Owning It
Page 24
“You look beautiful,” I say sincerely, smiling. “Giselle, isn’t it?”
She flicks her gaze from Gabriel to me and chuckles with her mouth closed, the humor never reaching her dark, unreadable eyes. Gabriel removes his hand from the small of my back and the spot feels suddenly cold, bare.
“Je suis Giselle,” she says, smiling tightly. “Mais, qui êtes-vous encore?”
I am Giselle, but who are you again?
“Why are you here, Giselle?” Gabriel asks, pointedly using English.
“Come, darling,” Giselle coos in French, placing her manicured hand on his forearm. “You know how much I love spending time at La Bastide. Do you remember when we came here to celebrate—”
“There you are, my dear,” Alexandre strides up, looking every bit the heir to the Galliard fortune in his black tailored slacks, a shirt, and a white dinner jacket. He kisses Giselle’s cheek. “You mentioned you were bringing a special date, Gabriel, but you didn’t say it was our very own Mademoiselle Brooks.”
“Bonsoir, Laney.” Alexandre moves in, resting his hand on my waist and kissing both of my cheeks. “Comment vas-tu?”
“I’m all good,” I say, moving my hip so Alexandre’s hand falls away. “How are you?”
A man in a white chef’s coat steps onto the patio and rings a tiny bell.
“Ah, dinner,” Alexandre says, putting his hand on the small of Giselle’s back. “Shall we?”
Alexandre and Giselle move over to the table, and we follow, though Gabriel doesn’t take my hand or put his arm around my waist. He clenches his jaw and presses his lips together to create an angry slash across his handsome face.
We find the place cards with our names written on them. Gabriel is seated across from me, between Giselle and someone named Philou. I am seated between Aunt Fantine and someone named Coco. Of course, I recognize Gabriel’s grandfather, parents, siblings, and dear, old Aunt Fantine, but the other dozen people gathered around the table are strangers to me.
The fish course is served, seared tuna with Provençal vegetables and lemon aioli. Aunt Fantine introduces me to Coco, her oldest and dearest friend. In a hushed voice, Aunt Fantine gives me the low-down on Coco, who was apparently a gifted singer.
“Coco started her singing career when she was only nine years old. Can you imagine? She sang in Louis Leplée’s nightclubs. You know, Édith Piaf’s mentor? Anyway, Coco had a marvelous voice, but who could compare with La Môme Piaf?”
Aunt Fantine sips her wine until she has a burgundy moustache, the liquid seeping into her many lip wrinkles, as though someone dipped crumpled-up waxed paper into grape juice.
I leave Aunt Fantine to her wine and turn to chat with Coco. By the time the main course is served, Coco has shared a few stories about her rivalry with Édith and confessed to her late-life love affair with a much younger Johnny Hallyday.
“Have you heard of Johnny?” she asks, a twinkle in her cloudy brown eyes.
I shake my head.
“La!” She shakes her head. “America had her Elvis. France has her Johnny.”
Coco keeps me riveted with stories about France’s music scene all through the main and salad courses. She excuses herself when the cheese course is served and helps herself to a wedge of bleu d’Auvergne and several apple slices.
It’s the first time I have had a chance to look at Gabriel, and I am surprised to find him toying with his wineglass, tipping it back and forth, his sullen gaze fixed on the burgundy wave of wine rolling one way and then the other. I nudge him under the table, but he doesn’t even look up. I kick my sandal off and slide my foot inside his pants leg.
He finally looks at me.
I mouth, “What’s up?”
He shakes his head and returns his attention to his wine. I look over the table at Giselle. I don’t want to believe that she is the cause of Gabriel’s bad mood, because that would mean she still has some hold over his emotions, but I can’t deny that he changed the second she stepped into the garden and cooed his name.
Actually, I noticed an almost imperceptible shift in his ’tude yesterday on the train, when Alexandre texted him to say that Giselle would be joining us at the bastide.
Gabriel said he broke up with Giselle when he found out she was sleeping with his brother, but he never said he was over her.
Alexandre stands and taps the edge of his wineglass with his butter knife. The conversations around the table fade away as all eyes focus on the tall, handsome heir to the Galliard throne.
“A Galliard gathering would not be complete without a toast,” he says, lifting his wineglass. “Won’t you please raise your glasses?”
Everyone complies—everyone except Gabriel. He stops tipping his wineglass back and forth and crosses his arms over his broad chest. I nudge him under the table. He sighs and, with a great show of reluctance, raises his wineglass.
“When I was a boy, my mother told me I should give thanks for small blessings, large blessings, and everything in between. Tonight, let us give thanks for the small blessings: this lovely evening, the meal we just enjoyed, the wine in our glasses,” he says, smiling at his mother. “And let us give thanks for the large blessings, too: our good health, our great fortunes, and our expanding family.”
Gabriel’s face drains of color. He sits up and leans his forearms on the edge of the table, fixing his brother with a dark gaze.
“It seems we will soon welcome a new member to our family.” Alexandre pauses and looks over at his brother. Gabriel shakes his head as if to stop Alexandre from revealing his news. Alexandre chuckles and lifts his glass higher in the air. “I am truly blessed today as the love of my life, Giselle Sournois DéLoyalle, has agreed to become my wife.”
Gabriel sits back so hard I can hear the air leave his lungs from across the table, even over the cheers and applause. While his relatives congratulate Alexandre and Giselle, Gabriel quietly stands and walks into the house.
I stand to go after him, but Aunt Fantine rests her thin, wrinkled hand on my arm and shakes her head.
“Let him go, ma cherie,” she whispers. “Right now, there is nothing you can do to ease Gabriel’s suffering. He must heal this latest wound himself.”
A minute later, the sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to life and tires devouring gravel echoes through the garden.
Chapter 35
Laney’s Life Playlist
“Stupid Me” by Magic!
“Maps” by Maroon 5
“Rude” by Magic!
“Distance” by Christina Perri with Jason Mraz
I sit up waiting for Gabriel to return and listening to every track on Don’t Kill the Magic, sniffling along to “Stupid Me” and crying when the lead singer, Nasri Atweh, wonders if his love is unrequited.
I feel you, brother Nasri.
I want to sing similar lyrics to Gabriel. Do you love me the way I love you? Do-do-do-do you need me the way I need you? Do you? Do-do-do-do you want me the way I want you?
Gabriel rode off three hours ago. I don’t know if he is sitting on the shoulder of some Provençal road, staring into the darkness and wondering why his love life took such an unexpected, treacherous turn, or if he is on his way back to the bastide and me. Each minute that passes feels like another mile between us.
I turn off the light and curl up on top of the blankets, one ear listening to Magic! and the other ear listening for the growl of Gabriel’s motorcycle.
When I wake the next morning, Nasri is singing “Mama Didn’t Raise No Fool” softly in my ear and Gabriel’s spot in our bed is cold and empty. I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and check for messages, but there are no missed calls or texts from Gabriel. The fear coiled in the pit of my belly springs up, filling every space of my body, twisting around my heart and lungs. Losing Gabriel to another woman doesn’t terrify me nearly as much as losing him to a horrific motorcycle accident. What if he missed a hairpin turn and is lying at the bottom of some hill, too bloody and broken to call for help?
“Poor Gabriel,” Celine says. “Alexandre’s news came as such as shock.”
“Did you see his face?” the other woman asks. “I don’t think I have ever seen him so upset.”
“But of course he is upset,” Celine says, taking a long drag from her cigarette and blowing the smoke over her slender shoulder. “He loved Giselle, and she broke his heart.”
“What about his new girlfriend?”
“What about her?”
“Do you think he loves her?”
“Who can say with Gabriel?” Celine says, flicking her cigarette on the ground and grinding it against the flagstone with her heel. “He’s always been . . . different from us. More reserved and private. Though . . .”
“Oui?” The other woman replaces her espresso cup on its matching saucer and leans across the table. “Tell me.”
Celine lowers her voice. I have to sit on the balcony and press my ear to the space between the sections of wrought-iron to hear her.
“Gabriel came in late last night and went to one of the empty guest bedrooms.”
The coil of fear wrapped around my heart releases. I say a little prayer of thanks that Gabriel isn’t lying in a vegetative state in some hospital.
“Can you blame him?”
“Not at all,” Celine says. “I mean, how painfully awkward. I wouldn’t want to make love to someone new if I was still nurturing a broken heart for another.”
It’s crazy how fast uncoiled fear can twist and writhe and turn into something sharper, something far more lethal. Celine’s words sink into my heart, releasing a fast-acting sorrow that has me pressing a hand to my mouth to keep from crying out.
“Her presence here this weekend is rather inconvenient . . .”
I crawl back into the bedroom and quietly shut the door. I think about calling Fanny for advice, but decide to listen to my inner voice instead, the one that is saying leave, leave, leave.
It doesn’t take me long to throw my clothes and toiletries into my backpack. I creep down the stairs like a thief about to make away with the Galliard treasures and out the front door.
I am halfway to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie when I suddenly realize the trees lining the road have fat, green olives growing on their branches.
And just like that, the ghost of my happy past reminds me of the silly, sappy love song I wrote after I met Gabriel.
Oh, let’s run away to the south of France,
Where the music of love makes us want to dance.
We’ll eat olives by the light of a silver moon,
And sing silly songs and kiss ’til we swoon.
Oh, let’s run away to the south of France.
Chapter 36
Laney’s Life Playlist
“Basket Case” by Green Day
“This is bonkers, like “Blank Space” Taylor Swift crazy. Like, mascara streaked down your face while you caress a poison apple crazy,” Vivia says. “You know that, right?”
Fanny arrived yesterday with her straight-talking best friend in tow. We sat up all night drinking champagne cocktails Vivia made using a recipe she got from a bartender at the Hotel Martinez in Cannes and talking about what happened at La Bastide. Now we are eating scrambled eggs and sipping super-black coffee at a café near Fanny’s father’s apartment.
“It’s not that crazy,” Fanny says, squeezing my hand.
“Uh, yeah it is! Laney, you are this close”—Vivia raises her hand, leaving a tiny space between her thumb and index finger—“to bashing the hood of a Jaguar with a golf club.”
“Vivian!” Fanny cries.
“Don’t Vivian me,” Vivia says. “Someone needs to feed this girl the straight dope before she lets the wack voices in her head talk her into doing something crazier than she has already done.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand, fixing me with the full force of her 1,000-watt intense Vivia gaze. “Trust me, Laney, you don’t want to go full Tay-Tay. You never go full Tay-Tay.”
Fanny sighs. “I don’t even know what you are saying anymore, Vivian.”
The filter that exists between stream of consciousness and the mouth is broken in Vivia, which means her thoughts flow without censor or reservation. Some people might find such candor off-putting, but not me. I like Vivia. She is genuinely caring and totally hilarious. Her aura is as pretty and soft as a Renoir landscape.
“Look, all I am saying, Laney, is that you overheard a couple of cell warriors talking out the sides of their necks. They could have been monkey mouthing it, but you don’t know, because you ran away like a little bitch.”
Fanny rolls her eyes.
“English, Vivian.”
“Sorry,” Vivia says, grinning. “I am interviewing Taylor Schilling next week—the star of Orange Is the New Black—so I binged watched the first two seasons before coming to Paris. Basically, I said Laney overheard two women going on and on about shit they don’t know.”
“What would you have done?” I ask.
“Well, I sure enuf wouldn’t have run away,” Vivia rubs her nose and sniffs like a gangster. “Those bitches gave you a hoe check.”
I shake my head.
“They ganged up on you to see if you would stand up for yourself.”
“I don’t think they even knew I was there.”
“They knew,” Vivia says. “Even if they didn’t know you were there, you took the coward’s way out by running back to Paris instead of confronting Gabriel with what you heard. You should have asked him if he was still in love with Jizz hole.”
“Giselle.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re right.”
“Damn straight, I’m right.” Vivia says. “You gotta stand tall and claim your space, girl.”
“So what are you going to do now?” Fanny asks. “I mean, now that you have finished your internship at the gallery?”
“I was going to stay here and start a bike tour business with Rigby, but I don’t know. Maybe I should just go back to Boulder. I mean, who was I kidding? I am not sophisticated enough for Paris.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Vivia says, waving her butter knife at me. “What about all of this aura mumbo jumbo?”
“What about it?”
“You’re going to let some man change your aura?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Vivia drops her butter knife on her plate. She squints and hold her arms up, moving them through the air as if feeling for something. “When I met you in Alaska your aura was lit.”
“Lit?” Fanny asks.
“It’s slang for effing amazing,” Vivia says.
Fanny rolls her eyes. “You live in a tiny village in the south of France. How are you able to keep replenishing your supply of ridiculous American slang?”
“I am on fleek”—Vivia blows on her fingernails and polishes them on her shirt—“fluent in all that is cool and current.”
“Yeah, fleek I have heard, and I am pretty sure it was on the list of words that should be dropped from our vernacular, along with squad, bae, and preach.”
“Uh-uh.” Vivia wags her finger. “Preach is sacrosanct. Don’t even go there.”
Fanny rolls her eyes again. “Can we go back to Laney, please? She is on the verge of making a decision that could impact her future happiness and success. She needs a couple of empowered women to jolt her with a shocking dose of reality until she has the power to make the right decisions.”
“Preach,” Vivia mumbles.
&n
bsp; “Vivian!” Fanny cries. “Would you be serious?”
“I am being serious.” Vivia leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Laney, do you know for sure that Gabriel is still in love with Jizz hole?”
“Giselle,” Fanny corrects.
“Whatever.” Vivia waves her hand at Fanny, but keeps her gaze fixed on me. “Well, do you?”
I open my mouth to speak, but she doesn’t wait for my answer.
“Bzzzz,” she says, making a buzzer sound. “Wrong answer. You don’t know if he is still in love with her because you didn’t give him a chance to explain what he was feeling. Instead, you ran away, which is what you said you did the first time you thought he was into Giselle. Right?”
I nod.
“How do you think that made him feel?” she asks. “You dated for—what—six months? Are you telling me that after all of that time, he still hadn’t earned the benefit of your doubt? You canceled him as if you were swiping left for some uggo on Tinder.”
“When you put it that way, it sounds harsh.”
“That’s because it was a little harsh.” She sits back. “Sorry, but I believe in keepin’ it real. Aint no time for pulling a Kylie.”
Fanny frowns. “Kylie?”
“Jenner.” Vivia sighs. “Fake lips, fake cheeks, fake boobs. A big, silicone-injected fake.”
“You’re oversimplifying the situation, Vivian.”
“No,” I say, jumping to Vivia’s defense. “She’s right. I have been acting like a child, riding around Paris on my silly bike, wearing ridiculous T-shirts, talking about unicorns and pixie dust, expecting my fairy godmother to swoop in, wave her wand, and fix my broken heart. It’s time I grew up and acted like an adult and fixed my own broken heart.”
I look at my reflection in the café window, and tears fill my eyes. I have been such a foolish child, fighting maturity like a toddler fighting a nap.
“Fanny,” I say, taking my glasses off and wiping the tears from my eyes. “Starting a business is a grown-up thing to do. And if I am going to start a new business, I need a new, grown-up wardrobe. Will you help me change my style?”