knew Portia’s and Maeve’s cell numbers by heart, but calling them now, in this sorry condition, would be a disaster. Alexa could all too vividly imagine the girls gloating over her split with Diego. Some support that would be.
Resting her head against the cool glass pane of the phone booth, Alexa finally broke down crying. This was a nightmare. She was boyfriendless, friendless, parentless, penniless, starving—and freezing in her silly spaghetti-strap dress. Couldn’t she have at least changed back at the hotel? Alexa wished, not for the first time, that she were a more practical sort of person. Someone like, say, Holly Jacobson would have surely slipped into jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie before taking on the streets of Paris by night.
Oh, my God, Alexa realized, catching her breath. That was it.
Holly Jacobson!
Of course. Hadn’t Holly said Alexa could call her cell while she was in London? And Alexa was positive she remembered Holly’s number, since she’d known it since junior high. Alexa wasn’t entirely sure how Holly Jacobson could bail her out of this mess, but all that mattered now was hearing her old friend’s reassuring voice.
When Holly answered her phone with the adorably out-of-it “Tyler? Where are you calling from?” Alexa burst into fresh tears—but, through her sobs and the static, managed to convince Holly that it was her, and not Tyler Davis, calling.
“I’m in really, really big trouble,” Alexa hiccuped, relieved to have a sympathetic ear at last. “I broke up with Diego and got mugged and now I’m homeless…”
“Are you serious?” Holly gasped. Alexa heard her move the phone away from her mouth.
French Kiss Page 6
