When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  I, too, need something, Sophie, I abruptly write. My fingers are moving so fast across the screen, my excitement is almost too much to contain. I want to come to Paris. I want to see you. I know it’s last minute, and I know you’re only there for a short time more, but I want to come! I need this. What do you say?

  I send my love and sign off, ending the email with a smiley face…and a grand feeling of hope and excitement.

  Hey, wasn’t it the classic Queen of the Screen who said Paris is always a good idea?

  ***

  To say Sophie was less than understanding or sympathetic would be a gross understatement. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours before I got a reply, filled with panicked undertones.

  I don’t think this is the best idea you’ve ever had, Jackie, she’d written. Does Andrew know? What would he say to you running off to Paris? And, yes, I am only here for a few more days.

  “She’s just being controlling,” I say to Emily at the café later that peaceful Sunday night.

  The last of the few end-of-week evening customers have gone home, and now it’s just the two of us, Evelyn, and Gatz. Gatz is in the front assisting Evelyn with closing down the cash register and tidying up, while Emily’s washing pans and I’m picking the backs of my acrylics in between a quick and lackluster drying motion of the clean pans.

  “Jackie,” Emily says. “Your request is a little rushed and last-minute, don’t you think?”

  “Please. This from the woman who’s motto is, ‘Catch the wind of sails and fly away.’”

  “Butchering Mark Twain there,” she replies with a chuckle.

  “You know what I mean. Besides,” I blow at the back of a nail, “you’re leaving me for Boston soon, and then who will I have to hang out and bug all the time? Everyone else is so damn busy. Lara’s got another filled weekend, dating that Worth guy.”

  “I haven’t seen my family in a while, Jack,” Emily says succinctly. “Don’t make it out like I’m running away from you. I’m going to be abroad for a long time. I need to visit. And it’s only for a couple days.”

  “I know.”

  “And as for Lara, I’m happy for her. And you should be, too.” She scrubs at a baking sheet. “She hasn’t been this happy about a man in a very long time. She needs this.”

  “I know, I know,” I say with a moan. “I am. But what’s so wrong with me wanting to do a little something for myself? With wanting to see a friend who just so happens to be in the loveliest city on the planet?” I bat my lashes and draw out a small giggle from Emily.

  “Well,” she says in a sugary tone, “I think the bigger question you should be asking is why you’re wanting to do this, Jack.” She hands me the wet baking sheet. “And, why you’re not even considering telling Andrew. I mean, the man worries about you going out to a bar five blocks from home, or over in ‘freaky, hippie’ Fremont to stay with me.” She casts a goofy expression. “Don’t you think he’d pop an artery over this?”

  “Whatever,” I say, loosely towel-drying the baking sheet. “I don’t care, Emily. He obviously doesn’t care that much about me.”

  I quickly snatch up my cell phone and wave it at her. “We rarely ever talk anymore. Nothing real, at least. Just questions like where the take-out menus are, or if he needs to feed Bella or take her for a walk.” I exaggeratedly flutter my lashes. “He takes better care of my dog than me.”

  “Oh, Jack. Come on.”

  “At least I can count on him to take care of Bella when I’m out. That’s something, right?” I scoff. “It’s pathetic, Em.”

  “Andrew, like you, is putting space between you guys to keep the fights at bay,” she says sagely. “He knows you two will probably trade zingers, at the very least, if he dares ask what you’re doing, where you are.” She rinses another sheet, turns off the water, and assists with the drying. “I do not like making judgments, but you two have a lot of shit to work out. Running off to Paris ain’t gonna fix it. I’ve told you distance isn’t going to work in the end.”

  “Please, Em,” I whine. “I’ve already gotten shot down by Sophie, I’d really rather not have you make me feel lousy, too.”

  Besides, I think, things are getting scary what with that come-on note from Blake and all. Maybe it really is best that I leave town for a while. Even Sophie had said that my flirting with the bartender was a bad deal. Of course, it didn’t exactly pave the way for an invitation to Paris, but still!

  “You know I don’t intend to make you feel lousy. I want what’s best.”

  “Maybe what’s best is that I go to Paris.”

  “Well…” She slows her drying. “I’d be calling the kettle black if I said running off on vacation or in search of an adventure wasn’t one way to deal.”

  “So you think I should go?” My mood perks up.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I cave my shoulders forward and squish my lips to the side. “If I told Andrew,” I say, finally. “If I told him I wanted to go to Paris, to see a friend. Just a little vaca or something…”

  Emily’s back to drying at a rapid pace, but her attention is piqued. “Yes?”

  “If he knew, and if I honestly went just to clear my head and have some fun…with a friend!” I quickly rush out the last part. “Then there’d be no harm, hah?” I set a dry dish down.

  Emily shrugs and returns the collection of dry baking sheets to their shelf. “That’s your call.”

  “Oh, Em.” I lean against the cold wall.

  “As for harm?” she says. “That usually comes after the fact.”

  “You don’t know until you try,” I say, tapping a finger to my chin. “Or, how about it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission?”

  “Erm, not exactly where I was going, but—”

  “Come on!” I say enthusiastically. I jump from the countertop. “Finish up here so we can go home and watch a movie or somethin’. I’ve only got you for a little while, and I’m going to monopolize your time, especially since tomorrow I’m going home because I’ve got some schmoozing to do with Andrew.”

  “Oh?” Emily drapes the drying towel over the oven handle.

  “I’m going to Paris, Em!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Hȏtel…” I dig through my Louis Vuitton Neverfull GM, rummaging over an empty bottle of water, an iPhone that’s useless on this side of the Atlantic, and a hurriedly purchased copy of Lonely Planet’s Paris guidebook, as well as a small French phrase book, both of which I snagged from Randy’s travel section with hours to spare before my plane ride some twenty-odd hours ago. I move past the latest issue of Vogue I’ve already heavily dogeared during the long flight overseas, the sleep mask, ear plugs, and baggie of Ambien I popped out of Andrew’s bottle during my rushed packing job—pills that, along with the the makeshift bed in first class, made for a truly splendid in-flight experience. Finally, as I dig through the endless tubes of lipstick, two packs of Parliaments, and some Bubblicious, I find what I’m looking for.

  “Hȏtel…” I read from the piece of notebook paper I used to scrawl down all the info Sophie’d given me. “…St-Louis en…” I say to the cabbie, twisting my lips funnily as I prepare to say the last word.

  But the cabbie beats me to it, thank god.

  “Hȏtel St-Louis en I’Île, oui, oui,” the cabbie says, holding open the back door of his Mercedes. “S’il vous plaît.”

  “Merci.” I duck into the car and think how maybe not failing high school French two years in a row and barely making it through my required two terms at U Dub with ‘C’ averages would have proved helpful right about now.

  But as the cabbie shifts the car into gear and whisks me and my three Louis Vuitton luggage pieces (two of which are empty, ready to be stuffed to the brim with authentic Parisian fashion finds) away from Charles de Gaulle and on my way to Hotel Saint wherever, I couldn’t care less about languages learned or lost, classes barely passed or dropped, failing marriages or romantic relationships. I’m in Pa
ris!

  “Merci,” I say to the cabbie, handing him the appropriate amount of rainbow-colored Euros once we arrive at my final destination.

  As he heaves my luggage onto the curb at the entrance to a truly grand boutique-style hotel, muttering things I cannot discern to the hotel doorman, I stare up in awe at the pristine façade, a soothing taupe color.

  Hȏtel St-Louis en I’Île is on the poshest street on the quaint little island of Île St-Louis in the Seine. I know Sophie’s parents are well-off, and I know they wanted to give her a special gift in celebration of making such a success of her café in just one year, but damn! If I thought the exterior was elegant, try the interior! Everything my eye can see in the lobby is polished to perfection, with both a homey, quaint charm to it, as well as a regal and distinguished air.

  Before I can root about my handbag for the handy piece of paper with the room number written on it, I hear a chipper and familiar voice. “Jackie!”

  I spin around and am immediately enveloped in a tight hug.

  “Sophie!” I screech, hugging her just as tight and slightly spinning around in enthusiasm.

  “My god, I can’t believe you’re here!” She pulls back to look me up and down. “This is going to be so much fun! I’m glad this worked out.” She pulls me into another tight hug.

  “I’m so glad you let me talk you into letting me come.”

  Sophie says something in choppy yet impressive French to the petite woman with the severe blonde bob at reception. She then turns back to me and says, “I’m glad you got Andrew to agree to let you come!” She gives my arm a friendly squeeze.

  “Yeah, well,” I begin as I hand over my passport to the outstretched hand of the receptionist. “It’s a short few days but it’s so what I need right now.”

  “You and me both,” Sophie says. “I forgot how spoiled I was having Claire visit me last time I was here. Oh!” She claps exuberantly. “I’m just so happy you’re here. Come on! I’ve got your days all planned out, girlfriend. It’s going to be fantastic!”

  “Of course you do, Sophie,” I say with a laugh.

  ***

  “We’ve got the whole day to do nothing but sightsee, Jackie!” Sophie proclaims, handing me a metro ticket. “I got you the tickets you’ll need to ride the metro and RER. We can go anywhere.”

  “On your pre-approved list of places to see, of course?” I tease, slipping on my white Gucci sunglasses.

  She, too, slips on her pair of oversized designer sunglasses, then shakes open a map. “It’s such a gorgeous day; we should definitely visit the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, lunch in the Tuileries…” She says these things so French-like.

  “And shopping?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

  “Shopping, eating, strolling…is there anything else to do in Paris?” She tosses out a Hollywoodesque laugh. “Come on! Notre Dame’s just around the corner, over the bridge— Oh!” She springs up and down on the toes of her blush-colored ballet flats—definitely a new purchase, and a Lanvin one if I know my designers. “And there’s the darlingest café on the way to the cathedral, the most gorgeous view over Pont St-Louis,” Sophie waxes on. “Oh! And then you just have to have the clichéd but totally scrumptious and worth-every-bit-of-cliché Ladurée macarons! Omigod, I’m going to be the size of a whale before I leave gay Pah-ree behind next week!”

  I take the map from her, fold it in quarters so the circled part indicating our hotel’s location is in the center. I link my arm in Sophie’s and look up at her glowing face. “Notre Dame it is! And that café sounds like the perfect idea right about now. I need some caffeine.”

  “Excellent!” Sophie begins striding forward.

  “And eventually we’re hitting up the Champs-Élysées.” I point down at her feet. “So getting me a pair of adorable ballet flats.”

  Still striding spiritedly and in wide lengths, which is causing me to double my speed thanks to my shorter legs and three-inch heels, Sophie gives me a sly grin. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Jackie.” She pats my arm. “Because there’s this second pair I’ve been contemplating buying. I’m so doing it!”

  Sophie was right. The café, Taverne Philippe, served me a simple but tasty café au lait that hit the spot. Then, since it was just a hop, skip, and a jump away, we wandered about the fragrant and colorful flower market that has apparently been around since the 1800s—the oldest market in the city! Sophie got a sprig of lavender for her hair, I a white rose for my vintage jacket lapel, all to feed the corny need to feel Parisian.

  We walked arm-in-arm about the city, exhausting our feet (and our metro passes) for the duration of the morning and early afternoon. We rode to the highest level of the Eiffel Tower, walked silent and in awe under the chilly and inspiring vaulted transept of Notre Dame, and took photos of the Arc de Triomphe. We zig-zagged all about the city in whimsical fashion. It was like a girl’s dream come true—no cares in the world and only fun to be had.

  “Okay, how awesome is this?” I ask Sophie as I pop the cork of a bottle of rosé we were happily talked into buying at one of the many open-air markets we strolled by. The man who sold us the bottle insisted that on such a jolie summer day like this, a bottle of rosé must be enjoyed!

  Sophie arranges the rounds of camembert and brie, the small jar of plum preserves, the freshly baked baguette, the tin of herbed olives, and the large, red, globe grapes—all delectable market finds—about a spread of napkins that create a makeshift miniature picnic blanket.

  “This is the life, Jack,” Sophie says, popping a grape into her mouth.

  “Could you imagine living every day like this?” I say, looking around the lush green landscape.

  Off to the far right is a large fountain. Children are crowded around, taking long sticks and poking about their wooden sailboats, a competition of sorts to see whose colorful sails will catch the tiniest of breezes this early afternoon, and ride it across the water the fastest.

  To the left is a long, pristine line of well-manicured trees and shrubs where the occasional buggy-pushing mom, elderly couple arm-in-arm, or jogging tourist wearing an NYC or Stanford shirt enjoy some of the most famous gardens of the world—the Tuileries.

  “I’m sure even the most passionate of Parisians don’t live like this every day,” Sophie says unequivocally. “I do have to remind myself that this is vacation.”

  “This could be my day every day!” I pull free a grape. “This is pure heaven!”

  “Makes you forget everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” I tuck one leg into my chest, then take another grape. “No troubles, no worries—”

  “No work.”

  “You so deserved this time off, Sophie,” I say, watching her spread the slightly melted camembert on a torn-free piece of baguette. “You work your ass off at that café.”

  “It’s still running, right?” She bites down on her lower lip, pausing her spreading motion. “Chad hasn’t burned the place to the ground? Emily and Gatz haven’t pushed forward their Australia trip? Evel—”

  I can’t suppress my laughter. Through a mouth full of grapes, I say, “Everything’s fine, worry wart. Under control and doing well.”

  “And you?” Her question kind of takes me off guard.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.” She pours some rosé into two paper cups. “How are you and Andrew getting on? Things better?”

  I take my cup, and before I can answer Sophie blurts out, “No more notes from up-to-no-good bartenders?”

  “No,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “And with Andrew…” I give a one-armed shrug. “…I wouldn’t say things are worse. Not better, though.”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “We’re not really talking, but I guess that’s better than fighting, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says with a smile.

  “Andrew just doesn’t get me.” I pull my legs into a criss-cross position and lean forward, slowly turning the half-filled cup in my hands. “And I don’t really get
him, I guess.”

  “Not dancing to the same drummer’s beat, or however that saying goes?”

  “If only he’d be open to therapy with me…” I look off in the distance. “More action than just talk. Or just realize he can’t constantly buy my love, buy my appeasement…”

  “Well, we can thank him for buying you this trip to Paris.” She holds up her cup of wine. “That doesn’t sound like a completely doomed marriage to me.”

  I raise my cup to hers and she sings, “To Paris and happy endings!” We tap our cups together.

  “To Paris,” I say, looking at her sparkling and gleeful blue-green eyes. “Yeah, and happy endings,” I add in a mumbling fashion.

  It’s worth a wish, or at least a toast, I think. Happy endings…

  “How was London?” I say after we’ve polished off nearly all the market snacks. A picnic lunch in the Tuileries was, like Taverne Philippe, like the visits to the Eiffel Tower, Arc, and cathedral, like the entire idea for me to fly to Paris on a moment’s notice, splendid. “I imagine fabulous, as well?”

  “London’s always fab,” Sophie says. She flaps some baguette crumbs from her white, linen summer dress. “John was pretty busy, but we did do the requisite fish and chips together, Big Ben, Buckingham, and London Eye sightseeing…the usual.”

  “What fun,” I say. “Like Paris, I don’t know how anyone’d get work done if they lived in a city like London.”

  “Well,” Sophie says saucily, “he’s definitely finding some down time to have some fun.”

  “Oh?”

  “While I was there he had two dates with someone named Jean.” She winks.

  “Your brother’s a dating machine, isn’t he?”

  “Dating, yes. Unable to commit? That, too.” She rolls her eyes and grabs some of the last grapes. “Not that I really care. I mean, it’s his life,” she says with a full mouth. “Our mother just keeps pestering me about settling down. Finding someone I can marry, pop babies out, that kind of thing.” She swallows. “As if opening and running my own business isn’t already something to be proud of, she’s begging me to let her fulfill her grandmother duties.”