by Lara Avery
“The sound people make when they’re traveling up the Eiffel Tower is the same in every language, isn’t it?” he whispered.
“You mean, ooh and aah?” she replied.
“Exactly.”
“Except not here. Here they say, Ooh la la.”
Peter cringed. “Bad. You are good at bad, bad jokes.”
“No, here they say: Who gives a merde about the Eiffel Tower, I am so cool, I am from Paris.”
“Merde? Is that shit?”
Kelsey was using her limited French to her full advantage. “Oui. As in: Western Kansas smells like merde, because of the hog farms.”
Peter gave her a shove. “Do not knock my place of origin. And that’s Emporia with the hog farms, not El Dorado.”
“Why are we talking about hog farms right now, of all times?”
“A valid point. I feel like we should be reciting poetry.”
“Roses are red, violets are—”
“Anything but that.”
They laughed.
Kelsey hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand the whole way up.
It was a windy, cool afternoon in early spring, and that morning the four of them had walked down the Champs-Élysées as the sun broke the clouds. Even the Parisians were loose and talkative in the metro, smiling below dark sunglasses.
Everyone seemed to have forgotten their troubles, and Kelsey was powerless against the pull of an entire city. She was distracted. Love this, everything seemed to say, in the haughty way a girl like her might flaunt her own good looks. How can you not love this?
Peter let go of her hand briefly, to point out the pyramid shape of the main entrance of the Louvre in the distance, then took it again, squeezing.
He was lighter than she had ever seen him. He didn’t have anything to shove away, to swallow, to pretend wasn’t happening. That morning, they had watched Phil and Sam do one hundred push-ups each, but Peter had cheerfully refused. “Unless someone is going to yell in my face about it, I don’t feel the need.” On their way to the tower, Peter had made dirty jokes about the nude statues that lined the park hedges, including one that made Kelsey spit out her latte on the manicured gravel.
The elevator continued to rise, away from Peter’s friends, who were now somewhere near Notre Dame Cathedral.
Kelsey realized how long she and Peter had been alone.
As the city blocks began to blur together into one vast carpet, her resolve crept back.
Peter, I’m not who you think I am. I am, but I’m not. Kelsey felt her eyes squint. This was going to be terrible.
At the top, the wind blew stronger and the iron creaked, sending a group of Italian tourists into shrieks.
Kelsey buttoned up her trench coat and Peter pulled her to him, kissing her lightly on the forehead as they stared out across the city, entwined.
Peter, this may come as a shock. But I am not Michelle. I do care about you, though, which is why I am here.
No matter what would happen between them, they were the only two people there who knew each other in that particular way, so far from home. She couldn’t imagine keeping a secret from him. This should be her chance to make everything right. This was her chance.
She stepped back, putting a hand on each of his arms, their solidness now shivering under his cotton sweater.
“Should have brought my jacket,” he said, and they were both quiet.
“Peter—” Kelsey started.
Just then, a man—whose red tracksuit mirrored the woman beside him—tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” His accent sounded Eastern European. “Photo, please?” He gestured at himself and his wife, then at the sweeping landscape.
Peter looked at Kelsey, raising his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “Long shot or close-up?”
“Sorry?” the woman responded, flipping her dark lenses up to reveal regular glasses underneath.
“Never mind,” Peter said, glancing at Kelsey again, close to laughter. He was having fun. They were both having fun.
This was a terrible thing she had to do.
Kelsey smiled stiffly and folded her arms, trying to keep her courage.
The blonde couple held each other and posed, their cheeks rosy from the chill, hands united at their waists. They had probably been married for decades, pounds and wrinkles away from their youth, further and further from the moment they met but always in love, until the end.
But that had nothing to do with Kelsey.
She bit her lip, trying to wet her cotton mouth, to still her nerves.
Peter snapped a couple of photos and returned to her, the faraway look in his eyes now justified, in sight of the shadowed bottoms of clouds over the rusted railing.
Kelsey took in a breath to begin, but he turned suddenly, to speak first.
“I’m so glad you came, Michelle. I’m glad we’re here.…” He put his arm around her. “Taking pictures of portly Austrians.”
Kelsey tried to keep her voice steady. “Yeah?”
He turned his head close to hers, speaking into her hair, prickling her neck. “I’m serious. You know I’m serious.”
She turned her head, still in his arms, and they were facing each other, inches apart.
“Every time I read your letters, I’m going to come back here. I read them and I hear you speaking. Especially now that I can hear you in person. Your voice sounds like it does in my head. Which is a weird thing to say.”
Kelsey looked away, overwhelmed.
“Really,” Peter continued, shrugging. “These past few months of being apart, it’s like, now we know each other better. You’ve become more real to me through your letters, I think. Or more open or something. I—” He paused, smiled. He was nervous. “I’ve begun to fall for you pretty hard. I don’t know how I could go back without the thought of you waiting for me when I come home.”
She had heard Peter say something like this before, but now she saw in his eyes that he meant it, felt it in his arms.
He kissed her on the forehead. “And seeing you now, well, this is just a bonus.”
Kelsey put her head on his chest, everything blank. If she told Peter now, his heart would break. He would return ruined. Her mind was static, the scenery as flat as a postcard. Nothing was three-dimensional except for her body, pulsing in her coat, and the boy that held her, both of them wrapped in a lie. A nice, warm lie.
No, now wasn’t the time.
It couldn’t be the time, because Kelsey couldn’t think. She could only feel, and what she felt was—well, lips.
Because he was kissing her again, but the message that she should pull back hadn’t traveled from her brain to her hands. She sent it again, but it didn’t arrive, or her hands weren’t listening.
And he kissed her again.
And again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
That evening, Kelsey, Peter, Sam, and Phil found themselves in a tiny bar just a few blocks from their hotel on Rue Nollet. The walls were pasted over with photos and graffiti, fragments of concert posters, and different layers of paint. The ceilings sagged under wooden arches. The only new items in the place were the candles on every table—tall, sleek, red—and the young patrons, as tall and sleek as the candles.
Kelsey watched as Peter and Phil flipped through selections on the old-fashioned jukebox from the other side of the room.
“Parisian women,” Sam muttered beside her, taking a seat at their table as he sipped his beer. He shook his head, staring at a lithe blonde in a flowing dress who leaned against the bar, radiating effortless cool.
“It must be something in the water,” Kelsey replied.
Sam pointed to the bottle she had ordered. “Or the champagne.”
Kelsey poured herself a glass. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” she said. She took a large swig and coughed on the carbonation. She was all mixed up.
“So you’re an artist,” Sam said. He had an intimidating, steady gaze under strawberry-blonde eyebrows. He was wearing a Metallica T-shirt and New
Balance tennis shoes, both unapologetically white. Kelsey wondered what he had seen over there. More than Peter, it seemed.
“Sort of,” Kelsey said. She was tired. She had walked several miles that day, reveling in the sight of every cobbled street corner, asking art history questions of the tour guide in the echoey corridors of the Musée d’Orsay, trying to speak to an accordion player in the Marais in fake, butchered French.
But the exhaustion was just as sweet as it was bitter. No matter who she was, she had been changed by the city, by the art, by Peter. And already it was their last night.
“What kind of art do you make?” Sam asked.
“All kinds,” Kelsey said. And that’s not a full-out lie, she assured herself, thinking of her conversation with Ian so long ago. Dancers are artists, too.
“Peter showed me one of your paintings,” Sam said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Oh, yeah?” Kelsey said curtly, in between sips of champagne. “Which one?”
He tilted his head, confused. “The only one. The one you gave him before he left, he said. I’m no art critic, but it’s good.”
Kelsey had no idea what he was talking about, of course. She didn’t know which painting Michelle had given Peter. She looked over Sam’s shoulder for Peter and Phil, who appeared to have found a fellow American near the jukebox.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice low.
Maybe she could turn the conversation away from herself. Away from Michelle.
“What about you? What do you do as a civilian?” she asked him.
“I breed dogs with my brother.”
“That’s cool.” Must be nice, Kelsey thought. Must be nice to be able to answer who you are in one sentence.
They sipped from their glasses in silence. Across the room, Peter and Phil high-fived each other, laughing.
Something worked behind Sam’s gaze that made her uneasy. He didn’t have the usual nervous politeness of a stranger.
“I have to be extra careful in my business, buying and selling beagles,” he began. “I only buy certain lines of heritage, and I pay a lot for them. People try to pass off common beagles for rare breeds, but there are ways to tell. Markings. Affinity for the hunt.” He leaned closer to her. “I can also tell when a person is trying to sell me bullshit. Their body language. Their eyes.”
Kelsey said nothing.
“You have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, as innocent as can be.
Kelsey choked on the champagne she was drinking.
When she recovered, she took a minute to answer, staring absently at the crowd. “A sister,” she finally said. “My twin.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kelsey,” she answered quietly.
“Kelsey,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said, her fist tightening around her glass.
“You know what? I knew that. Peter told me that. I saw a picture of you.”
“Of me?”
“Of you and your sister. Or maybe it was just you. Which one was it?”
The snakes were back in Kelsey’s stomach, winding their way around. “What do you mean which one?”
“Which picture did you give Peter?” When she didn’t answer, her throat frozen tight, he kept going. “Which painting does Peter have?” His voice was louder now, and he picked up the candle sitting beside them. “Peter said you spoke French. What is ‘candle’ in French?”
Kelsey couldn’t move from her position, her eyes wide. He knew. He could tell, somehow. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Peter. Still occupied. Still happy. Out of range.
Sam leaned closer, following her eyes to Peter across the room. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he said. “But you should leave him out of it.”
Kelsey sighed, looking around to make sure no one could hear. Sam knew she was lying. She might as well explain herself. “Peter is the only reason I’m playing in the first place.”
They looked at each other, best friend and alleged girlfriend, and finally, in a trickle to a flow, Kelsey poured it all out. Every detail she had held in for so long. The day Michelle died. Her trip to the Army Recruiter’s office. The first Skype call. The letters. She told him the whole myth of Michelle, explaining that if it fell apart, then the only person who still believed in that myth would also be destroyed.
Sam sat quietly with his empty beer glass, absorbing Kelsey’s confession. Then he spoke. “Well, first of all, I don’t think Peter’s the only person who still believes in her. You do, too. That much is clear.”
Kelsey nodded, staring at the floor. She felt drained. Dry.
She looked up at him. “Please don’t tell Peter. Not yet.”
“I won’t,” he said, his brow furrowed. “It’s not my crazy, insane, totally nutso secret to tell.”
Kelsey smiled, half relieved. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”
Sam stood up. “But it is yours to tell.” He bobbed his head toward Peter. “And he deserves the truth.”
“You’re right.” There was no doubt about that. That part was easy, to agree to it, to say it. To do it was the tough thing. And she would. Perhaps after another glass of champagne.
“Now, pardon me, ma’am, but…” He began to drift away, squeezing through the tables. “After that, I need another beer.”
As Sam left, Peter and Phil made their way over to their corner.
Phil pointed toward the jukebox, tipsy. “That guy’s from Kansas! I’ve never been to Kansas but what are the odds?”
Peter, beside him, pointed in the air, his eyes sparkling. “Listen,” he said.
Kelsey recognized the song from Michelle’s playlists. It was “Baby” by the Cicadas, the same band Peter had sang for her over Skype the day he received his guitar. The twanging sounded over a slow bossa nova beat, the lyrics in buttery Portuguese.
Peter took her hand. “Will you dance with me?”
Kelsey stood up, and led him to a space near the jukebox, ignoring Sam’s pointed looks as he loitered near the bar.
She needed not to care so much, just for a moment. She was also tipsy, and Peter was so handsome, and they didn’t have much time left of being a regular guy with a regular girl, dancing in a bar across the ocean. She put one of his hands around her waist as they swayed, and took the other, letting him twirl her.
He laughed in surprise at her assured movements, and soon he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She smiled back at him, letting everything else melt away.
Peter had asked Kelsey the only question she would always have the answer to. Wherever she was, whoever she was, no matter how much she had messed up, the answer was the same. Yes, she would dance. She would always dance.
The next day, the four of them stood in the airport, where they had met just thirty-six hours earlier. Kelsey had never seen time pass so quickly. That morning, at the break of dawn, the three soldiers had changed into their fatigues and taken turns in the bathroom with an electric buzzer, slicing centimeters of hair back down to regulation length.
Their gates were on opposite ends of the terminal, and as they watched the departures screen, the flight to Kansas City via London began to flash. Kelsey’s plane had started boarding.
It was time to go.
Phil gave her a quick hug with his gangly arms, then retreated to a bench.
Sam shook Kelsey’s hand. Then he leaned closer and said, “I know you don’t mean any harm, but you know what you have to do. Bye, now. We’ll meet again.”
“I know,” Kelsey said, trying to put on a firm smile. “Bye, Sam.”
Finally, they were alone. Peter had been silent and sullen since they woke up, and now was no different. He gave her a sad smile, glancing anxiously at the screen. If she wanted to tell him in person, it would be now, or never.
She braced herself, and let go of his hands.
“I have something to tell you, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to say it.”
In response, he put his hands on either side of her fa
ce, and tilted her head toward his. Then he kissed her, longer and slower than he had ever kissed her before.
“I have something to tell you, too, but I don’t have the time,” he said, his mouth next to her neck, sending shivers through her body. “When I get home from Afghanistan, we’ll have all the time we want. We’ll have a surplus of time. We’ll have so much time, we’ll forget we were ever apart. I’ll drive you around and we’ll say everything we want to say. Because—yeah. I have so, so much that I want to say to you.”
Kelsey hadn’t allowed herself to picture such a fiction, the two of them in Kansas, in the summer, free to do what they wanted. What Peter saw was never going to happen, and for some reason, that part of the truth made her saddest. She couldn’t bear to face it. At that moment, it wasn’t nerves stopping her, it was the fear of destroying what they had made. The time they had spent together hadn’t been completely right, but they had spent it all the same.
She squeezed his hands, kissing them briefly as she brought them down from her face.
“Good-bye,” she said, and tried not to look at him as she turned to walk away.
When she gave the flight attendant her boarding pass, she was surprised to find tears had been running down her cheeks, quiet, unhindered, and they didn’t stop when she took her seat at the window, gazing out at the horizon, toward where Peter would be, until clouds spilled out from under the plane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Exactly three days had passed since Kelsey had driven home from the airport, walked across her lawn, through her front door, past her parents, and up into her room to shut the door. Except for intermittent trips to the kitchen, the door had remained shut. Her phone remained off. School was on break, therefore Kelsey had no reason to leave her cocoon of blankets, pillows, and disgustingly rich housewives making fools of themselves on national television.
What was the use of bringing herself out into a universe of more confusion? She had been sucking up the air for seventeen years, and in that time, she had managed to lose a sister and a best friend, and she was on the brink of losing the only person who made her feel like all of it would be all right.
