by Stacy Travis
I didn’t care if the hem of my dress got a little damp. I was focused on kissing him under the small crescent moon that shone brightly in the dark sky. There was a gentle tentativeness like what I’d felt on the bridge in Paris, edging deeper as we both responded without needing any more words. We’d said enough.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt one hand on the small of my back, the other running lightly through my hair. I have no idea how long we stood there, locked in that kiss. I didn’t want to know.
Chapter Thirty-One
Antibes
Later that Night
As we drove back, a thought struck me, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was the right thing to do. “I think I’d like to take the train back to Paris tomorrow morning.” I told Chris. He looked surprised for a moment then nodded. “It’s not that I wouldn’t have an incredible time with you if I stayed one more day. It’s just—”
“I get it. You haven’t seen Paris.” He nodded.
“And I think it would be good for me to take a day there and just… have some alone time before I go home.”
“Right. Makes sense,” he said, though his brow stayed furrowed, and it seemed like he didn’t really understand why I’d made that decision.
“Of course, you know I’d love to be here one more day with you. It’s not that,” I said. “But it would just make it harder to leave.”
“I know.” He picked up my hand and held it the rest of the way home, eyes focused out the window so I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t feel like he was punishing me, but he was shutting me out just the same.
It would have been easier if Chris had acted like an asshole after I left the premiere party. I’d have seen an ugly side of him that I could cling to, telling myself it was good riddance. But life’s not like that and he was a better guy than that. It was on me to stick with my convictions, simply because they were my convictions. I didn’t need to say something spiteful to Chris so he’d be angry and would say something to make me hate him. The truth was sad enough.
I’d reserved a tiny glimmer of hope for the possibility I was wrong about Chris and his commitment to his job and his life of one. Maybe he could surprise me and fight for me, for us. If he felt what I did, he’d want something more.
“I could go back to Paris with you. We’d have one more day,” he offered. That was his attempt at more. One more day was all he could give.
While the idea of one more day lit up my heart again, the organ was starting to ache from the abuse—love him, ignore feelings, get over him, repeat.
I couldn’t do it. “Look, we both knew this would end,” I said. Then I took a stab at spite, trying to create some distance. “We barely know each other. It’s an escape. It’s not real.”
He looked stunned at the harsh words but found his own. “It felt real to me. But if that’s how you see it… Two weeks on vacation—”
“Is cute and romantic. It’s vacation love, and then it ends.” How could I expect him to fight for me when I wouldn’t do the same. I wanted more, but I was afraid to ask for it.
He looked like he wanted to argue with me, but he didn’t. His silence confirmed I was right.
That night, we both slept fitfully. Whenever I rolled over and realized I was awake again, I would look over, and Chris seemed to be half-asleep and moving around as well. We slept intertwined, then separately, then curled up together again. I wasn’t used to being this disconnected from him, but it was one more sign we were finished.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Town Car and a Train Back to Paris
Morning
Chris was quiet in the morning as I pulled my stuff together. Maybe it was significant that I hadn’t unpacked my bags the whole time I’d been at his house. Maybe a part of me knew it was better if I kept one foot out the door for an easy getaway. Or maybe that one foot was what kept me from investing even more of my heart in a losing proposition. Either way, that made it easy to pack up and get ready to go.
I didn’t have much of an appetite, even for the breakfast I’d loved so much every morning. I took a couple of sips of coffee, but even that was hard to choke down. Chris tucked a peach into my bag. “In case you get hungry on the trip.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling awkward, suddenly, after having been so comfortable in his presence for two weeks. My heart was starting to take care of itself, sealing itself off from feeling more.
I insisted on taking the train. I also insisted that Chris stay at the house while Laur drove me to the station.
“You can take the jet. Please, let me do this for you,” Chris said. It seemed like he was grasping at a way to make it easier for me and less painful for him.
“Really, I’m fine. The train will be nice. I’d like to go a little slower and see the countryside.” I’d caught a glimpse of it from high in the sky on our flight, and I wanted to see it on the ground. Where I belonged.
“I just thought you’d want more time in Paris instead of six hours of travel.”
“I know. I appreciate that. I’ll still get some quality time there this afternoon. And I plan to visit Paris again,” I said.
“Maybe we can meet again there someday,” he said, though we both knew it was unlikely our schedules would match up. I nodded, not wanting to make things harder. Better to pretend our paths would cross. “Sure. Sounds good.”
“So…” he said, reaching out to give me a hug.
I knew if I stayed a minute longer, I’d start to cry. Chris seemed to be swallowing back his own anguish. The sadness in his face was genuine. But then, I told myself protectively, he was an actor.
Chris made sure I was tucked comfortably into the town car. He leaned in through the window, touching my shoulder. I was hoping he wouldn’t say something that would make our parting harder, but he seemed to know there was nothing else to say. He kissed me once more, but this time, there was kindness and closure instead of promise. I convinced myself I was okay with that as the car rolled down the cobbles of the driveway, leaving Chris behind.
I didn’t turn around. There was no point. My only direction was forward.
I made sure I purchased the supplément, which allowed me to ride the TGV and get away from the South of France and my feelings for Chris as quickly as possible. I was hoping the adage “out of sight, out of mind” would prove true, but I quickly found that this dream, like all my others over the past couple of weeks, was based on wishes without substance. I spent most of the train ride rehashing the time I’d spent with Chris, reliving it in my mind like a movie I could rewind for the best parts.
Eventually, I settled in, mesmerized by the passing farms and fields and stands of trees and marveling at the lush countryside that looked so different from the arid mountains in California during summer.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Paris, France
A Beautiful Summer Day
I had no trouble navigating from the train station to the Hotel des Écoles, where I had booked my single room online during the train ride. Sylvie handed me my key, and I lugged my bags up the four flights of stairs and shoved them onto the bed, barely taking time to look in the mirror and wash my hands before heading out again. I only had the afternoon in Paris. I had to make it count.
I dropped my room key with Sylvie and raced out toward the Seine, desperate to gaze into its grey-green waters and let it direct me across the Île de la Cité, where Notre-Dame stood proudly, to the right bank. I wanted to stroll through the small streets of the Marais and find the Picasso Museum. I knew I couldn’t spend long there, but an hour allowed me to gorge on early sculptures and paintings I’d never even seen in pictures and follow his progression through his blue period and portraits of his muse, the photographer Dora Maar.
I grabbed a falafel and savored the pita rolled with fried chickpea cakes and tomato-cucumber salad. I walked through the Place Vendôme, not stopping to walk into any of the art galleries that surrounded the square park in the middle, t
hen passed the Centre Pompidou, with its spinning fountain and odd tubes marking the exterior of the modern museum, on my way to the Opéra Garnier. That was where my journey in Paris had begun two weeks earlier, when I’d felt so tired and daunted and confused, and I wanted to revisit the spot with fresh eyes.
I went straight to the café where I’d first met Guillaume. He was unloading a tray of drinks for a table of four when I sat at a table near the end of the row. I watched him bend down to hand l’addition to a customer and turn to collect a few coins in tips from a now-vacant table. He deposited the coins into a pouch around his waist before checking the row of tables for new arrivals. Then he spotted me and came right over.
“Do you remember me?” I asked, momentarily afraid he wouldn’t.
“Ah, Nikki, oui! Bien sûr, I remember you.” He kissed me on both cheeks. “You’ve been outside in the sun, I see.” He looked me over. “You look great, ma cherie. Tanned, relaxed. You look happy. And sad. Sad to be leaving Paris, I imagine. That’s normal.”
I felt a lump form in my throat. He’d think it was strange if I burst into tears, even if he chalked it up to me being sad about leaving Paris. I wanted to tell him about Chris, but the café was bustling, and I could tell I was already keeping him from his job. “Do you have any time later? It’s my last night here. Maybe we could meet for a drink.”
“Oui. Yes, I am free. Maybe Jean-Yves will join us?”
“Oh, please. I’d love to meet him.”
We agreed to meet at La Palette, where we’d had chilled red wine on my first night. I loved the idea of my time in France coming full circle. I stayed for a quick cup of coffee, this time with milk, and looked over a map on my phone, trying to plot where I’d go next. I didn’t want to rush through the sights. I knew I’d have to come back. I chose a couple more places I wanted to visit and decided I would linger as long as I wanted at each one.
First, I walked through the Tuileries Garden next to the Louvre. The flowers lining the squares of green lawns were immaculately manicured in pinks, purples, and whites, some allowed to grow taller, others close to the ground to provide a dense, lush garden that repeated around each area of grass. Kids were sailing boats in the fountains there, too, as they’d done in the fountains of the Luxembourg Gardens. Similar green chairs reclined all around the fountains, and almost none sat vacant. But I found one.
It felt great to stop moving and soak in the warmth of the cloudless day amid Parisians who understood the importance of spending time outside when the weather was nice. It struck me that living in Los Angeles made most of us take the nice weather for granted. In France, where the fields were green because it rained throughout the year and got cold in the winter and early spring months, a sunny day was not to be squandered. I wanted to return home with a little more of this perspective. I vowed to take time each day with a real coffee in a real cup, rather than a to-go cup in my car on the way to somewhere else.
I’d come to appreciate the ritual of sitting with other people and having conversations. I’d need to find ways to get out of the house more and be social. And I wanted to learn a language or two so the next time I traveled, I wouldn’t feel so inept for only being able to speak English. In a short trip, I felt like I’d covered a lot of ground mentally.
A couple lay on the grass together, a woman about my age resting her head on the stomach of a man. She had her knees bent and was reading a book while he lay there with his sunglasses on, possibly asleep. It could have been me with Chris. It could have been so many other people.
I felt at peace, believing it would be me again someday. I had to trust that I’d find the right guy eventually. Maybe not in a bar, maybe not in Paris, but somewhere.
After a while, I felt ready to walk some more, so I followed the gardens to where they ended at the Place de la Concorde, admiring the symmetry of the giant traffic circle around the gold-tipped obelisk that had originally stood at the entrance to the Luxor Temple in Egypt and was given to France in exchange for a mechanical clock that apparently never worked.
I positioned myself in a central spot, where I could see the obelisk straight in line with the Arc de Triomphe at the end of the Champs Élysées. I admired the symmetry of the straight line that extended from the Louvre to these monuments, ending at the arch in La Défense at a point I could barely see.
The city had been planned with such thoughtfulness. Granted, much of it had been for the benefit of monarchs and the Catholic Church, but the footprint left behind was awe-inspiring.
I didn’t want to leave Paris without seeing more of the Eiffel Tower. Walking along the right bank, I had a perfect view of the tower as I drew closer to it. I didn’t think I needed to climb it or stand beneath it. I just needed to get near enough to feel it looming large. It took walking past several more bridges before I was close enough to appreciate its size and impressive ironwork. When I’d gotten as far as the Pont de l’Alma, I changed my mind—I wanted to go all the way to the base of the tower.
Just a short walk across the bridge took me to the park at the base of the tower, which was crowded with people standing in lines to go up to the second-floor restaurant or to take the elevator to the top. Bike tours were gathering and setting off to see the city, and tourists were posing for selfies with the tower in the background. I wasn’t above joining them, and I found a couple of Americans who didn’t mind snapping a picture of me so I’d have the memory of this day.
I stood for a while and marveled at the engineering feat of the giant structure, which soared upward at an angle that made it impossible to see the top from where I stood. It was hard not to think about the view from the terrace of Chris’s rented apartment and the days that seemed to spring from the magic of the sparkling tower.
I pushed those thoughts aside, making a new association with the Eiffel Tower that was only mine.
Somehow, the hours had flown by, and I realized that if I didn’t move fast, I’d miss meeting Guillaume and Jean-Yves at La Palette. Reluctantly, I turned and walked through the Champ de Mars. As I crossed the park, I turned around every so often to catch a new view of the Eiffel Tower as it receded into the distance. The shortest route to the restaurant took me past La Fontaine de Mars. Passing that familiar spot was almost like intentional torture. I had to peer in at the restaurant where Chris and I had shared a bottle of the delicious red wine he’d ordered.
The table where we’d sat was occupied by a cute couple about my age—a dark-haired guy in sunglasses and a blond woman wearing a sunhat. He was drinking red wine. She had a beer. I wondered where the rest of their evening would lead and whether they were on a first date. Maybe they’d been together for years. Or maybe they were just friends meeting after work. Another couple, another day, another set of lives unfolding.
I walked faster toward my destination.
The Louvre beckoned from across the river, tempting me with more incredible art that I’d never see anywhere else in a traveling exhibition. If I wanted to see the Venus de Milo, I had to do it here. But in the time I had left, a visit to the Louvre was impossible. It would take something like a hundred days to see every piece of art in the museum, and that was assuming I looked at each one for only thirty seconds. Even if I didn’t intend to see everything, the overwhelming amount of art I would want to see put the Louvre into the column with other sights I’d have to save for next time.
Montmartre was also too far off my walking path, so I put a pin in that entire neighborhood as well. It would all be there for me later.
Chapter Thirty-Four
La Palette
Guillaume and Jean-Yves had already gotten a table when I arrived. Guillaume made introductions like he and I had been friends for years. We kissed on both cheeks, and I no longer felt like an American poseur for doing it.
I looked around and noticed that people filled almost every table. “This place is popular.”
“Always busy,” said Guillaume. “Now, tell me about your vacation. I’m dying to know wher
e you went.”
“We are always looking for a way to live vicariously,” said Jean-Yves, his English perfect and barely accented. I unfolded my entire saga, from the first meeting in Monoprix to our date that night to the whirlwind trip on the jet that followed. Jean-Yves was agog.
“I know your Chris Conley. He’s a huge film star, even here. Très beau.”
“He tries to make me jealous,” Guillaume said. “But I admit I share his view this time. Chris Conley is…”
“Magnifique,” Jean-Yves finished. They hung on every detail of our time together and wanted a play-by-play of the film premiere night. I gave them the high points and explained how it had all ended in our emotional goodbye the day before. I kind of expected us to move on to other topics once I was done, but they both looked at me in confusion.
“Je ne comprends pas,” Jean-Yves said to Guillaume.
“We’re confused. Why are you walking away from this man? It sounds like you love him.”
“I… I don’t know what I feel. I just need to get some distance from it all, let my life get back to normal. I have a full day of work on Monday.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Guillaume said.
I explained some more about our different lives in different cities. Slowly, Guillaume started nodding, accepting reality as I eventually had. Jean-Yves needed more convincing. “It’s just different here. Work is important, but so is living. That’s why we have government-mandated vacation of three weeks a year. There’s an understanding that work can never be everything to a person. And if it is, maybe it shouldn’t be.”
He was right, and if I’d learned anything during my time in France, it was to have a little bit of perspective and slow down. But that didn’t change anything about the reasons why Chris and I were an impossibility.
