When in Paris... (Language of Love)

by Beverley Kendall

  But as usual, Ashley pays no attention to my mood because the only thing that counts is her. Her wants, her desires, her fuckin’ everything.

  “Zach, where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday.”

  I roll my eyes. Christ, I hate when she uses her baby voice. Drives me fuckin’ nuts.

  “What do you want, Ashley?”

  There’s a long pause and I don’t know if she’s getting ready to bawl or what. It’s the or what I’m most afraid of.

  “It’s just that I miss you,” she says, her voice a lonely whisper.

  I close my eyes as a pang of guilt and sorrow spears my chest. As much as she’s a complete pain in the neck, the truth is, I feel sorry for her. Sorry that she’s so unhappy. Sad that right now I’m the center of her world. Sad that she doesn’t know how to let go.

  There’s no way of responding to that without either hurting her feelings or giving her a reason to hope, which is the last thing I want to do.

  “Ashley, you’ve got to—”

  “What day will you be home for Thanksgiving?” she interrupts, as if she knows what I was about to say. What I’d built up the courage to say. She does this every time and I allow it.

  But on second thought, this isn’t something I want to do over the phone. I’ll tell her during Thanksgiving. I’ll talk to her mother and tell her I can’t do it anymore, even at the risk of Ashley relapsing. I can’t live like this, anchored to her by guilt. It’s just not right.

  “The twenty-first.”

  “Will you come see me as soon as you get in?” she asks, a petulant whine in her voice. I cringe.

  “I will.” Of course it’s not going to be the kind of visit she wants.

  “Oh good.” Her voice is now breathless with joy and I hate that I still have the power to do that, elicit that kind of reaction.

  “Listen, I gotta run. I’ll see you then. Oh and Ashley, I’m going to be busy these next couple weeks with classes and games so you may want to hold off on the calls and text messages.” It’s not like I haven’t used this excuse before but there’s no harm in giving it another go.

  “Hmm, well, okay, I’ll try not to freak if it takes you a bit to get back to me.”

  I stifle a stream of curse words until I’m off the phone then I let them fly. Not a minute later, my phone buzzes again and this time I don’t even look to see who’s calling when I jam it against my cheek. Thinking it’s Ashley calling me back to piss me off some more with some inane shit she forgot to aggravate me with before, I bark, “What?!” My patience has been worn down to its nubs.

  The line goes dead, which is when I realize it couldn’t have been Ashley because she’d never hang up. She would’ve just started sniffing and moaning about how mean I sound.

  I jerk the cell from my ear and tap the screen until it brings up the most recent incoming calls. The one at the top says unknown.

  My thought goes to Olivia and I immediately regret letting my anger get the best of me. I stare at the screen, willing it to ring again. Of course it doesn’t.

  I wait another minute before I toss it on the low wooden table in front of the couch.

  When we were in Paris everything was great. But not one thing has gone right since the second we got back to school. And to be honest, when Olivia basically told me she’s not going to have sex with me if we’re not in a relationship, I didn’t think it would take me long to put her behind me, stop wanting her.

  I’ve never had problems getting girls, as evidenced by Miss Falling Down Drunk tonight. If I want female company I don’t have to look hard to get some. My problem is I can’t get Olivia out of my head, my thoughts. And sitting behind her in French class twice a week is nothing short of torture. She does her best not to look at me, but she’s just as aware of me as I am of her.

  I’ve slept with five girls since I started having sex at the age of fifteen but with Olivia it was different. She’s not just a collection of beautiful body parts. Having sex with her was mind-blowing. Some guys need Playboy to get off. The memory of her lying naked under me does that for me. And it’s all I’ve got because I haven’t had sex with anyone else since our trip to Paris. Hell, she’s the only girl I’ve had sex with since I started college.

  Christ, I really need to think about something else. I flick on the TV, a welcome distraction.

  Two hours later, I haven’t moved from where I’m lying sprawled on the sofa when I hear the front door open. Seconds later, Troy walks into the room. Judging from his expression, his date must not have gone well.

  “Hey, you’re home early,” he says.

  “Look who’s talking.” I push myself into a sitting position and run my hands over my face. I’m not tired, but I’m exhausted.

  “Yeah, well, I just escaped the date from hell. What’s your excuse?” He takes a seat in the armchair across from me, props his forearms on his spread thighs and drops his head.

  I laugh. “What’d she do, order lobster?”

  Troy lifts his head and regards me, his head tilted to the side. “Worse, we ran into April and her asshole of a date.”

  Perfect, something to take my mind off my own female problems. “What, you guys come to blows?” I’m only half-kidding.

  “She’s my friend. I can’t stop and talk to her when I see her out?” A dark scowl has settled across his face.

  “Well, yeah,” I say, uncertain of what I’m setting myself up for. “Sure you can.”

  “Melissa literally rakes me over the coals the second we get in the car, asking me all kinds of shit that, on our first date, is really none of her goddamn business. I mean it’s not like we’re going out.”

  “Well just look at April. No girl is going to believe that there’s nothing going on between you two.”

  “Christ, man, are you siding with her?” he accuses, his eyes flashing in anger.

  “I’m just saying the girl is hot. Most of the guys on the team think you’re doing her.” I used to be included in the crowd but I can tell nothing physical is going on between them. What I can’t figure out is who’s holding out.

  “Most of the guys on the team want to do her,” Troy grumbles, his expression dark.

  When I don’t respond, he sends me a sharp look. “Do you?” he asks, again his tone accusing.

  I bark out a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? And risk your wrath when I gotta live with you? No thanks. I thought we’d already settled that.”

  Troy remains silent, which I find telling.

  “So if your problem’s your date, why’s April’s date an asshole?”

  Troy’s scowl gets darker. “Because all the guys she dates are total a-holes,” he mutters, which I find even more telling.

  As if sensing he’s said too much, he switches the subject so I’m on the firing line. “Why are you home so early? Weren’t you supposed to be going to Sarah’s party?”

  “Been and come back. Just didn’t feel like partying tonight. And after last weekend’s hangover, I wasn’t looking to get wasted.” Which we know is essentially what college parties are all about. Right, and getting laid.

  “Was Olivia there?” he asks, but I can tell from his expression his interest is not as casual as he wants it to appear.

  “Yeah.” And that’s all I say, not in the mood to discuss her at all.

  Troy’s a cool guy, which means he knows when not to push. He gives an understanding nod and then with both hands, pushes himself to his feet. “Women,” he mutters with a heavy sigh, slowly shaking his head.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  OLIVIA

  Monday’s rehearsal is a bear. I miss two stage cues and flub my lines in the scene between my character and the captain of the baseball team when they clash in the locker room in act four. Everything about my performance is off and Miss Ramsay lets me know it. I should have these things nailed this late in the game.

  By the time we leave for the night, I’m a
nnoyed that I’m letting what’s going on with Zach—or in this case, not going on with Zach—ruin my concentration and in the process jeopardize the integrity of the play. I’m the lead, it’s up to me to set the tone and raise the bar—or at least not let the bar fall. I can’t let the rest of the crew down.

  When I return to the dorm it’s after eight, I’m starving and April’s sitting on her bed, books open all around and she’s wearing her glasses, which means her eyes are revolting against her contacts. She only wears her glasses when her eyes are tired or when she’s going for the studious look. It’s a good thing both look good on her.

  I dump my stuff on the floor and hook the strap of my purse over the desk chair.

  April peers up at me over the top of her rimless glasses. “How’d rehearsal go?”

  I say nothing and plop my butt on my bed.

  “That well, huh?”

  My heavy sigh is the only answer she needs before she starts doling out advice I didn’t ask for nor do I need.

  “Jesus, Liv, why don’t you call him?”

  Like I didn’t already do that after the party. Coward that I was, I blocked my number and got worse than having him not pick up if he’d known it was me calling, he’d chewed my head off before a conversation could even start. That had been all it’d taken for me to hang up. So no, calling him is not an option.

  “This has nothing to do with Zach,” I lie.

  Her tongue clicks in disbelief, her shoulders drop and she treats me to one of her give me a break looks. “Oh come on, Liv. You slept with the guy—gave him your virginity—and now you’re not talking to him. How can you possibly say this funk you’re in doesn’t have everything to do with him? You need to quit lying to yourself.”

  I know she’s right, she knows she’s right and she knows I know she’s right but it doesn’t stop the sting of her words.

  As for lying to myself? I take great offense to that because I’m not lying to myself, I’m lying to the rest of the world. And there’s an ocean’s difference between the two as far as I’m concerned.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about me lying to myself,” I charge back, in self-righteous indignation—warranted or not.

  April’s eyes snap wide as she swings her legs from the bed and plants her feet on the floor. “What the hell does that mean?” Her back is now up as high as mine. Comparing us to cats will only reinforce the whole feline female stereotype, so I won’t.

  “You talk about me and Zach. When are you finally going to admit you’ve got a thing for Troy? That you’re in love with him?” There, I said it and it’s out. No more beating around the bush, no more coaxing, just the facts the way I see them and that I know in my heart to be the truth.

  Her mouth sags open. She’s looking at me like she can’t believe I said it, can’t believe that I went there.

  No expressive claims of denial, my charge is met with dead silence.

  I can tell by how still she’s holding herself that her mind is working furiously. The second her chin comes up and a calmness seems to steal over her, dousing the recent frantic look in her eyes, I know what she’s going to say.

  “Troy is my best friend. Of course I love him.”

  I snicker. April never disappoints. “I said in love, not love.” She knows what I mean.

  For a second, I think she’s going to fight me on it, deny it ’til the cows come home. And then all of a sudden her stalwart expression crumbles and a glassy sheen of tears fill her big green eyes.

  Horrified at what I’ve done, I leap off my bed and cross the short distance over to her. “Oh April, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I say, my arms going around her and holding her tight.

  “I’m not crying,” she denies, despite the solitary tear making a wet track down her flushed cheek.

  “What happened with Troy?”

  She shakes her head, as if incapable of speech. More tears fall. I’m more than a little alarmed because the April I know never cries. Not ever.

  “Tell me,” I insist, concerned and heartsick for her.

  Slowly her head comes up, a cascade of curly hair obscuring half her face. I gently smooth it aside and over her shoulder.

  “He doesn’t like me that way,” she mumbles, barely coherent.

  Troy reminds me of Zach in that sometimes it’s really hard to read him. But I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. Every now and then I catch him watching her with something other than just friendly interest in his eyes. But maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, just like with Zach. Projecting my own wishes onto them.

  “How long have you had a thing for him?” There was certainly no sign of it six years ago. But of course they were only twelve. A whole lot has changed since then.

  Cheeks flushed, her gaze darts away from mine. “Sophomore year in high school,” she whispers.

  I take both of her hands in mine and squeeze. “April, you’re smart, sweet and giving and absolutely gorgeous. Any guy in his right mind is going to want you back. How can you possibly know he only sees you as a friend?” I’ve always thought of April as the sort of girl who could just snap her fingers and get any guy she wants, no matter their race, nationality or orientation. Seriously, she and her sister could probably turn a gay man straight, I used to joke.

  “We had sex—”

  Whaaaaat?! I drop her hands and jerk back.

  I don’t hear anything else until, “…nothing. We’ve never really talked about it. Just kind of pretend it never happened.”

  “No no no no. Go back. You had sex?”

  I’m floored. I’m flabbergasted, dumbstruck, incredulous. My mind is having the time of its life trying to digest this; wrapping my brain around the sheer enormity of what I just heard.

  April sends me a sheepish look. “Just the one time a couple weeks ago. We were both kind of drunk.”

  Suspicious, I narrow my eyes at her. “You were drunk?” My best friend doesn’t get drunk. She barely drinks.

  A guilty blush washes her face. “Alright, maybe I wasn’t exactly drunk. I guess you could say I had a bit of a buzz.”

  “But you knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

  Pouty pink lips pulled down in a frown, she nods mutely.

  “And Troy?” I ask gently, my heart filled with compassion.

  Shaking her head, she replies softly, “He blames the alcohol and chalks it up to a mistake. We haven’t spoken about it since.”

  I sigh. “I think you really need to talk to him about it.” It won’t be easy but I don’t know how long she’ll be able to keep it all inside. And if he had sex with her, I’d definitely say he’s interested, even if for whatever reasons he won’t admit it to her right now.

  “I can’t.”

  I laugh softly, taking in her bent head and the forlorn expression on her face. “You’re telling me to talk to Zach yet you don’t want to talk to Troy.”

  She peers up at me. “We had sex and he’s not breaking down my door for anything more. I think I’ve dealt with more than enough rejection than I can handle from him right now.”

  Rejection. That is the heart of the matter. Which I completely understand. There’s nothing worse than opening yourself up to someone, revealing your feelings only to have them reject you.

  “Honey, sometimes we have to take the risk and put ourselves out there even if we end up getting hurt. What if he doesn’t reject you? What if he’s always been in love with you and that night meant as much to him as it did to you? Wouldn’t it be good to know that now instead of always wondering what if?”

  It’s always so much easier to give advice than to take it. But this situation with April is different than the one I have with Zach. I know exactly where he stands. He doesn’t want anything serious. He’s more in the screw-and-run mode. I’m pragmatic enough to know I couldn’t handle a relationship like that—not with him. Never with him.

  April shakes her head, her hair flying about her shoulders in a series of soft swishes as her ey
es leak tears. “No. I don’t ever want him to know how I feel. Things are awkward enough between us. Plus, he’s seeing someone else now.” Her sniff becomes a hiccup in her facsimile of a laugh. “It hasn’t even been a month since he broke up with Katie and he’s already seeing someone. Don’t you think if he wanted to be with me, he wouldn’t be with someone else?”

  Questions like that are like landmines and the last thing I want to do is step on one of them. “Have you ever thought that maybe he has the same fears that you do? Maybe he thinks that you think having sex with him was a mistake.” Of course I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I lay good odds that’s exactly what the deal is.

  April sniffs and I take her hands in mine and give them another reassuring squeeze.

  “No you don’t understand, Troy knows me. He knows I’d never have sex with a guy if I didn’t have serious feelings for him. He knows that.” Another wave of tears track steadily down her cheeks.

  Maybe she means, he should know that.

  But at this point I don’t know what to say so I just pull her into my arms and murmur words of comfort. I tell her that she’ll get through this. We’ll get through this together.

  After thirty minutes of tears and abject misery, April pulls herself together. An hour later we’ve abandoned homework and studying to the more worthy calling of getting ourselves out of the doldrums. Dinner together. Just us. Best friends forever. No talk, discussion, conversation of guys allowed. At least not for tonight. Tomorrow? Well, that’s another day.

  ***

  ZACH

  It’s Monday, which means French…and Olivia. It’s the one time I know I’ll see her. I hate admitting to myself how much I’m looking forward to it.

  I get to the class earlier than usual. Maybe it’s my sixth sense at work but somehow I know she’s going to be sitting there at her desk, a row separating ours, her desk two desks to the right of mine.

  She’s not alone, the guy with the crew cut is sitting in the front row, his body turned toward her and he’s smiling. I catch the tail end of him asking her what she did this weekend.