by Alix Nichols
Could my life finally be getting on track?
Chapter 23
“Mia? Hey, Mia!” someone calls just before I descend the stairs to the métro station.
I turn around.
Sandro looks me over and then throws his arms around me. “Ça alors! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you write you were coming to France?”
“I… I was going to,” I mumble.
And I really was. During my stint at DCA, Barbara, Delphine, and Sandro had become more than colleagues. When a year ago I announced my imminent departure, they insisted on a going-away dinner at Delphine’s and made me promise to stay in touch.
Toward the end of the evening, Delphine cornered me as I was exiting the bathroom. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, why?”
“I heard you barf in there.”
“I’m bulimic,” I lied.
“Mais bien sûr.” She tilted her head to the left. “And I was born yesterday.”
I held my chin up, refusing to say more.
Thankfully, she didn’t insist—she just shook her head and stepped aside to let me return to the dining table.
In her first two or three emails after I left Paris, she reminded me she wasn’t buying my story, but then dropped the subject.
Sandro and Barbara never questioned my irresistible job offer tale.
I look at my watch and then at Sandro. The day nursery closes in forty-five minutes.
“Are you in a hurry?” he asks.
I smile apologetically.
“No problem,” he says. “Are you free to join your former colleagues for lunch on Friday? Barb, Delphine, and I are having a special one to celebrate my promotion.”
I high-five him. “Go Sandro! I’m so happy for you!”
“So you’ll come?”
“What’s the venue?” I ask, hoping it isn’t the the canteen.
Not that Raphael eats there often, but I’m not taking any chances.
“We’re venturing to La Coupole,” Sandro says.
Phew.
La Coupole is spicy, but it’s far from DCA.
I give him a big smile. “I’ll be happy to join in the celebration.”
We say good-bye, and I rush down the stairs.
When Lily and I get home and I call Eva, she’s over the moon about my news.
“That means you’re staying in Paris,” she shouts. “And I’ll be able to see my little niece every weekend if I want!”
I hold the phone away from my ear while she hollers in French, English, and German. “Youppi! Woohoo! Techtelmectel!”
That’s international civil servants for you. After three years at the European Space Agency, Eva feels compelled to repeat her French interjections in the other two working languages of her organization.
“Is Raphael still in the dark about her?” she asks all of a sudden.
I clear my throat. “He has no clue about her existence, and it’s better this way.”
“If you think so.”
“I know so.”
“I take it you haven’t told him you’re in Paris, either?”
“No. And I’ll kill you if you do.”
“Are you going to try and cook for me again?” she asks. “The dinner you made when I visited you in Fort-de-France almost killed me.”
“No, I’ll tickle you this time. I’ll start with your neck, then move to your armpits and finish with your feet.”
“Mercy,” Eva squeaks. “Not the feet! I’ll do anything you want me to, just don’t tickle my feet.”
“I want your silence.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.” Her voice is back to normal. “But you’ll have to tell Màma and Pàpa about Lily sometime soon, real soon.”
“I know.”
“How about you take her to Alsace next weekend?”
“I’m not ready.”
“OK,” she says. “I understand. But the longer you wait, the harder it’ll be for them to forgive you for hiding her.”
“What makes you think they’ll forgive me for having her in the first place?”
Eva scoffs. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m being realistic. You know what Màma thinks about having sex and making babies outside of wedlock.”
“She’ll change her mind the moment she sees Lily.”
“I don’t think so.” I let out a sigh. “And what about Pàpa?”
“What about him?”
“You know what he thinks about… women like me.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
Shit.
Of course she doesn’t. How would she? She had slept like a baby through both chapters of the Suzelle the Sinner Affair.
“Never mind,” I say.
“No, tell me. I insist.”
“Lily just woke up,” I lie. “Can we talk about this later?”
“OK.” There’s a brief silence before Eva speaks again, “Anyway, I’m really happy you’re staying in Paris. Martinique may be lovely, but it’s so damn far away.”
We hang up, and I tiptoe to the kitchen. As I start peeling potatoes for our dinner, I take care to make as little noise as possible so I don’t wake up Lily, who’s napping in the main room behind a folding screen.
My herzele is a light sleeper just like me.
Which is probably the only feature she and I have in common at this point. She hasn’t inherited my auburn hair or green eyes. Neither does she have Raphael’s darker coloring. Lily is a blue-eyed, curly-haired blonde with a skin like porcelain.
I bet she’s going to turn heads, which may be the only thing she and her dad will have in common.
How many heads has Raphael turned since I left? Is he still a committed bad boy or did he meet someone special? Does he think of me sometimes?
Damn!
I can’t believe I’m doing this again. Were all those self-help books and auto-suggestion drills for nothing? Moving On was the title of the first one I bought. Wipe Him Out of Your Memory was the second. How to Get Over Your Ex in Three Months (with a Money Back Guarantee) was the third and most expensive one I read.
It’s been fourteen months, for Christ’s sake.
Maybe I should ask for a refund.
Except I won’t get it because even though I did everything the books recommended, I failed to implement the number one strategy all three insisted on. Dating someone new. I’d been planning to, and there had been opportunities, but I always had an excuse to put it off.
At the beginning, I told myself I’d just gotten there and was busy settling in. Then my belly started to show, and it completely killed the mood. Once Lily was born, I put everything else on hold and spent three months being her appendage.
When she became a little more autonomous, I had to finish my dissertation and make arrangements for the defense.
And then I travelled to Paris.
Wait—I could date here.
I slap my forehead. It’s a brilliant idea!
A new man in my life is what I need to free me from the “Raphael Syndrome” once and for all. And that new man could be Xavier. Why not give him a chance? We have so much in common that it would be hard to find a more suitable man.
It’s decided, then.
For the sake of my sanity and, by extension, for Lily’s sake, the dating strategy deserves a try.
No, it deserves my best shot. I nod with determination as if to seal the deal and start dicing the zucchini.
And then someone knocks on the door.
Chapter 24
I freeze.
Breathe, Mia.
It could a neighbor. Or the postman. Or the landlady who realized she had something urgent to tell me, just after her phone battery died.
The school administration has this address, too.
Except no administration goes knocking on people’s doors at seven in the evening. It doesn’t go knocking at any time of the day, for that matter. It summons you instead, preferably at eight a.m., just for the pleasure of mak
ing you wait outside a locked door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
If only this stupid door had a peephole and this stupid building, an intercom!
“It’s Raphael,” a familiar voice comes from the other side.
My knees wobble.
Several physiological processes kick off in my body, making me lightheaded, queasy, burning hot, chilled to the bone, scared, and thrilled beyond words—all at the same time.
“Mia?” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. Will you let me in?”
I bite my nails. “You should’ve called.”
“Oh, I would’ve, but you changed your number,” he says. “And you didn’t give me the new one, remember?”
The familiar note of humor in his tone makes me smile. For some strange reason, it makes me want to cry, too.
“Listen,” Raphael says. “I have no bones to pick with you. I’m sure you had your reasons for preferring the beaches of a tropical island to the drizzle of Paris. I’d live on an island, too, if I didn’t have a company to run.”
I smile, remembering the rocky island pictures on the walls in his loft.
Then I realize he knows I wasn’t in Quebec.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Just for a chat… as a friend. For old times’ sake.”
This is the perfect opportunity to say, Sorry, Raphael, but I’ve really moved on, and wish him all the best.
“How did you find me?” I ask instead, opening the door.
Momentary madness is the only explanation for it.
Over the past fourteen months, I’d gotten so used to putting the words “far away” and “long ago” next to “Raphael” that I tricked myself into believing he lived in a parallel universe. Raphael d’Arcy became a hunky humanlike life-form I’d met in a time-space loophole. But then the loophole got fixed, and I returned to reality with Lily as proof that the whole thing hadn’t been just a dream.
And now here he is—the hunky life-form.
My ex-boss and ex-lover.
My baby’s dad.
The man I ran from.
The man I would die for.
I take in his tall, lean, hard-bodied frame. He looks exactly like he did a year ago and yet a little different. I’m not sure what that difference is. Is he taller? That’s an impossibility. Brawnier? I don’t think so. Scruffier? Nah. Must be just in my head.
“Wow,” he says, stepping in. “You’ve changed.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Your hair is shorter,” he says. “Way shorter.”
He reaches over and rakes his fingers through my pixie cut.
“It’s convenient to wear it short,” I say, drawing back.
He pulls his hand away and surveys me some more.
“Anything else?” I ask with as much sarcasm as I can manage.
“Your eyes are greener than I remembered.” He strokes his chin, looking me up and down. “It’s little things… I can’t even put a finger on anything specific right off the bat.”
I shrug. “Keep me posted if you do.”
He nods.
For a few seconds we just stand by the door and stare at each other.
It dawns on me that this moment right now is my second—and probably last—chance to say, “Listen, it was good to see you, but I really need to run, so bye and take good care of yourself.”
Only who am I kidding?
All the willpower and resolve I possess are barely enough to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck, closing my eyes, and tipping my head up for a kiss.
I spin around and head for the kitchen.
He follows me.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“Through your school.”
I turn around and give him a quizzical look.
“I’ve been following your progress over the past year,” he says. “Just out of curiosity and because it’s so easy with the Internet. You published three articles, which I read.”
My brows go up.
“Quiz me if you don’t believe me,” he offers.
“Maybe later.” I narrow my eyes. “But the Internet doesn’t know my current address.”
“Your school does, though. I was looking you up last night—you know, just to see if you’d published something new for me to read, and I saw you were moderating a workshop in Paris.”
“Co-moderating.”
“Right.” He nods. “With your supervisor. Anyway, once I knew you were in Paris, finding your home address was a matter of ruse and money.”
“You didn’t try to find me while I was in Ma—Canada,” I say.
“Actually, I did,” he says. “And that’s how I knew you were in Martinique. I almost flew there in February, but then I reminded myself you’d dumped me.”
Dumped him?!
“You weren’t my boyfriend to dump,” I say.
He looks taken aback, but then his expression softens. “You’re right, of course. ‘Dump’ wouldn’t apply to our case. What about this: You notified me via a text message that our exclusive arrangement was terminated with immediate effect due to your delocalization?”
I smile. “Sounds about right.”
Raphael looks around the kitchen. “You were cooking.”
“Uh-huh.”
I am not going to ask if he’d like to stay for dinner. Anyway, a dinner of steamed veggies and mashed potatoes isn’t something Raphael would enjoy.
“Tell me something.” He steps closer. “I’m just curious. One moment you were saying you wanted us to be exclusive, and the next moment you were gone. That doesn’t compute.”
I shrug. “Breakups rarely do from the perspective of the ditched party.”
“Touché.” He smiles. “Mind if I steal that line for my next splitsville?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Can I ask for something to drink?”
“There’s a can of Coke in the fridge,” I say, tossing the diced veggies into the steamer. “Maybe even a beer, hiding in the back.”
He pulls out the Coke and the beer. “Bingo!”
“I don’t have a clean glass,” I say. “But I can offer you a teacup.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll drink from the can. Which one do you prefer?”
“The Coke.”
“Good.” He hands me the can. “At least some things have remained the same.”
I set the can on the table.
He raises his beer. “Cheers.”
“Hang on a sec.”
I move to the half-sized dishwasher and fill it. Given the limited amount of tableware in this kitchen, I have to wash the dishes all the time.
“Done!” I press a button on the front of the machine and keep an ear out for its starting noise.
The dishwasher ignores me.
“Not again, you beerflaschebrunzer!”
“Another one of your select Alsatian epithets?” Raphael asks. “What does it mean?”
“The one who pisses into the beer bottle,” I say, opening the machine and retrieving the dirty dishes.
“That’s very… apt.” He squints at me. “Can I help you do the dishes?”
“You can help me fix this bastard,” I say. “The landlady showed me what to do when this happens.”
“I await your orders, ma’am,” Raphael says.
I point at the dishwasher bottom. “Can you unscrew and remove that plastic filter?”
He squats in front of the dishwasher and unfastens the filter.
I begin to rinse it. “Now look for chunks.”
“Where?”
“In the drain.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
“It’ll be tricky because you’ll be searching blind. But fear not, there are no piranhas in there. Just dip a finger in and wiggle.”
His face crinkles up with amusement.
I smile condescendingly. “You’ve never done this sort of thing before, have you?”
Raphael clears his throat. “Dip a fi
nger in the hole,” he comments, as he plunges his index finger into the pipe. “Wiggle blind.”
Why are his lips twitching?
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a mischievous look as if to say, can’t you see how this is funny?
“What?” I ask.
“I do believe I’ve done this sort of thing before,” he says. “And I believe you were there, too.”
“Oh,” I breathe out.
That.
Just as heat starts creeping up my cheeks, Raphael shouts, “Yes!” and pulls a small chunk out of the drain.
It could be an apple heart, I note before he tosses it into the trash can.
I reload the dishwasher and press Start.
The machine is silent for a second and then it begins to grind.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Ah. Music to my ears.”
“I know what’s different about you,” Raphael says. “Apart from the diminished hair and the enhanced eye greenness.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What?”
“That.” He points at my hands. “Your posture. It’s different. And you’re more muscled.”
That’s from carrying Lily in my arms half the night when she had colic.
“It’s from swimming,” I say.
I’ve done that, too… a couple of times.
“I love your new posture and your muscles,” Raphael says.
Lily chooses that precise moment to wake up and wail.
I rush to her cradle.
“Mommy’s here; everything’s fine,” I say, fumbling for her pacifier.
Raphael tiptoes in and halts behind me.
I turn my head to see his expression. He looks stunned.
“You have a baby?” he asks, frowning as if something doesn’t add up.
“It would appear so.”
“Who…” His voice cracks. “Who’s the father?”
Lily is still crying, so I pick her up. “I wish I could tell you he’s a Klingon from Kronos, but he’s just a man.”
Raphael’s fists are clenched and his breathing is visibly strained as he studies my little girl. He must be computing in his head and dreading the possibility that the baby might be his. Poor man! If I tell him the truth, he’ll feel he’d been used again, tricked into parenthood by an unscrupulous sex partner.
It would mean I am that unscrupulous sex partner just like Adele.
