by Alix Nichols
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 finger 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 he
r 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.
“Relax,” I say. “Lily’s dad is back in Martinique.”
“Lily,” he repeats, staring at my baby.
“I named her after my favorite grandma.”
“So you jilted the father?”
“We broke up by mutual agreement.”
He nods. “How old is she?”
“Four months,” I lie.
“I don’t know much about babies, but I would’ve given her six. At least.”
“Her father is very tall,” I say. “She’s his spitting image.”
He nods again, visibly calmer.
“Can I hold her?” He attempts a smile.
I turn Lily around and sniff. “Maybe some other time. I think she’s done a poo.”
He studies her diaper-clad posterior. “Are you sure it’s poop? Maybe her diaper just slid down and… bunched under her butt.”
I lift her closer to his face. “Smell it.”
“Ugh.” He grimaces and turns away.
“Told ya.”
“It could also be gas,” he says.
“Here’s a rule of thumb with babies.” I set Lily down on the floor to get her change mat. “If it looks like poop and smells like poop, then it’s poop.”
“Ah,” he says. “Mia and her rules of thumb. You haven’t changed that much, after all.”
“Raphael and his rule of the middle finger,” I say. “You haven’t changed at all.”
Chapter 25
As a uniformed maître d’ leads me to Sandro’s table at La Coupole, I admire the art deco murals of this legendary brasserie where Joséphine Baker once came with a lion cub and Marc Chagall celebrated his last birthday.
I also take the full measure of how nervous I am about today.
First, because the DCA gang—especially the perceptive Delphine—is bound to ask me questions I’ll have to skirt. Second, because Xavier, whom I’m seeing later this afternoon, might attempt hand-holding or other forms of physical contact for which I’m not ready yet.
Barbara throws herself at me with such force I sway. “Mia, you bastard, how long were you going to keep your return from us?”
She gives me a bear hug and then moves away to make room for Delphine.
“I’m sorry, guys, I really am,” I say as I embrace Delphine and then then Sandro.
Delphine arches an eyebrow. “We might forgive you if you tell us everything.”
And that’s exactly what I do over the next hour. I fill them in about my life in Martinique, my upcoming defense, and the co-moderated workshop. I also tell them about Lily, feeding them the same version of her origins I gave Raphael. Who knows, if I repeat it often enough, maybe I’ll start believing it myself.
“So her dad stayed back in Martinique?” Sandro asks. “Is it really over between you two?”
I nod.
“I had a romance like that, too, a couple of years back,” Barb says, her eyes dreamy. “It took just three or four weeks before my rose-colored glasses fell off. But while it lasted, I was crazy about the guy.”
“Sounds like your glasses were colored by horniness more than roses,” Sandro says.
Barbara shrugs a perhaps.
I glance at Delphine, who’s been suspiciously quiet.
She’s eyeing me with an impish look in her eyes, and I know exactly what she’s trying to communicate.
You can fool those two, ma cocotte, but not me.
Thankfully, she doesn’t say it out loud.
We say good-bye at two-thirty on a promise to do this again in a couple of weeks and that I’ll bring Lily along so they can meet her.
At a quarter to three, I’m in front of the main entrance of the Montparnasse tower for my rendezvous with Xavier, who hasn’t arrived yet. Fifteen minutes later, he climbs off his bicycle, secures it with a U-lock, and heads toward me. He’s right on time. It’s me who got here early, having almost run the short distance from La Coupole. I suspect I’m too eager to get this dating thing started… and over with.
Argh!
I shouldn’t think that way. What’s the point in trying to date someone if I’m already looking forward to the end of the experiment?
Xavier seems to be such a great guy.
He says he loves children. He volunteers for several humanitarian organizations. Whenever he can, he participates in antiwar rallies, and he has recently purchased an indoor worm composter. It’s a container filled with worms that eat organic waste, and it’s perfect for apartments as an alternative to outdoor composting. Xavier claims the worms stay inside the container. He told me everything there is to know about it in minute detail after Professor Guyot’s workshop last Monday.
A man like that deserves my best effort.
And I’ll be damned if don’t give it to him. Raphael’s impromptu visit two days ago won’t make me change my mind.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask after we cheek kiss. “I have two hours.”
Annoyance flickers in his eyes. “Why so little?”
“Lily,” I say. “The nursery closes at six, and I need an hour to get there, factoring in the usual métro suspects like suspicious packages on the platform, electricity outages, and personnel strikes.”
He smiles. “The trade unions haven’t announced any strikes for today.”
“Did they also promise no abandoned backpacks?” I ask, smiling back.
“Unfortunately not.”
“Then we have two hours.”
“OK,” he says. “Let me think. I wanted to take you to one of the charities where I volunteer, then to the recycling cooperative, and then to a café.”
“Pick one.”
“Let’s do the cooperative.” He gives me a determined nod. “Maybe you’ll find something nice to buy in their shop.”
I wish he’d picked the café.
Shame on me.
A recycling cooperative is of course a much better choice.
Fifteen minutes later, Xavier opens the door to a folksy-looking shop, and we walk in. Introductions and handshakes ensue, after which Xavier gives me a tour of the premises.
“These are made in Senegal from recycled plastic bags.” He points at a selection of god-awful pocketbooks that cost a fortune.
“Nice,” I say.
He picks up a wallet with a splashy yellow-green pattern reminiscent of vomit. “Would you like to buy one? It’s Fair Trade Certified, like everything here.”
“Um…” I give him an apologetic look. “I don’t need a wallet.”
He puts the item back on the shelf.
I wonder why I felt compelled to apologize. Why didn’t I just say the wallet was ugly as hell and not worth a quarter of the price the cooperative charges for it? Out of politeness, no doubt. I don’t know Xavier well enough to be frank. It’ll come.
As we continue the tour, he shows me more objects that are as hideous as they are useless. I say “nice” every time, itching to ask if the shop ever manages to sell anything. But I bite my tongue. The cooperative must be one of those outfits that exist as long as they’re funded and dissolve as soon as the grant dries up. Purchasing their products is an act of solidarity with workers in developing countries rather than regular shopping.
I should be ashamed of myself.
“This key ring is lovely.” I point to the cheapest object, which is as “lovely” as a pack of hyenas feasting on a carcass.
He follows my gaze. “It was made in Somalia.”
“I’ll buy it.”
Xavier’s expression brightens.
Phew.
I c
an’t get out of the shop quickly enough.
“We still have forty-five minutes,” Xavier says after we wave good-bye to his buddies. “How about a coffee?”
I beam. “Good idea.”
A few minutes later, we’re seated in the back of a dimly lit bistro. “I hope you enjoyed the excursion,” Xavier says. “Next time I’ll show you the homeless shelter I volunteer for.”
“I’d like that.”
Liar.
“And maybe another time,” he says, “we could hang out with your baby so you won’t need to rush home?”
“Sure,” I say.
And I almost mean it.
We order two espressos.
“Did I tell you I practice tantric yoga?” he asks.
“Sounds impressive.”
“You don’t know what that means, do you?”
“Nope,” I admit.
“It means I have such control over my body I can last forever during sex.”
“Oh.” I stare at my hands on the table. “That’s… nice.”
I’ve said “nice” at least a hundred times today.
Xavier covers one of my hands with his and strokes his thumb across my palm, slowly and deliberately. I let him, trying to figure out if I like it. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. Xavier is attractive, and good, and I haven’t been touched by a man in over a year.
There’s a pattern to his stroking… It’s a spiral… Clockwise expanding, then a straight line, then counterclockwise shrinking.
Must be a tantric thing.
He lets go of my hand, bounds around the table, and sits on the bench next to me.
I wonder what he’ll do next.
He lowers his head and begins to tongue my earlobe.
I stiffen.
He continues with a redoubled zeal.
That makes me think of my early days with Raphael, when we were still learning each other. My freezing like this would’ve stopped him short. Unlike all the other men I’ve kissed, made out with, or had sex with, Raphael pays attention to nonverbal feedback.
Maybe he’s a freak.
I draw back and give verbal feedback to Xavier. “I don’t like ear licking.”
