by J. L. Berg
And it would be an adventure, because from the looks of the very thick envelope Ryan had given me, he’d planned quite a number of activities for us.
Right now, all I wanted to do was sleep.
And then when we woke up, I wanted to take a shower, and possibly nap again, because wow—whoever could possibly sleep on an airplane deserved a standing ovation, in my opinion. Tiny seats, no leg room and the constant noise. No thank you. I needed a bed—that reclined and had fluffy pillows and blankets that didn’t feel like burlap.
I’d had enough of that crap in my life.
“Whoa is right,” I agreed as I attempted to pay the taxi driver with my brand new stack of euros. It looked like monopoly money to me, and I had to keep reminding myself that it really was cash and not just printed pieces of pretty paper.
When he handed me change, which included about a dozen different coins, I definitely had my first American moment but tried to play it cool as I shuffled through them and handed a couple back, making a tip of a few euros. I didn’t even know if it was standard to tip in France, but he seemed pleased so I decided it was okay.
I probably should have spent less time shopping for clothes and more time researching cultural differences and how to count euros. Learning a few words in French would have been useful as well.
Oh well. This was an adventure. I was just adding to the mystery of it all.
Yeah, that sounded convincing.
Officially passing my first test with European currency, we hoped out of the taxi as the hotel doorman helped with the baggage. I’d stayed at several fancy hotels with August during our years together, and they all came with the typical doormen. Sharply dressed, always accommodating and happy to assist with whatever you may need. Most doormen were a dime a dozen.
These French doormen, though? They looked like they’d just stepped off the runway for GQ. Were all French men built this way? I gave Sarah a sideways glance as her eyes began to pop out of her head from all the man candy around us.
And the most amazing thing happened. They spoke. Good God almighty.
It was like hearing angels from heaven. Their accents were cultured, sophisticated, and made my insides feel like butter on a hot sticky day. That huge manila envelope Ryan had given me, filled with every detail of our trip, was instantly turned into a makeshift fan as we followed two men into the lavish hotel.
We were sorely disappointed to be greeted by a gorgeous young woman at the registration counter as the men bid us au revoir. I almost cried to see them walked away, understanding their evil plot completely now.
The tall, dark, and handsome men lured you in, trapping you in their beautiful hotel until you coughed up all your money for a room just in hopes of seeing them again.
“Visa or MasterCard?” the woman at the desk happily asked.
Works for me, I said to myself as I handed over my credit card for incidentals. As she went over the summary of our bill, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head at the amount Ryan had paid for the room. We had originally agreed to each pay for half, but in all the drama of breaking up and getting back together, he’d never asked for my share, and I’d completely forgotten about it.
More than likely that had been his plan all along.
A twinge of guilt settled in my stomach as the earlier feeling of glee fled like a cold breeze in autumn.
It’s better this way.
We’ll both be happier, I reminded myself.
And we would. In time.
“Your room is ready,” the happy French woman announced after everything was signed and settled. “May I offer someone to assist you with your luggage?” she asked.
We both looked at each other eagerly as a mutual smile grew between us.
That’s the great thing about a best friend.
The mutual mind meld.
We could look at each other and know what the other was thinking without words, and right now, I knew Sarah was wondering whether the bellhops were as hot as the doormen.
“Yes, that would be quite helpful,” Sarah answered. I covered my mouth, trying not to giggle.
That ride up to the fifth floor was worth every single euro we handed over.
Turned out the bellhops weren’t just as hot.
They were hotter.
* * *
“It’s official,” I announced, holding my wine glass in the air. “I’m never leaving!”
We’d just spent our first day in Paris, having narrowly avoided the infamous jet-lag curse. We’d successfully dropped off our luggage in the hotel room without laying down or even attempting to take any sort of nap.
When I’d first asked Sarah about this ridiculous practice, she’d told me it was a traveler’s tried and true method.
“You’re insane,” I’d said.
“No, I’m serious. When you arrive in the morning after flying overseas from the States, you’re supposed to stay up all day. No naps of any kind. It helps you adjust to the time difference.”
“What about a cat nap?” I’d argued on the plane.
“Nope.”
“Ten minutes? Please?”
“No! Because ten minutes will turn into eight hours and then you’ll wake up at seven at night and be completely turned around.”
“Okay,” I had finally relented. “You win.”
So, I’d done as she’d said, and bypassed the luxury bedding, though it screamed my name as we freshened up in the bathroom, reapplying makeup and changing out of our wrinkled plane clothing. I put on a comfortable pair of jeans and my favorite pair of boots, threw a vibrant scarf around my neck and paired it with a thick wool coat. I was ready to tackle the day.
Or at least I looked like it.
But as soon as we walked out onto the streets of Paris, I’d found myself wide awake—no coffee needed. Although, I did find some. Okay, a lot. A girl didn’t change just because she was in another country.
And this girl needed fuel—the caffeinated kind.
As we made our way through the city, I found myself falling in love with a new side of me—a side I’d never known existed. Growing up, I was never given the opportunity to travel. Summer vacations and weekend trips to the beach weren’t the norm in my world, and as I got older, I’d just stayed in my little bubble of San Francisco.
When I met August, we’d spoken of traveling—the what if’s and future bucket lists, but in the beginning we’d never had the money, and toward the end, there wasn’t enough time because August was always working.
I’d always wanted to make time for this—for culture and art. For people-watching and spending time with the ones I loved the most. Walking down the streets of that ancient city, I realized an entire world existed outside my door, and I wanted to discover it all.
“One day, and you’re already hooked on Paris, huh? Are you sure that isn’t the free wine talking?” Sarah joked, replying to my declaration of love for my newfound home.
“Wasn’t that amazing? Table wine! Freaking table wine, Sarah! For free! Water—eight euros, but table wine is free! God, I love this country.”
She laughed at my outburst and I watched her lift the half-empty glass of table wine she’d been nursing since we’d arrived at the local little restaurant recommended to us by one of our handsome doormen. After walking what felt like miles around Paris today, seeing everything from the Eiffel Tower to Notre Dame, we were just happy to be sitting and off our feet for the foreseeable future.
“I could see myself living here,” I stated, looking around at the tiny apartments around us. Wrought-iron balconies, flower boxes—it was a perfect space in the middle of a Parisian paradise.
“You say that now, but wait until you see their rental prices. You thought San Francisco was expensive.”
“It’d be worth it.”
“You’ll never leave the city,” she said with certainty, grabbing a piece of fresh bread from the basket the waiter had just brought over.
“How do you know?” I asked, hating that she fou
nd me so predictable. I was building a new life. I didn’t want to be seen as ordinary anymore.
“Okay, let me clarify. I don’t see you leaving the city anytime soon.” Each word was spoken through a mouth full of bread. For a ballerina, she really was kind of a mess sometimes.
“Why?”
She washed down her bread with a large sip of wine, placing the glass down in front of her. Looking up at me, she just stared as if it should be obvious. My eyes widened as it dawned on me.
“August? You think I’m staying in San Francisco because of August?”
“I think you will,” she replied.
“You’re crazy,” I said, shaking my head as my arms fell across my chest defensively.
“Well, then leave. When we get home, pack up all your shit and move here. Picture it, Everly. Sit here and really picture it—leaving everything behind. You’d never see him again.”
“I don’t see him now,” I argued.
She shrugged. “Yeah, but this would be permanent.”
My face twisted in disgust. “I hate you. Why are you even doing this? I thought you hated the guy.”
“I hate seeing you unhappy more.”
“So you think I should just jump from one relationship back to another—never mind the fact that he doesn’t want me anymore.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, before adding, “And no, I don’t think you should just hop back into something with August. But I do think you should start being honest with yourself. You didn’t walk away from him because you didn’t love him, Everly. Those feelings don’t diminish overnight. You tried to make things work with Ryan and look where that led you—nearly walking down the aisle with the wrong man. So do us all a favor, take the time to decide what you want. For real this time.”
“Okay,” I agreed, hating the idea of even dedicating one second of thought toward August. But I knew she had a point. There was a reason I was avoiding the issue altogether. I’d thought I had come to terms with it all when I went back to Ryan, but really it was more like putting a Band-Aid on a seeping wound that was now festering out of control.
A Band-Aid could only do so much before infection set in, and I was definitely starting to spike an emotion fever.
We quietly finished our free table wine as we sat by the window and enjoyed the view. People walked their dogs, carried fresh groceries to their little apartments above the shops, and I heard the remnants of conversations pass by as friends met up for meals. It was so similar to home and yet so vastly different.
“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” I asked Sarah, bringing up the old question I’d once asked August.
“Ten years? Gross. I’d be, what? Thirty-five?”
“I’ll be forty!” I laughed, playfully punching her in the arm. “Baby.”
“Yeah, but forty for you is totally different. I’ll be washed up, clocked out. Hell, even by thirty-five, I won’t be able to find a job beyond teaching ballet to a bunch of snotty-nose kindergartners.”
“Who says that won’t be great?” I challenged her with a tilt of my eyebrow.
“Have you ever taught a bunch of kids?” she shot back.
“No,” I laughed. “But how bad can it be? At least it will be in the field you love. And you’ll still be dancing, Sarah. Maybe it won’t be in front of a packed theater, as a prima ballerina, but it will be something.”
“Yeah, I know. And you’re right. Maybe I’ll even have a couple snot-noses of my own by then,” she said with a wink.
My mouth opened and I nearly dropped the wine glass I had in my hand.
“You can’t be that serious with mystery man?”
“He has a name,” she reminded me.
“Yeah—Miles. That’s all I know about him.”
“Well, he was coming to the wedding, but—”
“Oh, oops.” I bit my lip and giggled.
“It’s okay. We’ll have him over for dinner when we get back and you can meet him then. All the mystery will finally be gone.”
“So, you swear he’s not a blow-up doll?”
Her head fell back as she laughed. “No, definitely not. He’s…special to me,” she explained as her face sobered. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him. And all his rubbery parts.”
“I hate you,” she laughed.
“Right back at you. Can we go to bed now?” I begged, looking down at my empty glass of wine and picking over my plate of food.
“Oh god, yes,” she replied, before adding, “Race you back to the hotel?”
“You’re on, bitch,” I said, throwing down enough euros to cover our bill and a little extra.
I have no idea who made it back first, but I do know I was the first to leap head first into the mountain of pillows that awaited us when we arrived.
We were both snoring exactly three seconds later.
Vive la France, indeed.
Chapter Twelve
August
Magnolia turned to me as the gates of her parents’ picturesque neighborhood disappeared behind us. Night had fallen, and all I could see through the windows were darkened tree branches as we passed one after another an endless sequence of twisted limbs. We’d stayed much later than planned and were just now making our journey back to the city.
“Ready to go home?” she said brightly, obviously searching for something to talk about to break the silence.
“No,” I confessed, my voice hoarse and vacant.
After visiting someplace so bright and full of energy, the last place I wanted to return to was a home that felt more and more like a tomb with each passing day.
A mausoleum of memories I was desperate to preserve.
“We could go to my place,” she suggested, leaning closer to me as her gentle finger grazed my chest, making her intent clear.
“Okay,” I agreed as Everly’s face flashed before my eyes one last time.
Goodbye, I silently whispered, giving in to whatever new memories might come.
But I hadn’t made new memories.
Just new regrets.
Spending the night with Magnolia solidified our relationship and gave meaning to whatever was blossoming between us. Now, whatever happened, I knew without a shadow of a doubt I would end up hurting her.
Spending the day with her family, in her perfect world, had made me weak. I’d left that day craving something more, something real than I hadn’t had in months, and Magnolia had been more than willing to give it.
Every touch of her skin against my body felt like a betrayal to my heart and mind. She was a beautiful, giving lover and any man would have been lucky to have her.
But my body, heart, and soul had already been handed over to someone long ago. What else was there to give?
“Am I doing something wrong?” she’d asked, pulling away as a veil of timid nervousness blanketed her features.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s not you,” I tried to reassure her, running a frustrated hand through my hair.
“‘It’s not you, it’s me’? That’s what you’re going for here?” she said with a frown.
“I know it’s a cheesy line, but in my circumstances, it’s true.”
She rolled on her side, tucking the sheet around her, giving me space to speak.
“My illness wasn’t the only reason I broke things off with you,” I confessed.
Understanding blossomed across her face. “There’s someone else.” She looked down at the pillow as her fingers began weaving an invisible pattern across the fabric. Reaching down, I touched her chin and angled it upward.
“Yes, there was.” Taking a deep breath, I added, “Still is, at least for me. I’m still trying to get over it.”
“Do you want her back?” she asked timidly.
“It doesn’t matter.” I shook my head.
A single nod was all I got in response.
I don’t know how long we lay together, side by side in bad, each waiting for the other to make a m
ove, or to say something. It felt like an eternity.
“Look, I don’t know where this is going to take us, but for now—let’s just be this. Okay?” She leaned forward, kissing me long and slow, easing my loneliness with every touch, until I was drowning in her warmth. No other words were spoken.
I didn’t think for the rest of the night. I just acted on impulse.
When I awoke the next morning to her hands slowly creeping along my chest, to her asking if I wanted a cup of coffee, I nearly bolted from the apartment and fled to the streets half-naked.
Dear God, what had I done?
I knew logically I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was a single man. It was logical for me to move on after a breakup. But why did I feel like a married man waking up in the wrong bed?
My heart ached at the memories of Magnolia’s hands on me, and as much as that touch had helped soothe my loneliness, it only made things worse in the aftermath.
Because she wasn’t Everly.
I hadn’t moved an inch since I’d returned home this morning. After declining breakfast, a dickish move on my part but one that was desperately needed, I’d fled Magnolia’s apartment and found my way back to my own place by cab.
Seeing her make coffee and attempt to assemble some sort of breakfast for me this morning had just been too much. It made it too real—brought back too many precious memories—and right now, I needed to be back home.
Surrounded by the ghosts of my past.
Magnolia’s mom may have said a house is only a building, but for me, it was all I had left. And right now, I needed to fucking drown in it.
Laying back on the couch, I let the memories bury me, collapse over me, one after another. Everly’s smile, her laugh as we’d chased each other through the house…the way she’d looked when we made love. The memories were few and far between, filled with expansive gaps, but they were enough.
They would always have to be enough.
