French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  This time, Holly realized as she and Pierre regarded each other, she had no excuse to turn and hurry away from him. So she watched, holding her breath, as Pierre’s eyes moved with agonizing slowness up from her skinny-heeled black sling-backs to her distressed denim miniskirt to the sea-green halter to, finally, her lips and face, which makeup guru Alexa had done up with berry-stain gloss, subtle blusher, and smoky eyeliner. Holly knew she looked mighty different from the two times Pierre had seen her before. As his lips parted in surprise, something dangerously close to pleasure flushed Holly’s skin. She wasn’t used to boys—not even Tyler—staring at her in this way. And suddenly, Holly felt the opposite of how Tyler had made her feel back in the car in Oakridge: desirable.

  “’Olly,” Pierre finally whispered, as if overcome. “You are…you look…”

  Then they all heard the front door slam.

  “Mon Dieu!” a girl’s voice cried in panic. “I’m late!” What followed was a stream of furious French words that Holly could only guess were curses.

  Alexa and Pierre glanced at each other, grinned, and, at the same time, said, “Raphi.”

  Still unsteady, Holly followed Pierre and Alexa into the living room, where a curvaceous twenty-something girl was sitting on the sofa, frantically tugging off one of her super-high platform boots. She wore a thick polka-dot headband, a sleeveless orange tunic cinched in the middle with a bronze-buckled belt, and cropped tuxedo trousers. Her wild halo of black curls and tan complexion instantly gave her away as Pierre’s sister; only her eyes—dark brown, slightly almond-shaped, but just as mischievous—were different from his. Holly wondered how fair-skinned, flaxen-haired Alexa could have such exotic-looking cousins.

  “The American!” Raphaëlle exclaimed when she looked up. She bounded off the sofa and hopped over to Holly on her shoeless foot. “Wow, c’est cool that you’re here,” she gushed, with hardly a hint of an accent. “I love speaking the English, and Alexa won’t let me with her, but now I can practice!” This time, Holly was prepared for the effusive one-two kiss Raphaëlle bestowed on her and was pleasantly surprised that Alexa’s fashion-forward cousin—who Holly had been imagining as some prissy diva—was so warm and bubbly.

  After Raphaëlle had changed into what she deemed more parent-appropriate shoes—vintage, round-toed orange pumps that Alexa was completely jealous of—the foursome tumbled out of the apartment into the warm Paris night. After a short Métro ride, they were hurrying down the impossibly fancy rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. As Raphaëlle and Pierre led the way to their parents’ home, Alexa gazed dreamily at the various designer houses: Givenchy, Hermès, Christian Lacroix, Hervé Léger…Haute couture heaven.

  “We’ll go shopping here tomorrow, Hol,” Alexa declared, linking her arm through Holly’s. “And we’ll hit up avenue Montaigne, too.” Alexa felt sort of bad tossing Daddy’s money around in boutiques, but after all, her luggage had been stolen. Destiny was practically begging her to shop, right?

  “Uh…sure,” Holly replied, thinking You shop, I’ll watch. There was no way she’d be able to afford even a pair of earrings from any of the deluxe stores lining the long, narrow street. But she did like the idea of her and Alexa spending a girly day around Paris together.

  The St. Laurents’ townhouse was a deep creamy color, with gargoyles jutting out from the roof and a lion’s head knocker on the heavy wooden double doors. Holly remembered Alexa saying that her uncle was an important diplomat, and Holly suddenly felt intimidated. When the door opened, though, she—along with the others—was swept up in the arms of a voluptuous, olive-skinned woman with luxurious black curls and flashing dark eyes. She wore a flowing ruby-red caftan, harem-style pants, and furry kitten-heeled red slippers.

  When the woman released them, Holly noticed that dangling from her neck was an elaborately designed gold hand with an eye painted in the middle of it; Holly recognized the cool pendant from a charm bracelet her second cousin—who lived in Israel—had sent her last year.

  “Bienvenue! Welcome!” the woman gushed, managing to double-kiss Alexa, Pierre, Raphaëlle, and Holly in two seconds flat. “I am Aziza,” she told Holly, putting out her hand and beaming. “Alexandria’s aunt. Please do come in, savor my home, and eat.”

  Aziza’s accent, Holly noticed, was not only French, but a little bit of something else, too. “Alexa, where is your aunt from?” Holly whispered as they all stepped into the foyer, which was decorated with vibrant Middle Eastern tapestries and a plush Oriental rug on the marble floor.

  “Tunisia,” Alexa whispered, thrilled to be back at her aunt and uncle’s welcoming, fun place. She’d spent a lot of time here when she was little and had always felt like Aziza was more of a mom than, well, her real mom. “In North Africa, you know?” Alexa explained. “But she lived in Israel when she was young, before her family moved to Paris.”

  Wow, Holly thought. Having spent her whole life in Oakridge, she was fascinated by such cosmopolitan people. And now she knew where Raphaëlle and Pierre got their striking looks.

  Alexa’s uncle, by contrast, had pale blue eyes, a shock of silver hair, and a dignified demeanor. He was sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe. In his impeccable three-piece suit, he instantly reminded Holly of Alexa’s father. After Julien had politely greeted everyone, they all trooped over to the dining room. The long, candelit table was overflowing with tantalizing platters of food and an array of champagnes and wines, to which Pierre gamely added his bottle. Holly looked on, speechless, as Julien uncorked Pierre’s contribution and poured his son a glass of Burgundy; she couldn’t for the life of her imagine drinking with her parents. Or anybody’s parents, for that matter.

  Alexa, sitting beside Holly, was sipping her flute of fizzy Veuve Clicquot without a second thought. The drinking age in France was technically sixteen, but Alexa’s dad—like most French parents—had always been fine with her imbibing at the dinner table, so by now, Alexa was a seasoned drinker.

  “Tiens, chérie,” Aziza said to Holly, handing her two serving plates at once. “Take, dear—they are delicious.” On one plate were clusters of small, dark coils shimmering in garlic sauce; on the other were soft beige cubes on a bed of olives and tomatoes.

  Holly glanced questioningly at Alexa, but her friend was busy enjoying her champagne. So Holly, not wanting to be rude, smiled and helped herself to both mysterious dishes. I always give Tyler grief for not being adventurous with food, she reminded herself, as she sampled one of the dark coiled shapes. Its texture was rubbery, but the combination of garlic and butter tasted heavenly. She was trying one of the odd beige cubes—it was kind of mushy, if also tasty—when Alexa poked her in the side and murmured, “Enjoying some authentic French cuisine?”

  “What is this stuff?” Holly whispered. Glancing across the table, she saw that Pierre and Raphaëlle were eagerly digging into the same dishes.

  Alexa bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t said anything. Holly would probably throw up or pass out when Alexa told her what she was eating. “Don’t freak,” she whispered, touching Holly’s elbow. “But those—” she indicated the dark coiled shapes—“are escargots.”

  “You mean—snails?” Holly choked out, her mouth still half-full. Her face slowly drained of color. “What—what about these—” She pointed to the beige cubes.

  Alexa cringed. Even worse. “Cervelles provençales,” she whispered reluctantly. “Or, um, calf brains.”

  Holly dropped her fork with a loud clatter as horror welled up inside her. Snails and brains?! What was wrong with the French? Instinctively she grabbed for her napkin to spit out the cervelles, but as Pierre caught her eye across the table, Holly knew she had to get it together. She couldn’t humiliate herself in front of this boy again. Chew, swallow, don’t die, she told herself firmly. She managed to do just that, and then finished off with a huge gulp of champagne—which Alexa had thoughtfully poured into her glass after breaking the bad food news.

  Alexa patted Holly’s shoul
der, proud that her friend hadn’t entirely lost it, and then turned her attention to her own escargots, and the questions Julien was asking her about her dad.

  “You are okay?” Pierre asked Holly quietly. Clearly, he’d noticed that her face matched her green halter, but though his voice was concerned, there was amusement in his blue eyes. The others at the table were chatting and thankfully seemed to have missed Holly’s gag attack.

  “I think so,” Holly managed, her head spinning. But was she? How had she ended up here, at this unfamiliar table, with this sophisticated French family, eating the weirdest stuff imaginable? Just that morning—a lifetime ago—she’d been in her Wimbledon hostel. Suddenly, with a flash of worry, Holly wondered if her disappearance had been discovered by Coach Graham. But as Pierre continued to smile at her, Holly pushed all thoughts of Wimbledon aside. She didn’t want to go back to that other life anytime soon. And as bizarre as France felt to her, Holly realized that she also sort of liked it—snails, brains, and all.

  Several heady hours later, after a salad, a cheese tray, glasses of dessert wine, and slices of luscious chocolate cake, the very stuffed and slightly tipsy St. Laurent cousins and Holly bid Aziza and Julien adieu and headed straight to Eurotrash. It was near midnight, and even on a Tuesday, the trendy Right Bank club boasted a mile-long line outside. But because Raphaëlle was buddies with the bouncer—she’d recently designed a handbag for his pop singer girlfriend—he kissed her cheeks and lifted the velvet rope for her and her entourage.

  Alexa felt a flutter of admiration for Raphaëlle as she followed her into the dark, pulsing nightclub. As a rule, Alexa wasn’t easily bowled over by anyone, but she’d always been a little in awe of her eldest cousin, who—with her boho style and vivid personality—was the essence of individuality. Sometimes, around Raphaëlle, Alexa felt very much her mere eighteen years, and she couldn’t help but wonder if—in her name-brand clothes and carefully applied makeup—she came off as just another high-maintenance, glossy American girl.

  It wasn’t a thought Alexa liked to dwell on.

  Inside Eurotrash, Raphi flounced off to join her hipster friends, who were smoking at the serpentine chrome bar, leaving Alexa, Pierre, and Holly on the elevated platform above the dance floor. Alexa shed her sparkly shrug, soaking everything in: the strobe lights coloring the dance floor, the metallic silver couches strewn with kissing couples, and the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows that allowed clubgoers to stare out at the moonlit Champs-Elysées.

  Alexa scanned the crowd and caught sight of a tall, lanky guy with a shaved head, wearing aviator shades and a ripped tee, amid swarms of other potential boy toys. She felt the delectable thrill of possibility. Sure, Alexa had been madly in love with Diego, but, God, she’d forgotten how fun it was to be single. And, since she was conveniently in Paris—land of the liaison and home of the hottie—what better place was there to savor her new status?

  Alexa was more than ready for her rebound revenge.

  Grabbing Holly’s elbow, Alexa hollered over the pounding music: “Let’s get two Stoli on the rocks and sandwich some cutie, okay?” She hoped poor Pierre wouldn’t mind hanging alone. Or, she thought with a devilish smile, he can come and dance with Holly.

  Holly pulled back, unsure. The dance floor was swarming with high-cheekboned, trendily outfitted club kids, and Holly suddenly felt very young, even in her halter. Not to mention that she’d much rather dance to eighties songs—like pre-Kabbalah Madonna—than the house music blaring here. Although she’d had a blast clubbing in South Beach, now that Holly had a boyfriend back home, she wouldn’t feel too comfortable grinding with some anonymous European guy.

  Shaking her head, Holly apologetically offered her still-sore ankle as an excuse. So Alexa shrugged, blew her and Pierre a kiss, and started off toward the bar, clearly on a boy-finding mission. Holly hoped Alexa knew what she was doing; she didn’t think delving into a hookup right after a breakup was necessarily the best plan. But what did she know about boy stuff, really?

  “Would you like to sit down?” Pierre asked. His hand on Holly’s bare arm made her stomach jump. He gestured to the closest metallic couch, where two lanky boys lounged, sharing a cigarette. Holly agreed, and she and Pierre sat down on the opposite end from the boys. Since the couch wasn’t that big, they had to sit sort of close together. Holly tried not to focus on the fact that Pierre’s knee was kind of rubbing against hers as he leaned in and asked if she wanted a drink.

  “No,” Holly replied, too quickly. Then, as Pierre nodded and casually draped his arm over the back of the sofa, she understood that he hadn’t been asking in a sketchy, I-want-to-get-you-drunk way—he’d simply noticed Holly’s discomfort and was trying to break the ice. Holly glanced at Pierre and gave him a sheepish smile.

  Pierre returned her smile, holding her gaze for a beat. “Your eyes,” he said softly, still leaning close, his knee still touching hers, “they are a very nice green.”

  Holly shifted on the sofa, fighting down the beginnings of a deep blush. “Well, I think they’re more gray-green,” she replied, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth. Holly wasn’t used to talking about her looks with anyone. When they were kissing, Tyler would sometimes pull back to study her face and whisper that she was pretty, but he’d never wax poetic on the exact shade of her eyes. “I mean, I guess their color depends on the weather,” Holly rambled on, fiddling with her silver ring. “Or on my mood, or what I’m wearing, or…”

  “This—how you say—shirt?” Pierre interjected, gently taking the hem of Holly’s halter top and slowly rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Oui. This shirt, it turns your eyes green.”

  “Um, yeah,” Holly managed, acutely aware of Pierre’s touch. She made a mental note to wear green for the rest of her stay in Paris; fortunately, Holly had added lots of that color to her wardrobe after a lime bikini had brought her very good luck last year.

  Pierre removed his hand from her shirt and ran it through his dark curls. But his own beautiful eyes remained on Holly, almost as if—Holly barely dared entertain the thought—he couldn’t get enough of looking at her. Holly wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from too much blushing in one night. Must…change…the…subject, she thought, her mind casting around wildly for something bland and basic to bring up. Something like…school.

  “Pierre, what are you majoring in at the Sorbonne?” Holly blurted, not even bothering to try for a natural segue. Like any high school senior, Holly got borderline obsessed with anything college-related, so she was genuinely interested in Pierre’s answer—especially if it took her mind off the fact that their arms were now pressing together. She leaned back against the sofa, willing herself to relax.

  “Well, I think our system is a bit different from American universities,” Pierre explained, his warm breath tickling her ear, “but I am studying law. It was my father’s idea—I do not like it much.” He rolled his eyes, and Holly grinned, fully understanding that particular issue.

  “Say no more,” she replied, feeling her blush start to fade. “My parents want me to go to law school after college, too.” She drew her finger across her throat in a kill-me-now motion, and Pierre cracked up. Holly felt a rush of warmth; she’d made him laugh. It was funny how a shared sense of humor could translate regardless of language boundaries.

  “Talking about school,” Pierre said (Holly wanted to correct him by saying “speaking of,” but she held back; his malapropisms were too adorable), “I have no classes tomorrow.” Pierre’s hand, resting on the back of the couch, very lightly brushed the nape of Holly’s neck. Though Holly tried to fight the feeling, tingles raced down her body. “Alexa tells me that this is your first time in Paris,” he went on, his voice low. “So perhaps, ’Olly, you would enjoy it if I took you on a tour?”

  Holly bit her lip, her heart pounding hard enough to be heard over the music. There were so many reasons for her to say no: She didn’t know Pierre that well, she’d promised Alexa they would go sh
opping tomorrow, and, most important: Tyler, Tyler, and…Tyler. Holly felt bad enough as it was, sitting so close to a guy whose slightest touch turned her skin hot, who’d complimented her eyes, and who spoke her name so charmingly. Spending an entire day with him in the world’s most romantic city might feel like mere heartbeats away from…cheating.

  But Holly was frustrated with Tyler, who still hadn’t called. And it wasn’t like Pierre was a random sleaze who’d picked her up at Eurotrash; he was Alexa’s sweet, smart cousin—and, Holly felt, a new friend. She’d be sorry to miss his take on Paris—which would surely prove more interesting than Alexa’s overpriced shopping spree. So, without giving it another guilt-ridden thought, Holly turned to Pierre and smiled, watching as his blue eyes lit up hopefully.

  And that felt like reason enough to tell him yes.

  Stoli on the rocks in one hand, hips slowly swiveling to the music, Alexa was right where she wanted to be—smack in the middle of the throbbing Eurotrash dance floor. She’d just danced to Daft Punk’s “One More Time” (the music that was hot in Europe was pretty much always played out in the States) with Aviator Boy, whose name, he’d whispered to her, was Jean-Claude. But before Jean-Claude could start kissing her, Alexa had decided there were tastier options to explore—shaved heads didn’t really do it for her—and waved him off. Her first post-Diego hookup had to be a memorable one.

  A sudden pair of hands on her waist didn’t surprise Alexa too much. Even in her plain black dress, she was confident she looked as sultry as any of the international supermodels working it on the dance floor.

  And when Alexa turned around, a supermodel was what she saw.

  He had lush, white-blond hair that swept sexily over one eye and fell in waves to his square chin. The eye not hidden by the sweep of hair was a deep midnight blue, and fringed with the darkest, longest lashes Alexa had ever seen on a guy. His jaw-dropping body looked familiar, and Alexa whirred through the boy-Rolodex in her mind—Did he kiss me in Cannes when I was fifteen? Hit on me in an Amsterdam bar two summers ago? Walk the runway at Fashion Week in New York last year?—until she realized she’d seen him that very afternoon. While Alexa was on her way to meet Holly, he’d pouted at her—shirtless—from a billboard above the Métro station.