One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  And my favorite spot of all, the Seine river. A series of landmarks, and awe-inspiring bridges. A stroll down the river is definitely on my list.

  I can’t wait to walk the streets of Paris, and get lost in the lovely scenery and architecture. Spring in Paris should be beautiful — I’ve never been this time of year. I’m going to indulge in the food, and I’m definitely going to stand somewhere high and take in the lights of the city at night.

  I can’t wait!

  Gabbie looks amazing — although she’s only about four months along, she’s already pretty big. She rises from the table to greet me, and I swoop her in for a hug. “Pregnancy suits you,” I tell her. “You look great.”

  We take a seat at our usual table. As soon as I settle my behind into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, my body instantly relaxes and my problems seem to float away, if only for just a brief moment. I love this little coffee shop/used books store — it’s my happy place, the spot where I see my friends, the only place where I occasionally let myself indulge in sweets.

  Gabbie, Maeve, Corrie and I met right here in this coffee shop. We’re officially a journaling club, and unofficially best friends. At times, we actually share journal entries, but most often we just end up chatting about books, movies, and life.

  “I feel pretty good too,” Gabbie tells me, her hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea. “I was afraid it would be tougher this time because of my age.”

  I smile. “You’re only thirty-six, for crying out loud,” I point out. “You’re still young.”

  “Well, my doctor calls this a ‘geriatric pregnancy’.”

  I sigh loudly. “God, that’s so depressing.”

  “You better hurry along,” she teases. “I know you’re only twenty-eight, but the clock is ticking. You don’t want to be a geriatric mother-to-be like me.”

  I laugh. “Never going to happen,” I tell her. “You know how I feel about kids and marriage.”

  She smiles. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll change your mind when you find the right guy.”

  The doorbell clangs and Maeve appears, looking as gorgeous as ever. She’s always so beautifully dressed — today, she’s wearing this pretty wool jacket, with tall leather boots and a red beret, French-style. I’m so excited to see her — it seems like ages since she’s been to one of our meetings. She used to be a regular, the unofficial leader, but she’s moved back to her home town, two hours away, so she doesn’t make it out often these days.

  I jump from my seat and meet her halfway. We hug like long-lost sisters. “How are things?” I ask. “How’s Blake? How’s the store?”

  She beams. “Great.” She pulls from me and does a twirl. “What do you think of my jacket? It’s from my store.”

  “I love it.”

  As we near our table, she hugs Gabbie. “Oh, you’re so cute,” Maeve squeals. “I can’t wait to get pregnant too.”

  “What’s the hold up?” Gabbie asks.

  Maeve’s eyes grow wide. “Oh, way too busy right now. I need to get really settled in at the store before we even think about starting a family.”

  We all sit and dig out our notebooks. I order a Camomile tea, and Maeve orders a Chai latte. We catch up while we wait for Corrie — she’s always late.

  When she finally makes her grand entrance, she’s hard not to notice. She’s dressed in all white: white fur coat, white jeans, tall white boots, and matching white knitted beret, scarf and gloves. And she looks amazing. Only Corrie could get away with that — her small frame suits it.

  Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She greets Maeve first. “Hey girl, you finally made it.” Then, she gives Gabbie a big hug and rubs her belly quickly, and finally a kiss on the cheek for me.

  I’m brimming with excitement too. Gabbie might have a baby on the way, and Maeve has her new store, but I’m going to Paris!

  “So, I have exciting news,” I announce, full of barely contained excitement. They pause and stare at me, wide-eyed. I’m typically pretty mellow, so this is unusual for me.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” Corrie asks, in that-would-be-the-end-of-the-world tone.

  I laugh. “Nope.”

  “You’re engaged?” Maeve says and peeks at my hand.

  I smile. “Nope.”

  “Well, what is it?” Gabbie asks. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

  “I’m going to Paris in April. My mom’s getting married.”

  “Really?” Corrie, says, surprised. “Isn’t she like, about seventy?”

  I smile. “She’s only fifty-nine, and besides, there’s no age limit on love.”

  “Is she marrying that Mark guy?” Maeve asks. “The rich guy?”

  I take a hesitant sip of my hot tea. “Yep, and he’s paying for me and a guest to go to Paris.”

  “Wow,” Maeve says. “I’m your best friend, aren’t I?”

  I laugh. “Well, you all are,” I point out. “I’m not sure who to take.”

  “You’re not taking Oscar?” Gabbie asks.

  I roll my eyes and notice for the first time that it’s one of those old-fashioned tiled tin ceilings. “Don’t remind me,” I say. “We had a whole fight about it because I don’t want him to come. I just think it’s too much for us. I really don’t want to get serious.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gabbie bites her bottom lip. “Seems like you’re afraid of getting too close.”

  “Well…” I’m at a loss for words.

  “You like him,” Corrie teases. “You really like him.”

  I shake my head. “Let’s stop talking about Oscar. So who’s in?” I ask.

  “I’m in,” Corrie says. “But tell your future step daddy that I can cover my own way.”

  Of course she can — Corrie’s soon-to-be-ex is a successful attorney, just like Mark, my new stepfather, in fact. She has more than enough money to spend, which is one of the reasons she always looks so fabulous.

  “I’d love to go but I’ll be going into my third trimester,” Gabbie says. “And the kids…”

  I can see the disappointment in her eyes. This is exactly why I don’t want marriage and kids — too many sacrifices. I’m not sure if that makes me a selfish person, but I don’t care. There’s no one looking out for me, but me.

  “I’d love to, too,” Maeve says, excited. “I’m in… I’m busy at the store, and that’ll be when the new spring collection is in, busy time of year…but I can make it work.”

  Maeve has been to Paris, more than once. And actually, so have Gabbie and Corrie. Oscar’s the only one who hasn’t been. My heart sinks again. Why does he keep doing this to me? Why do I care so much? It’s those big puppy dog eyes of his. I hated the look on his face the last time I saw him.

  I wonder when the socks will arrive.

  “Well, it looks like you and me, kiddoes,” I say to Corrie and Maeve. “Trip to Paris!”

  Corrie throws her arms up. “Whoo-hoo. Girls’ trip.”

  I laugh. I’m happy to be going with Maeve and Corrie. Out of the four of us, Corrie’s the most fun. They don’t speak a word of French, but mine is pretty good, so we’ll do just fine, I’m sure. I’m getting pretty excited. It’s going to be a blast.

  Now, if I could only stop thinking about Oscar.

  4

  THE RESTAURANT IS ABSOLUTELY stunning, all stainless windows and mahogany wood. It’s called The Octagon, and is actually in the shape of an octagon. I’ve never been here before. Of course, I haven’t — this isn’t the kind of place I usually frequent. A glass of wine costs more than a pair of my boots. Mind you, I shop mostly at thrift stores.

  My eyes are practically bulging out of my head as I peruse the menu, and the prices of the entrées. I try to be inconspicuous as I flip through. Mark is sitting right in front of me, next to my lovely mother. They make a beautiful older couple. He’s only two years older than her, but like her, he looks amazing for his age — picture Pierce Brosnan.

  I’m happy for her. I’m happy she’s found love. She’s had a tou
gh life, putting up with my deadbeat dad all these years. She’s such a sweet person — I just want the best for her.

  “I’m thinking of having the garlic shrimp,” she announces.

  “Good choice,” I say. I know how she loves shrimp.

  “Actually, love,” Mark says. “The flank steak is excellent. I think it’s a better choice for you, with your anemia. Look at you, you’re white as a ghost tonight.”

  What the…

  I look at my mother, whose head is down, staring at the menu. “You’re probably right, darling,” she concedes.

  She looks slightly defeated, just like she did with my father sometimes. In Mark’s defense, she does look a little sickly. Her skin is so white against the dark fabric of her black dress. She looks like Morticia Adams. The woman could use some iron. I’m always telling her to eat baby spinach and lentils and beans.

  I stare down at my little black dress. I’m also very fair, like my mother. Oscar says my dark hair against my pale skin is striking. I’ve worn high platform heels with a ribbon detail, one of the few fancy pairs of shoes I own. When I was younger, I could have never worn an outfit like this, but yoga and a good diet have their benefits.

  The server asks us for our drink selection. Mark orders glasses of water and two bottles of wine for the table; a red and a white.

  “I’ve ordered you the shrimp cocktail,” he tells me. “It’s amazing.”

  “Yes, it is,” my mother says, beaming.

  My mother is in her element here — she loves all things fancy — nice restaurants, fancy trips, pretty clothing.

  “I’m sorry you won’t get the chance to meet Samantha,” Mark goes on. “She’s in New York, but she’ll definitely be out for the wedding. You’ll meet her then.”

  “I can’t wait. How old is she again?”

  “She’s thirty. My son is about your age. He’s twenty-eight.”

  Interesting…

  “What’s he like?” I ask, in an attempt to make conversation.

  “Well, he’s an attorney like myself. Works for my firm actually. He’s a hobby photographer, and quite the ladies’ man,” he adds with a smirk. “And he’s always late.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Mark checks his watch again. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. I keep telling him that tardiness is completely inconsiderate, but he doesn’t listen.”

  I study the man who will soon be my new father; all class: perfect hair, flashy suit and shiny cufflinks. Mom could do worse. Anyone, after my loser dad, would be an improvement.

  “Your mother was chronically late when we first met,” he tells me. “But I whipped her into shape. She knows I won’t accept it.”

  I bite my lip. He sounds a bit controlling, but who am I to judge.

  The shrimp cocktail arrives, and I can’t believe my eyes. These are the most massive shrimps I’ve ever seen. Mark has ordered two orders, with two shrimps each. Or should I say ‘prawns’.

  “Help yourself,” Mark urges with a wide smile.

  I grab one and dip it into the accompanying cocktail sauce. “These look great.” I bite into the huge shrimp and savor my first bite.

  I close my eyes, enjoying the taste. I don’t often indulge in food. I rarely treat myself. I’m a bit of a zealot, I admit, but at least I’m healthy now.

  A voice startles me. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  It takes just a second for my brain to process the sound, the sound of a man’s voice, relatively young, not too deep. A Vermont accent not much different than my own. Yet, there’s something chilling about it, something that makes me uncomfortable, on edge.

  When I open my eyes, I recognize him in an instant. Before my brain can even process him, my body reacts to him in ways that completely surprise me. Who would have thought that after ten years, he could still affect me this way. I feel nauseated, the taste of bile rises in my throat. A few seconds ago, I was completely fine, but now I’m clammy and hot. My hands are shaking, and my voice is gone, just like it always was around him years ago.

  He hasn’t changed one bit. He still has the same piercing blue eyes and dirty blond hair, always kept a little too long. He still has that laissez-faire air of a boy who knows he has the world at his feet.

  I fell hopelessly in love with him the first day I met him, a warm day in September, in seventh grade. He was the new kid on the block, and I was the shy self-conscious overweight girl. We’d met at the corner store next to the school. I would often sneak over there to buy treats because my mom wouldn’t let me have any — there were no sweets at our house. Dessert once a week was the rule.

  I had bought a chocolate bar and a bag of jujubes. When I’d accidentally dropped the bag, and quite a few had fallen out, I was devastated. Matt picked them up quickly, one by one. “Five second rule,” he said, and popped one in his mouth. He gave me the other ones. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I fell in love that instant.

  We sat together on the picnic bench next to the store. He popped his bag of Doritos open and offered me one. I politely declined.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to him, “for saving my jujubes. I don’t get to have candy often.”

  “Me either.” He helped himself to another Dorito. “My mother is a health freak. My dad is a workaholic.”

  I studied him carefully from head to toe. We were from different worlds. He was obviously a rich kid. His shoes alone were probably worth more than my whole wardrobe.

  “Me too,” I told him. “My mother won’t let me have candy either.”

  “Why?” he asked, as if it were not completely obvious. One look at me was enough to answer that question.

  I stared at the ground as I dug into my bag of jujubes and reached for another one. “She thinks I’m fat. She says I need to lose weight.”

  He smiled. “Don’t listen to her. Parents don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Did he really not see it? Did he think I was just fine the way I was? My mother didn’t. And my dad certainly didn’t either. Unlike my mom, he wasn’t polite about it. He’d always call me his ‘little tubs’.

  “Are you new here?” I asked, an attempt to make conversation, and to learn everything there was to know about him.

  “Yeah, we just moved here. My dad just started a real estate law firm. Apparently, the real estate market in this town is booming.”

  I smiled. “I don’t know much about that.” I thought about my sad little apartment, and knew I’d never invite him to my place.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kayla,” I said. “Kayla Wilson.”

  He offered me his hand with a big smile. He had the biggest, brightest most charming grin I’d ever seen. “Matt Moore.”

  Butterflies were dancing in my stomach. “Nice to meet you, Matt Moore.”

  From that moment on, I was obsessed. I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, possibly more. I couldn’t even let my twelve-year old brain go there.

  I had no clue that it was actually the start of my own personal nightmare.

  5

  “IT’S FINE,” MOM SAYS to him. “You’re only about twenty minutes late. We were having fun catching up with Kayla. I don’t see her enough these days.”

  Mark is not impressed. “It’s not fine. It’s disrespectful is what it is.”

  Matt’s gaze is glued to me. He looks completely confused, like he’s desperately trying to place me. I can’t believe he doesn’t remember me. He only made my life hell for six years, and he doesn’t even have the decency to remember me. I have changed a lot, in his defense. A loss of eighty pounds, makeup and caramel highlights will definitely render a woman unrecognizable.

  He offers me his hand, in the exact same manner he did all those years ago. “Matt Moore… I know you…”

  He can’t take his eyes off me.

  “Kayla Wilson,” I tell him. “We were in junior high and high school together.”

  His jaw drops, and his gaze travels
slowly down the length of my body, down my little black dress, to my platform heels, and back up again. “Wow… whoa… Kayla Wilson. You changed a lot! I didn’t even recognize you.”

  My heart is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. I should go, but I’m frozen under his stare.

  “Yes, Kayla changed a lot. She lost eighty pounds,” Mom announces proudly. “Doesn’t she look amazing?”

  “She does,” Matt says, his eyes still glued to me. “God, you look fantastic, Kayla.”

  I’m surprised he remembers my name.

  “She’s a yoga instructor now,” Mom goes on.

  Shut the hell up, Mom, I want to scream.

  I’m light-headed, and I grab the edge of the table for support. “I… I’m sorry,” I say, my words weak. “I… I need to go… t-to the washroom.”

  I grab my clutch and dash off. My feet are unsteady in my high shoes, my body is stiff. I find it challenging to put one foot in front of the other. I move slowly because an image of me toppling over in front of everyone haunts me. I turn briefly and venture a look at Matt — he’s still watching me.

  When I finally round the corner, and reach the safety of the hall leading to the washrooms, away from his sight, I let out a long breath of relief. As soon as I find myself in the ladies’, the bile rises in my throat, and I know exactly where I’ll be in a few seconds.

  When I was in high school, it was a usual occurrence — me, hidden away in a washroom stall, one hand wrapped around a twist of my hair, and the other pressed down my throat. I hid my bulimia for almost two years before my mother figured it out. Ever since, I’ve had issues with eating.

  I haven’t done this in a long time, and it’s not exactly voluntary at this point. I won’t need to stick my finger down my throat. Occasionally, if I get extremely nervous, the reflex to vomit hits me. I’m much better now. I exercise, eat healthy, and never binge and purge anymore, but my body remembers. It remembers the relief purging gave. It readies itself for it when needed.

  The act of it is so familiar, so easy, as I lean over the toilet. Thankfully, this is a high-end restaurant and the washroom is spotless. This is one of the cleanest toilets I’ve ever vomited in. It even smells of lilac in here. I’m also thankful there’s no one else in here. I cry as I vomit.