One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  Thankfully, Mom is still in the bath as we gather Mark’s things: clothing, papers and wallet, and a bottle of gin.

  “I need his toiletries,” Matt tells me. “His toothbrush and mouth guard and stuff.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I knock gently on the bathroom door. “Mom?”

  I hear her voice and I open the door slowly. She’s still crying, staring at the wall. An empty wine glass sits by the bath.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Never been happier,” she says sarcastically. “What do you think?”

  “Well, tomorrow’s another day, sweetie,” I say, echoing her own words, words she used to tell me all the time when I had a bad day.

  She smiles at me. “That’s true. Life goes on.”

  I sit on the edge of the tub, careful not to look at her because she’s naked and I don’t particularly like to see my mother naked. She looks great, but still… “I’ll stay with you tonight, if that’s okay. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She nods quietly.

  “And tomorrow, we’ll do something nice. There’s no reason we should let this whole thing ruin our trip to Paris.”

  She feigns a smile. “I agree.”

  “Okay, I just need to get Mark’s toiletries. He’s apparently staying at a friend’s, and he promised to stay out of your hair tonight.”

  “He better.”

  I hop off the edge of the tub and quickly gather Mark’s things; surprisingly lots of toiletries for a man. His toiletries bag is practically the size of a briefcase — he’s obviously a vain man.

  I hurry out and give Matt the bag. “Thanks for everything,” I tell him. “For handling everything.”

  “No problem,” he says. “Good job, by the way. We work well together.”

  I bring a finger to my mouth, a sign for him to shut the hell up. I really don’t want my mom to know I played a role in this whole mess. I’ll tell her myself when the time is right.

  As soon as Matt leaves, I text Oscar.

  I’m going to stay with my mom tonight. Can you take Corrie home?

  —

  Sure. Is your mom okay?

  —

  She’ll be fine.

  —

  But I do want to finish what we started… ;)

  Visions of our time together in the library fill my brain; my leg hiked up over his shoulder, his head between my thighs, that impish sinfully sexy grin of his.

  Me too.

  I suddenly wonder about Sophie.

  What happened to Sophie?

  I watch the dots dance as I impatiently wait for his reply. I desperately want to know what the deal is between him and Sophie.

  She was going on about how this was probably all your mom’s fault. And that she was a flaky American. That Mark was such a catch: handsome, rich and so charming. We had a fight, and I offered her a ride home, but she stormed off. I don’t particularly want to see her again.

  I can’t lie… his reply makes me very, very happy.

  Sweet dreams! I reply.

  Sweet dreams to you too. Dream about me, will ya. I know I’ll be dreaming of you.

  My heart swells. So sweet.

  You and me later… 69? xo, he writes.

  I laugh and roll my eyes.

  Why did you have to ruin it, Oscar? Your last message was so sweet…

  —

  What? Since when do you not like the 69?

  —

  That’s not the point.

  —

  Okay, let me go back…

  Sweet dreams, my beautiful princess.

  —

  Much better, I reply.

  —

  Luv ya, he writes.

  I can’t quite bring myself to return the sentiment. I feel it, but I can’t say it.

  xoxo, I write instead.

  Mom and I are tangled in the silky sheets of her pristine King sized bed. I’ve borrowed a loose t-shirt of hers, and I feel like an intruder in this lovely room, like any minute, a guard will barge in and drag me out, and tell me I don’t belong there. We talk about her relationship with Mark. We also talk about my deadbeat dad. She seems to have lost all faith in men. I remind her there still are a few good ones out there. I tell her she’s beautiful and sweet, and she’ll find the right one eventually because she deserves it. She finally falls asleep and the sight of her sleeping peacefully fills me with happiness. When she’s sleeping, she doesn’t hurt. And when she doesn’t hurt, neither do I.

  28

  Betrayal

  Familial betrayal is, to me, the most heartbreaking kind — because if you can’t trust your family to love you and protect you, who can you really trust? — Alexandra Bracken

  Betrayal is one of the hardest emotion you can experience in a relationship, be it romantic or not. Often, a relationship can’t survive betrayal. Betrayal is more than a lie or deceit. Betrayal is broken trust. The betrayed struggle with their emotions, might miss the one who betrayed them, might reminisce about the good times, but forgiveness is hard to come by when one is betrayed. Unfortunately, the betrayed is often as miserable as the rejected.

  The most common type of betrayal is probably infidelity, but betrayal comes in all shapes and sizes. It can also occur when someone you trust betrays your confidence, does something offensive behind your back, lies to you and makes you believe you can trust them.

  The emotions involved in being betrayed run the gamut between shock, grief, doubt, the sensation of being violated, the fear of being harmed by those around us, and at its extreme, even obsession. Obsession to seek revenge on those who have betrayed us, the intense desire to make them pay.

  Betrayal leads to cynicism, to the inability to trust. It makes us wary. Betrayal is catching. One who is betrayed will become cynical, and eventually betray someone else.

  My poor mother was not only betrayed by her fiancé tonight. She was also betrayed by her daughter. I’ve gone behind her back, and manipulated circumstances in order to throw her smack in the middle of Mark’s deception. I was a key player in her heartbreak. It doesn’t matter that I did it with the best of intentions, that I did it because I love her. I’m still guilty.

  And here I am, by her side, consoling her. I feel like such a traitor. But she needs me right now, more than ever, like I needed her all those years when my heart was broken.

  I will tell her the truth someday soon, but not right now. It just isn’t the right time. I’ll confess when I feel it’s the right time to do so.

  Until then, I’ll remain by her side. Like a good daughter should.

  Shakespeare & Company was on the list of local sights we didn’t want to miss. The iconic bookstore is a spot where one can buy English books, and was high on Mom’s list — she knows everything about it.

  As soon as we get there, I’m enthralled. The place is quaint; a charming green façade, bins of old books, the smell of which permeates the air, even outside. A colorful myriad of books, both new and old, line the walls. Old wooden beams run along the rustic ceiling. There’s a tabby cat in a wicker chair in a corner, and a friendly lady with cat-eye glasses greets us.

  Mom is like a kid at a candy store — she loves reading, and anything old and vintage, so she’s completely in her element here.

  As we start perusing the books, opening spines carefully, breathing in that old musty book smell, Mom tells me all about the place. “Did you know that this place was originally in the sixth arrondissement when it first opened? Hemingway used to come here all the time. So did F. Scott Fitzgerald and a bunch of other famous authors.”

  “All those people in Midnight in Paris,” I add.

  She lights up, flipping through the pages of a pink Anita Shreve novel. “Oh, I loved that movie.”

  “It was reopened here in 1951,” she tells me. “You know who loves this place?” she asks with a glint in her eye. “Antoine.”

  An idea hits me. “Why don’t you text him. See if he can meet us here.”

&n
bsp; She shakes her head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly…”

  “Just tell him that you’re here, that’s all.”

  She grins like a giddy junior high girl with a crush. “Oh, why the hell not.”

  I rudely spy over her shoulder as she writes him a quick text.

  Guess where I am? Shakespeare & Company!

  We keep wandering around as we both anxiously wait for his reply.

  “I still can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe the wedding was called off at the last minute,” she says, her nose buried in a book. “What a mess.”

  “At least you didn’t get jilted at the altar like my friend, Maeve.”

  She blows a long breath. “Thank goodness. I don’t think I could handle that kind of humiliation. How is your friend, by the way?”

  “She’s great! Remember, I told you all about it? She’s engaged actually… found her true love.”

  Mom lights up. “Well, that’s great.”

  “She wanted to come to Paris,” I explain, “but her clothing store was just too busy. Spring season.”

  “She has a clothing store?” Mom asks. “We’ll need to go check it out.”

  I smile. “Well, she lives up north now, in a small town. But I suppose that yes, we could visit her one day.”

  Her phone pings and we both jump up like eager bunnies.

  I’m taking care of all the cancellations, Mark writes.

  I’m very sorry. I hope we can get past this. I still love you very much, Florence.

  Mom looks completely deflated.

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You look like someone ran over your new puppy. Tell me honestly… Is it Mark? Or is it because it wasn’t Antoine?”

  She looks up at me with vulnerable eyes. “It was because it wasn’t Antoine. He’s probably forgotten me already.”

  I squeeze her tightly. “I’m sure he hasn’t.”

  Her phone pings again.

  Sorry, I was busy with a client. I’d love to meet you there but I can’t. How about we meet at the Marché aux puces tomorrow? You’d love it. Sophie told me all about what happened. I’m so sorry, Florence. :(

  Mom is smiling wide. He’s made her whole day. I find this very interesting. Here is this woman who was just about to marry another man, completely smitten with this very sexy French silver fox. How much did she really love Mark?

  “Mom, did you really love Mark?”

  She cocks a brow in surprise, and is quiet for the longest time before she finally says, “I think I liked the idea of him, more than him,” she tells me. “The fancy dinners, the gifts, the adoration… the whole Cinderella thing…” her words trail as she stares off in the distance, looking at the books lining the walls, but not really seeing them. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

  I wrap an arm around her. “No, Mom. You’re not pathetic. You’re a woman. You’re a romantic. You have a big heart. And guys like Mark take advantage of women like you. And you’re right… he does adore you. I can see it in the way he looks at you and treats you. But the problem is, he also adores lots of other women too. Men like him are addicted to women. They need their fix. They need the rush of attraction, the ego boost.”

  She shakes her head. “A little voice kept saying he was too good to be true, but I kept telling it to shut up. He didn’t drink much or touch drugs. He had a good job and his affairs in order, lots of class and great manners. I guess I just chose to turn a blind eye to the women. I wanted to believe he was perfect.”

  “What about Antoine?” I ask. “Is this another Cinderella thing? The whole sexy classy Frenchman thing. He certainly knows how to pull off a scarf.”

  She laughs. “I actually like Antoine a lot… not just the idea of him. He’s sweet and kind, and real.”

  “And not too hard on the eyes either.”

  She smiles, and takes my hand as we head to the register to buy three books. She tells me she’s going to start on one right away… a welcome distraction.

  My phone pings as we head out of the store. My pulse races at the sight of Oscar’s name.

  Hey beautiful. I’m waiting. Naked and ready. And by ready, I mean… you know what I mean.

  So admittedly not the most romantic text, but it does make me smile. And a little horny.

  “So, um… Mom. Are we going back home?” I ask as we head back to the Plaza Athénée. There’s been a lot of walking which I’m not used to, but I’m loving it.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll have a quiet day and get lost in my book,” she tells me.

  I sidestep a small elderly woman and her little Bichon Frisé. “I’m going to head back to my apartment,” I tell her. She shoots me a scowl, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong.

  “What’s the situation with you and Oscar?” she asks. “Is he seeing Sophie? I know you two are casual, but I thought you kind of had something special going. Does it make you crazy jealous to see him with her?”

  It does.

  “Well, not really,” I lie. “I think they’re over. It didn’t really work out.” Because I’m the only woman for him.

  She grins widely. “Well, you hurry and go home. Get yourself some good Paris sex.”

  I laugh out loud. “Okay, Mom. If you insist.”

  I text Oscar back.

  Do not go anywhere. I’m coming.

  His reply is instant. Oh, you’ll be coming all right, if I have anything to say about it.

  I shake my head, a goofy grin plastered on my face.

  My phone pings, and I’m expecting another slightly inappropriate text from Oscar. I’m surprised when I see Matt’s name.

  You still owe me another date.

  I’m not too sure what to reply, but I know I need to say something. I just can’t leave the man hanging.

  Yes… I reply.

  —

  I want to take you to this cool bar I know tomorrow night. I’m with my dad tonight… he’s a mess.

  As he should be. Pervy bastard.

  Ok, I write back, not quite knowing what else to say. A night at a bar doesn’t sound especially romantic. I can let him down gently there. He can drown his sorrows in beer. That is if he actually cares enough to be sorrowed.

  Sounds great. I’ll fill u in on the deets tmrw.

  I hate it when people use the word ‘deets’. I made the right decision — this would have never worked out.

  When I get back to the apartment, it’s a mess. Corrie’s stuff is all over the place, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I tiptoe to our room and find Oscar stretched out on the bed, completely naked with a huge erection. He loves to greet me this way, and I can’t complain.

  I bite my lip. “I just got here. How did you get hard so fast?”

  His grin is impish. “What can I say, it’s a skill,” he tells me proudly. “I’ve been teasing myself, waiting for you.”

  His hand is wrapped around his hard-on, and it makes me want him. I dive onto the bed eagerly.

  “Not so fast,” he says. “Get off the bed.”

  I slide back off the mattress, confused. “What?”

  He smiles. “I want you to strip for me. I want to see every inch of you before I have you,” he says, still stroking himself. “I wanted to fuck you so badly last night. I’ve been dreaming of your pussy all day, baby.” The sight of him is hot, and so are the filthy words coming out of his beautiful mouth.

  I smile. I want to play. I’ve got about a million items of clothing on. I start with the woolen hat. I pull it off my head and flick it at him. He grins playfully. Next, I work on the scarf wrapped around my neck, untangling it slowly and letting it fall to the floor. I then reach low and pull off my chunky ankle boots. I still have my jacket on.

  He runs a hand through his thick hair, the other still wrapped around his cock. “You’re being cruel… this is painful. Speed it up, baby.”

  I don’t speed it up. I tease. This is a game of anticipation, a slow dance. His eyes never leave mine as I slowly slide down the zipper of my jacket
and throw it to the floor. I reach my arms around myself and pull off my sweater.

  He chews at his bottom lip. “I love that bra,” he says, his words edged with a groan. “But I want it off. Show me those gorgeous tits of yours.”

  I trace a finger along the laced edge of my silky red brassiere. I’m wearing the matching panties. This was planned, of course. I knew we’d be making love today.

  I reach behind my back, and toy with the button and zipper of my skirt. I quickly get the skirt off — I’m getting eager. I remind myself to slow it down again, to not get swept away by lust.

  “You’re killing me,” he moans.

  I smile down at him. “The best things come to those who wait.”

  29

  FINALLY, I’M ALMOST NAKED, in nothing but my laced undies. I trail a finger slowly along the scalloped edge of my bra, and stroke the swell of my breast.

  Oscar closes his eyes.

  I decide to tease him further. Just when he thinks I’m about to peel off my bra, I dive my hand down to my panties, and I slip it under the lacy fabric.

  “Damn, girl,” he chokes out.

  I’m so aroused. I tease myself, rub my fingers over my sweet swollen spot. I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. I get lost in my own touch, and bring myself close. When I open my eyes again, Oscar is still watching me intently, stroking himself slowly. “Make yourself come,” he whispers. “I want to see you get off.”