by Stacy Travis
“Jean-Yves is a romantic,” Guillaume explained.
“So am I. But some romances don’t work out,” I admitted.
“Sometimes life gets in the way, I know,” said Jean-Yves. “It’s just too bad.”
I didn’t really want to talk anymore about Chris, and they seemed to sense the need for a second round of drinks and a new conversation. Guillaume started prattling on about his boss at the café while Jean-Yves signaled for our waiter.
“He bought the café a year ago, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to run a business,” Guillaume said.
“I keep telling him, your issue is not with the owner. I’m not sure Guillaume wants to work there anymore, no matter who owns the place,” Jean-Yves said.
Guillaume sighed. They’d had this discussion before, clearly, and were airing it in front of me, maybe presuming my objectivity could help tilt the balance.
“Is there something else you’d rather do?” I asked.
“I think I’d like to give voice lessons. Maybe teach au lycée, the littlest kids.”
“Is that an option?” I asked.
Jean-Yves sighed, bracing himself for a conversation that apparently annoyed him.
“It is… it’s just—”
“It’s a big change,” Jean-Yves said. “I think he’s not ready.”
“Maybe not,” Guillaume said.
“When you’re ready, you’ll know,” I said. I believed that was true of everything. It was why I hadn’t ventured abroad before this trip. I hadn’t been ready. Now I wanted so much more.
Our next round of drinks arrived, and we sipped them and chatted about talking about a model train collection Jean-Yves had started as a kid. “You should see how many he has now,” Guillaume said. “Our apartment has one wall with eleven shelves, each of them containing trains all the way across.”
“I am a collector. There will always be another wall I can fill,” Jean-Yves said.
“He’s like me, only my love is books,” Guillaume said. “The shelves that don’t have trains are filled with my old books. You should come back with us, and we can both regale you with the stories behind our collectibles.”
“Oh, yes. Do come. We can have dinner together before you leave Paris.”
The idea of a cozy dinner at the home of these two Frenchmen on my last night sounded lovely. I thanked them heartily but declined. I still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to dine alone, and that night would be my last chance to do it. I needed to climb that mountain before I left Paris.
So we talked for another hour, the sky turning from pink to pale blue. We walked down by the Seine before Guillaume and Jean-Yves left me to make their way home. The night had gotten darker and brighter as the lights on all the bridges and buildings came on at l’heure bleue. The Eiffel Tower began its hourly light show.
“Dammit,” my heart seemed to say. “Is everything until the end of time going to remind you of Chris? I can’t take it.” I put a hand on my chest, as though in sympathy. We would get through this, my heart and me.
I walked into a small bistro with no more than twelve tables. At this hour, only half of them were filled. “Une personne,” I told the maitre d’, who didn’t bat an eye at the request for a table for one. He led me to a two-top by the window and handed me a menu.
At first, the seat across from me seemed obviously empty, like it stood waiting for the person who would fill it. Eventually, though, a waiter came over and asked what I’d like, and he didn’t ask if I was waiting for someone else. He didn’t feel sorry for me for being alone. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I felt liberated.
I’d overheard a woman at the table next to mine order her coffee, and I imitated the words I heard her say, only I substituted an item from the menu for the coffee.
“Je prends du soupe a l’oignon.” I could tell from the waiter’s expression that I hadn’t gotten it completely right, but he understood what I wanted. I also ordered a small steak and fries. Why not? It was my last night here, and I didn’t feel like I had to eat and run. I’d have two full courses with a glass of wine and maybe even dessert. I felt fine sitting there by myself. I liked my own company.
The soup was a little salty, and the cheese was a little gummy on the floating piece of bread, but the steak was delicious. And I could have eaten a barrel of those fries, which were thinly sliced, just crispy enough, and salted to perfection. By the time I’d finished, a couple of tables had emptied and a few more had filled. There was no rule on how late the dinner hour had to be, especially in summer when the sun set late and the air stayed warm.
It turned out dessert was a no-go. I’d done my damage on the steak and fries. “L’addition,” I told the waiter, who responded, “Oui, mademoiselle.” I hadn’t had anything qualifying as a conversation with him, but my small effort at using a bit of French had succeeded. He didn’t need to help me along in English.
I didn’t feel like I’d summited a mountain, exactly, but I was on the path leading upward. There was no reason to go back.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A Bridge Over the Seine
I had only one more item on my list for the day, one thing I couldn’t miss before turning in for the night—the light show at one in the morning. I walked back toward the Seine and positioned myself on a bridge, prepared to stand there as long as it took to reach the early-morning hour when the Eiffel Tower lights would dance a final time before turning off for the night.
I still had a half hour to wait, which was fine.
Leaning over the ledge, I looked down at the water, where the Bateaux Mouches still plied the narrow river and tour guides pointed out the sights over loudspeakers. In the distance, I could see the bridge where I’d stood that first night with Chris. At least, I thought I knew which bridge it was. Like all the memories from the prior couple of weeks, that one was starting to fade, out of necessity. I would never forget him, but I’d have to put this whole chapter of my life in the past, where I could look back on it and smile.
A few couples had joined me on the bridge, all anticipating the light show that would start at any minute. Of course, they would kiss and wrap up in each other’s arms. That was what I’d do if I were them. Public displays of affection no longer seemed strange.
I looked down at the dark swirling waters below, thinking about how many people before me had stood on this bridge, making decisions about their lives, and how they’d live them better now that Paris had gotten under their skin. I heard a collective “Aaahhh” and looked up to see the sparkling lights of the tower. They kept dancing and flashing for what seemed like an extra-long finale, allowing me to wring the last drop from my time in France.
As the bulbs flashed, I felt almost like they were reassuring me that they’d be there every night even when I was home in LA, so I’d be able to picture them sparkling and beckoning me back. I couldn’t look away until the lights went out.
As I walked back to the Hotel des Écoles, my heart felt full. The trip hadn’t been anything like what I’d imagined when I’d bought the tickets for Johnny and me a few months earlier. The time away had confirmed for me that I was absolutely done with him. It also confirmed that I didn’t need the happy ending of a new romance to make myself whole. I felt self-sufficient and independent, something I couldn’t get by clinging to the wrong relationship. I knew that when I got home, after a few weeks—or months—of patching the hole in my aching heart, I’d be okay.
It was Saturday night, I realized as I passed several packed outdoor bars on the Rue de Buci. No one seemed in a hurry to call it a night, so I decided I had one more round in me as well. I didn’t think anything about sitting at a table by myself, and I only looked around at the other tables in the interest of people watching, not to check whether anyone else sat alone. It didn’t matter, and I didn’t feel alone.
I ordered a final glass of white wine, not caring if I only slept a few hours that night. I’d have plenty of time on the plane, and maybe I’d become an airplane sleepe
r after all. I no longer felt like I had to define myself in the ways I had before.
While I watched the dozens of people enjoying the warm night, a trio of musicians moved into the middle of the street with an amplifier and began to play. A woman who looked a bit younger than me set up a microphone and sang some Ella Fitzgerald jazz classics while her bandmates played a violin and a horn. Silverware clinked against plates, and voices in multiple languages accompanied the music, and I couldn’t have felt more at home. It never occurred to me to look around to see if Johnny or Chris or some other guy was coming my way to save me from being alone. I didn’t need saving.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Plane, Economy Class – Charles de Gaulle Airport
Unlike my first night at the hotel, I slept like a rock until my alarm woke me in the morning. Sylvie wasn’t at the front desk, but it was almost easier to say my last goodbyes to a stranger. I turned in my key with the long attached piece of wood.
This time, I took a taxi to the airport, and the march through the security checkpoints was uneventful. I bought a jar of Dijon mustard at the duty-free shop and a box of butter cookies for the plane. Everything went smoothly. I’d even downloaded my boarding pass onto my phone. Soon, it was time to board. With my luggage stowed under the plane and a paperless boarding pass, I felt like I’d mastered international travel.
I found my seat toward the back of the plane. The experience was a far cry from flying on the private jet, but it was best to stop making comparisons, I decided. That had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Starting at that moment, it was back to the real world for me. I was better for having made the trip, with a new thirst for travel and adventure and the memory of a whirlwind romance. I would do it all again if I got the chance. My time with Chris had become part of the magic of France for me, and the memory of it would lure me back. Je ne regrette rien—no regrets—I reminded myself. I wondered if that French saying originated from people leaving love behind after visiting France.
The seat next to me was empty, as was the one by the window. I could get very lucky, I thought. Maybe no one would sit in either seat, and I could spread out across the whole row. Or even if just the middle seat ended up free… I began to dream about the nap I could take on the ride home, because despite the decent sleep the previous night, I was still emotionally drained and exhausted.
“Excusez-moi,” said a female voice in the aisle next to me.
I looked up at an older woman, who prattled on in French and gazed down at me with consternation. I shook my head, not able to answer her questions. She then held out her boarding pass for me to see, and it became clear why she was standing there—I was in her seat. I got up and showed her the boarding pass on my phone as proof that I was in the right place, but she shook her head, unconvinced.
Eventually, a flight attendant came over to mediate. She looked at the set of three boarding passes the woman produced for all the seats in my row, and I began to sense that I was on the losing end of the battle. I showed the flight attendant my electronic boarding pass, which I’d felt so worldly for having procured, but it did nothing to convince her I was in the right.
“Non, mademoiselle,” she said, looking at the three tickets proffered by the family members who were waiting to take the row of three seats. “There was a mix-up. These seats are taken. We will have to see if there is another seat for you.”
Confused and defeated, I relinquished the seat I’d thought was mine. Couldn’t I just get out of the country without a final snafu that proved I didn’t really have what it took to be an international traveler? I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. I went over the details in my mind. I hadn’t confused my travel times or dates, and the airline had let me past the gate.
Now I’d have to go back to the desk and figure it out. Maybe there was a bug in the electronic system, or maybe it was because I was so late checking in…
The flight attendant waited while I grabbed my carry-on from the overhead bin then led me up the aisle as other passengers looked on at my walk of shame. She stopped me in the galley area of the plane, where another flight attendant was readying the drinks cart and stowing it away, locked behind a metal bar.
The two of them conferred, pointing at me and discussing my predicament. One of them picked up a phone and asked a question then explained to the other what was going on. Neither of them bothered to let me in on the conversation. The few words of French I’d managed to pick up weren’t part of their conversation, so I stood and waited, watching as a few more passengers shuffled past me and found their coach seats.
I tried to cheer myself with the possibility of spending one more night in Paris. I could see another museum and eat some more cheese. But the idea failed to lift my spirits.
When I looked back at the cabin, I saw that all the seats were occupied. The chances of going home on this flight were dwindling as the two flight attendants chatted in incomprehensible French and I stood there like a moron.
“I think I’ll get off and ask at the desk. Maybe I can get on a different flight…” I said, trying to move things along. Hunching in the galley in limbo wasn’t doing me any good.
“Ah, mademoiselle, non. We have found the problem.” This came from the second flight attendant, who’d been handling the drinks. Maybe she had seniority.
“Okay, great. Is there a seat somewhere I can just hop into?” I asked. I’d have been happy to sit with the luggage under the plane. I just wanted to go home.
“Yes, follow me. We have a seat for you here.”
She led me in the other direction from where I’d come, passing through a second section of economy seats, which looked equally occupied. I was scanning ahead to see where the empty seat was and assuming I’d get stuck in the middle of a row. I didn’t care.
Then she passed through a curtain and into a cabin where the seats were suddenly a little bigger. My seating blunder had somehow gotten me an upgrade to the only available seat, which seemed to be in business class. “Voilà. You may seat here.”
She pointed to an empty pair of seats. Well, one of them was empty. On the other sat a painting, presumably belonging to my seatmate. I settled into the aisle seat and glanced over at the colorful watercolor to my right, curious but not wanting to be nosy. I assumed its owner would be back at any second.
That was when I really noticed the subject of the painting—a woman in a cerulean blue dress, looking out a window, an expression of pure adoration on her face for whatever she beheld. And I knew exactly what—or who—that was. I just had no recollection of when Marguerite had taken the photo from which she’d painted this gorgeous watercolor.
“I asked her to paint you when we first went to her studio,” said a voice behind me. Chris. He was standing in the row of seats across the aisle.
I couldn’t imagine what had brought him there. My brain was having trouble computing the discordant elements in front of me—the business-class seat, the painting, the guy. He was supposed to be at his house in Antibes, not here. “What’s going on?” I managed to extract from the jumble of thoughts, feeling an unexpected wave of light-headedness wash over me.
“Marguerite delivered this to me last night. She just finished it. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
“She’s… really talented,” I said, having a hard time looking at myself in the painting as I remembered that day. “You came to bring me a painting?”
“I came because… when I saw this… I looked at the expression on your face, and I thought you looked more beautiful than at any time I’d seen you.”
His words melted me. But I couldn’t go back to three days earlier. He couldn’t ask me to do that. All the things we’d talked about were still true. I was on the plane, pushing myself forward to get over him. He was making it nearly impossible, but I had to maintain my resolve for my own heart’s sake.
“The look on your face… I couldn’t stop staring at it. Then Marguerite told me you were looking out the window at me.”
I felt a little embarrassed, wishing she hadn’t told him that. But I remembered so well how I’d felt that day, looking at him. It all came flooding back, and the feelings crushed me.
“Yeah. I was.”
He closed his eyes like he was relieved to find it was true. Then he looked at me. “Seeing this, I thought… for the first time, I thought maybe… you might actually feel about me the way I’ve been feeling about you pretty much since the moment we met.” His eyes never left mine. “So I’m here because I had to find out.”
It was everything I’d wanted to hear. But it didn’t change things from how we’d left them. Even if I spent a few more days with him, eventually we’d have to go back to our separate lives. I didn’t see the point of making it harder. “Of course that’s how I feel. But—”
He grabbed my hand and put a finger over my lips. Just the feeling of his touch made my skin tingle like it was skimmed by a hummingbird’s wings, but I had to set him straight.
“It’s still impossible. Chris, I just—”
“No.” He moved closer and held up a hand, stopping me from objecting.
I shook my head at him. It didn’t make sense. Nothing had changed. Despite this grand gesture, nothing was any different…
“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met. And you’re normal in the way I wish my life could be. I want to be with you. I want… you.”
It was sweet gut it was also crazy town. “Chris… dating me isn’t enough to make your life normal. Your life isn’t normal.”
“It could be.”
“Then you wouldn’t be you. You’re a superhero.”
“I know you don’t see me that way. And that’s why I like you. It’s why I’m goddamn falling in love with you.”
