by Roya Carmen
I decide to wear my hair in a casual loose bun, and apply a smoky eye and nude lips. I’m happy with the final results. I debate whether to put on mascara or not — there will probably be crying tonight.
A ding on my phone startles me. I’m disappointed when I realize it’s not Oscar. It’s Matt.
Can I pick you up? Can we go to the plaza together?
Hell, yes. There’s no way I’m walking all the way over there in these shoes, and getting a taxi in Paris is a nightmare.
Can Corrie come too?
—
Of course! Pick you up at five?
—
Great! Thank you.
I dash over to Corrie’s room. She’s just putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She’s wearing a tiny red dress and heels, and her beautiful blonde hair is worn down.
“You look amazing.”
She turns to me and her gaze lights up. It lingers on me for a second or two. “Wow… so do you.”
“Thank you.”
“You look like an angel,” she tells me as she applies Mac Russian Red, her signature color. “And I look like a little whore.”
I laugh. “You do not… you just look really sexy, that’s all.”
She smirks. “You’re a sweet angel, and I’m a little devil. We make quite the pair.”
I check my watch. “Let’s go. Matt is picking us up at five.”
“Oh, is he now?” she says, a playful grin lining her lips. “Do you two have something going?”
“Uh…” I stammer.
“I love it. This whole love hate thing. The bully turns lover trope you two have got going on.”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing going on between us.” Well, there was that one kiss. I still can’t believe that happened.
“Oh, trust me, Kayla. Once he sees you in that dress, he won’t be able to resist you.”
I smile at the thought of that. Do I want him to want me? Or do I want him to resist me? Matt Moore and me. I just can’t see it.
23
MATT PICKS US UP in a sleek white town car, complete with snobby French driver. Or should I say ‘chauffeur’. Matt looks fantastic in a classy dark grey three-piece suit, and fashionable brown belt and shoes. Sparkly cufflinks peek from under the cuffs of his blue shirt. His hair is slicked back, coupled with a five o-clock shadow lining his jaw. He smiles when he guides the both of us into the car, a hand casually pressed on the small of my back.
“Damn, boy,” Corrie whispers in my ear.
I smile and cuddle close to her in the back. Matt climbs in and sits next to me on the other side. I’m sandwiched between two beautiful blond people. I wonder what is going on in Matt’s mind. Is he picturing a naughty threesome? He’s a man… of course he is.
I enjoy the view outside the car window. The architecture is overwhelming, and the energy of the city makes me a little nervous. I always feel more at ease in quiet, calm environments. Nature is my happy place.
What if Oscar gets serious with Sophie? It’s just a matter of time until he finds someone who is willing to commit to him. It probably won’t be Sophie because she lives in Paris, but it will be someone. I wonder if he’ll still want to go hiking with me if we are no longer friends-with-benefits. We could remain friends, I suppose, but I can’t see that ever working out.
The building is glorious — I am in awe. It’s a classic example of old European architecture. The outside walls are white painted brick, dotted with black wrought-iron balconies trimmed with red flowers and topped with red awnings.
The venue is classy as hell. Mark might be a total womanizer, but the man knows how to throw a party. The doorman smiles at both Corrie and I as we enter. Matt walks to the concierge desk and speaks with a tall Frenchman in broken French. I’m mildly charmed. Meanwhile, Corrie and I are gawking at the coffered ceiling, sparkly chandeliers and bigger-than-life pillars and arches, like two bums at Buckingham Palace. Suddenly, I feel unworthy in my cheap Forever 21 dress.
Corrie is probably wearing designer, and she’s got her Louboutins on — she fits right in. “Wow, this place is fantastic. Mark might be a total jerkoff, but he knows how to pick a venue.”
“Just because you’re rich, doesn’t mean you have class,” I point out.
“Truth.”
Matt finally finds his way back to us. “We’re a little early,” he tells us. “Why don’t we sit here for a while, and see if we can meet up with anyone else.”
We settle at a small table, topped with a centerpiece of white roses. Corrie and Matt make small talk. Matt tells her all about his dad’s real estate law practice. Corrie talks about her soon-to-be-ex’s commercial law practice.
They’re boring me to pieces. I almost want to take a little nap right here, in this very fancy silk upholstered arm chair. My eyes are half closed but they pop open when I spot Oscar and Sophie walk in. He’s dressed beautifully; grey slacks and a black jacket, worn with his Abercrombie & Fitch black t-shirt. He looks good.
But not as good as Sophie.
I sigh.
What is it with French women? They always looks so beautiful and classy. She’s wearing a cute polka-dot black dress. Her hair is up in an intricate bun, her lips are dotted red, and the soles of her tall heels are red too — probably Louboutins. She looks like a precious porcelain doll.
I look down at my shoes — I got them on sale, off season, for nineteen dollars. I had a $20 gift card so they essentially cost nothing. I loved them, but now I hate them. I stare at her shoes, obsessed with them. I bet they’re not even comfortable. Mine might be cheap, but they’re pretty comfy.
I inch closer to Corrie, and bend my mouth to her ear. “Are those Louboutins?” I ask with a nod in Sophie’s direction.
Corrie studies her feet, brows furrowed. “Can’t quite tell.”
Sophie spots us first. She smiles wide — she looks like a perky model in a toothpaste commercial. “Oh, hello, my friends.”
We’re not your friends, you French hussy.
I shake my head. I’m not quite sure what’s come over me.
Oscar turns around and catches sight of me. He does a double-take, and his gaze darts quickly over me before settling on Matt and Corrie. He doesn’t look at me again. Not once.
We all exchange elevator hugs and fake French kissy-kissies. Following a bit of idle chit-chat, Sophie suggests that we move along to the dining room. She knows where it is — she’s apparently been here before. As we walk to our destination, we’re trailing Sophie and Oscar. They’re huddled close together, and his large hand finds its way to her small waist.
“Those are the real deal,” Corrie whispers in my ear. “Louboutins.”
Bitch.
The dining room is stunning; sparkly chandeliers, ornate crown molding, gold balconies and muted shades of creams and whites with red accents. The centerpieces are majestic arrangements of red and cream roses. Corrie fits right in with her red dress.
We are led to a private room, which is just as nice, but a little darker; coffered ceilings and mahogany walls accentuated with classic paintings and Victorian mirrors. A long dining table grounds the space. It’s hiding under a crisp white table cloth dotted with small vases of white roses.
Corrie and I both take a seat next to each other, on the pretty upholstered gold and cream chairs. Matt sits next to me, on the other side. The three of us seem to be inseparable. I feel protected by them, invincible against Oscar and his perfect, sophisticated date. Three always outnumbers two.
Oscar and Sophie sit across from us, and I spot him checking me out. He jerks his gaze as soon as I catch him. Such a man — a beautiful woman by his side, yet he can’t help looking at another one. And all this time, I was under the impression that Oscar wasn’t a player like the rest of them. I was so wrong.
I study my place setting; a large gold charter plate topped with an elegant white plate, shiny flatware, wine and water glasses, and a rolled up linen napkin and menu, tied with red ribbons. No one has touc
hed their menus, but it’s just the five of us right now.
I pull the bow off and peruse the fixed menu. Six courses. Fancy French food I don’t quite understand. My eyes scan the copy and try to make out what it all is. I bet Sophie knows exactly what she’ll be eating. For me, it will be mostly a surprise — that’s kind of fun, I guess. Between the three of us, we deduce that we will be eating garlic bread, snails and calamari as appetizer, a pear avocado salad, duck, and chocolate mousse topped with a berry compote for dessert. I’m thrilled — I love mousse.
I’m suddenly famished.
Mom and Mark walk in, accompanied by my sister, Sarah, who has just flown in. She’s with her friend, Emma. She’s been spending a lot of time with Emma lately, and Mom has been wondering if she’s secretly gay. It would explain the divorce, she says. But I know the reason for the divorce — her ex was an utter asshole. She couldn’t show up earlier because she’s very busy being a family law attorney. Yes, that’s what I have to live up to — she’s probably wearing Louboutins too.
The smile on Mom’s face kills me — she’s so happy, and her whole world is about to crumble. I feel like I hold a terrible secret in my hands, a time bomb which could go off any minute. It’s a horrible feeling. Matt turns to me with a sad expression, as if he’s feeling exactly the same way. He probably is.
They exchange kisses and hugs with everyone, and finally settle down at the table. Mom looks completely flustered, and Mark looks cool as a cucumber. The server pours wine all around, lots of wine. Oscar and Sophie are making googly eyes at each other. I swig down a gulp of red. I need it. I just know it’s going to be one of those nights.
My mother’s best friend, Natalie, and her husband Gordon show up shortly after, followed by acquaintances and friends of Mark; people I don’t know. Matt’s sister, Samantha, follows, and we’re quickly introduced.
And finally, Nicole makes a fashionable late appearance. Mark’s gaze lingers on her as she takes a seat next to Corrie. He studies the both of them for a second or two.
Yep… probably picturing a threesome.
All together, there are eighteen of us. I wonder how Oscar got Sophie invited… probably the same way I got Nicole invited.
The food is rich and delicious; lots of butter and sauces. I worry that my system might not be able to handle it, because it’s so used to healthy foods. Yet, I can’t help but indulge.
Every now and then, I catch Oscar’s gaze, and we exchange smiles. At one point, Sophie notices us and shoots me the stink-eye. And damn, if she’s not really good at it. Another tidbit I’ve recently discovered: French women are very good at the stink eye.
Seriously? She’s known him about fifteen minutes. I’ve known him over three years.
My phone pings. I quickly dig it out of my small purse; a pretty pink satin evening clutch embroidered with colorful flowers and butterflies. The handle is a string of beads. I got it at a thrift shop for just five dollars. My whole outfit costs just under fifty dollars. My breath hitches when I realize the text is from Oscar.
You look amazing. I’ve seen the dress, but never seen the shoes before. Are those new?
I smile and venture a look up at him. He’s watching me with a playful expression. Sophie is busy chatting with the woman sitting next to her.
Yes, they’re new, I tap away, my heart beating a mile a minute.
Well, they are beautiful on you.
Butterflies, very much like the ones on my clutch, whirl around in my stomach.
Thank you. But they are not as nice as Sophie’s shoes.
I wait for his reply with bated breath. I’m excited as I watch him type.
I disagree. I prefer yours.
I smile as I tap, Thank you, and add a smiley face.
To my surprise, he’s not done. I watch him intently as he taps away. I’m surprised by how excited I am. I wonder what he’s writing me. I bite my lip as I wait impatiently for him to finish. My gaze darts around the room — everyone is in conversation, completely oblivious to our little secret naughty conversation.
Finally…
I’d love to pull those ribbons off your ankles, slowly take off those shoes, and kiss your feet softly… move up the curve of your sexy calf, and lick the inside of your soft thigh, until finally, I’d taste your sweet little pussy.
Holy damn. He’s so, so bad. And I’m so, so turned on. He’s being such a player. Such a man. And I’m done with players tonight. There’s already one I need to deal with (Mark), and that’s enough to keep me busy. I don’t have time for sexy shenanigans.
He watches intently as I tap a reply. His expression falls when he reads it.
Aren’t you on a date with Sophie?
He turns his gaze to his phone, and I’m getting mildly annoyed. Yet I’m still very curious.
Yes, but doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun. Texting is harmless.
Now, I’m just getting plain frustrated.
No, it’s not. You’re a dog. That’s so not like you.
He’s still tapping away. Apparently, the conversation is not over.
How are you and your brother getting along?
Now, he’s just starting to piss me off.
Fine, thank you. And he’s NOT my brother!
—
I can’t believe you’re sitting next to him. Are you really dating him?
That’s it. I’m done with this pointless conversation.
None of your business. Bye
He taps away again. My phone pings but I ignore it. As curious as I am, seeing that message could never be as satisfying as the look on his face when I glare at him and don’t bother to look at his reply.
24
Jealousy
The jealous are troublesome to others, but a torment to themselves. — William Penn
OFTEN CONFUSED WITH ENVY, jealousy is one of the worst emotions one can experience. Envy and jealousy are completely different emotions, opposites actually. Envy is wanting what someone else has, whereas jealousy is worry that what you already have might be taken away. Envy is something everyone feels — we all covet happiness, confidence, and beautiful things. As long as we don’t hate people for having the things we covet, we are perfectly healthy.
The green monster rears its ugly head when you truly care about something or someone. When that someone or something is crucial to your happiness and the possibility of someone else stealing it from you can literally drive you insane.
Jealousy, the romantic kind, the possessive kind, is a selfish, narcissistic emotion. It’s about wanting the coveted person or thing all to yourself. It’s about not wanting to share. It’s about wanting to be the only object of someone’s desire. It’s about being adored above everyone else, and wanting to be at the top. It’s a competitive emotion, an ugly emotion.
Jealousy is not unlike refusing to forgive. The only person you are hurting with jealousy is yourself.
Oscar and I clearly care for each other deeply. The thought of losing each other is a scary thing, hence the jealousy. The idea of him being jealous of Matt pulls at my heart strings, and arouses me, as much as I hate to admit it. It means he cares. It means I mean the world to him.
I’ve never considered myself a particularly jealous or hurtful person. But jealousy will make you do crazy things. Purposely trying to make someone else jealous is deceitful. It is a test of sorts. It is a way of testing whether someone cares enough. If they are consumed with jealousy, then they care. Bingo!
Oscar and I have been driving each other crazy, attempting to make each other jealous, testing each other. I know all this business with Sophie is a test. He cares and he wants to make sure I care too. He wants to see it with his own eyes.
Adults play the silliest games when they’re in love.
I really want to speak to Matt or Nicole. I want to know the plan. This needs to go down tonight. The ceremony is Thursday. I check my watch — we officially have about a day and a half to stop this wedding.
We must focus, I
think as I dig my fork into the chocolate mousse. It is mouth-watering. It’s kind of hard to concentrate while I’m eating this slice of heaven. I decide to savor and enjoy the mousse, then I’ll turn my focus to relationship destruction.
Buzzed brains, full stomachs and happy hearts, we all retreat to Mark’s and Mom’s suite up on the top floor. Oscar is saying something in Sophie’s ear, and Mark and Mom are chatting and laughing. Nicole and I make small talk about the venue and how amazing it is.
We board the elevators in two separate groups. Thankfully, Oscar and I are separated. “We’ll have to have a good look around the suite when we first get there,” I tell Nicole.
She nods. “I am sure there are all kinds of secret spots there,” she says in her lightly broken English, a sly grin on her face. My sister eyes her with a confused expression.
The space is amazing, and huge. It’s wide and open, and there’s a spiral stairwell leading to a second floor. I’m surprised by the contemporary sleek decor, so unlike the dining room’s traditional look. As soon as we step in, Nicole and I venture through the space like giddy new homebuyers at a house showing.
There are multiple gathering areas; a small table and four mahogany chairs, upholstered in orange fabric. Lots of orange accents all around. There’s a full scale bar with a barkeep hired for the evening. There are two friendly ladies, dressed in black and white, milling about.
Tall windows surround the space, offering a magnificent view of the city and the Eiffel tower. The sun has already set and the glittering lights are dancing — it’s electric. Such a beautiful, perfect night. Too bad Nicole and I will have to ruin it. The patio doors lead to a lovely balcony, trimmed with red flowers.
