One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  I bite my lip and slide my fingers down my slippery sex, aching for him. But he wants a show tonight, and a show is what he’s going to get.

  I pull my hand out of my panties, still teasing. I turn around and reach for the clasp of my brassiere. I turn my head round and shoot him a flirty wink as I peel off my bra, my heavy breasts drop and it feels so good. When I turn around to face him, my nipples are hard and want to be touched. I stroke them slowly and Oscar growls out loud. “Touch yourself again, baby,” he pleads. “I love it.”

  I oblige and explore under the fabric of my panties again. I know it won’t be long now. I’m ready to get lost in it. I start off slowly, and quickly go faster and harder, striving for that peak of pleasure. My breath hitches, and my heart beats faster and faster as I finally get there. I throw my head back, and moan softly — the sound of my cries echoing off the walls of the small quaint room.

  Everything seems surreal for a moment, and when I finally come to and open my eyes, Oscar is there, right in front of me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me on top of him on the bed. “I need to fuck you, like, yesterday.”

  He flips me over on the bed and I land on all fours. I’m still wearing my panties. With skilled hands, he pulls them down my thighs. I lift my knees to assist him. Despite the fact that I’ve just come, I still want this. I want him inside me so badly.

  He reaches into his pocket, and quickly slips on a condom. My panties are hanging around my left ankle when he grabs a hold of my hips and pulls me up against him. When Oscar gets really turned on, he gets a little rough, which I secretly love.

  He sinks into me, hard. He wastes no time in pushing into me, long and deep. It hurts, but it also feels so good. I love the sounds he makes when he’s getting close. A mere few seconds later, he loses himself and groans against my back as he gets there. His breath is hot and his beard is prickly. As soon as he settles down, he strokes my breasts softly. “Sorry, I kind of lost control there,” he says, breathless. “You’re just so fucking sexy, baby.”

  I turn to him with a smile. “You know I love it.”

  He grins. “I do.” He bites his lip and drags a finger to my pussy. “You want me to touch you… have a little taste?”

  I smile and pull him to me. “No, I just want to cuddle.”

  He wraps his strong arms around me and holds me tight. “That’s my favorite part, you know.”

  I laugh out loud. “You’re so full of shit, Cohen.”

  He cracks up. “You know me too well, Wilson.”

  I’m warm and comfortable in Oscar’s arms. This is where I belong. I’ve had a chance to really reflect these past few weeks. When Matt reappeared in my life, I was brought back to the past, to all those emotions: to the bullying, to my father leaving us, to the feelings of abandonment and worthlessness, and to the idea of not being worthy of love.

  I’ve gotten a lot better these past ten years, but I still have a long way to go. All that baggage has been weighing me down, preventing me from committing to anyone. I’ve been afraid of putting my heart on the line, afraid of getting hurt, of getting abandoned and rejected. If you never take a risk, you can never get hurt.

  I don’t want to live that way anymore. I want to love and be loved. Oscar is not Matt. He’s not my dad either. He loves me the way I am, and I can count on him. He won’t leave me. I can trust him.

  “Were you trying to make me jealous with Sophie?” I ask, wanting to know more about them. “Because if you were, it worked.”

  He draws circles along my arm, his gentle touch barely there. A hint of laughter traces his voice when he replies, “Sorta. Guilty. I wanted you to get a little jealous, and finally see what you were taking for granted.”

  I turn to him. “Have I been taking you for granted?”

  “A little,” he says. “But it’s okay. I don’t mind you using me.”

  I gaze out the window. I can barely make out the blue rooftops in the distance. The street noise fades in the background. “You know I’m messed up, Oscar. You know it’s not about you. I realize that more than ever now. With Matt suddenly in my life, all those old insecurities have floated back to the surface.”

  “I hate that guy,” he says. “I hate what he did to you.”

  “Well, he seems to have changed,” I argue. “For the better.”

  “Probably all an act,” he says. “He thinks you’re hot now. He wants to fuck you.”

  I jerk my head around. “Oscar!”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kayla. I just hate the guy. I hate that he made you hate yourself just because you were carrying a few extra pounds.”

  I’m without words as I lay my head back on his chest.

  “You know how I love curvy girls,” he goes on. “I always have.”

  “I know. I’ve seen pictures of your ex,” I point out. “The evil woman who broke your heart.”

  He laughs. “Yes, she was beautiful, but a total bitch in the end.”

  “It only took you two years to figure it out,” I tease.

  “Remember the first time we met?” he asks. “You know what I thought?”

  “Um… let me think,” I start playfully. “You thought… ‘I want her naked in my bed.’”

  “No, actually, I thought, ‘super cute, but too skinny for my taste.’”

  I jerk up off him, mouth hanging. “You didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I thought you were pretty cute, but you weren’t really my type.”

  “Really?”

  “But then you kept coming round with those homemade muffins, and you were so sweet and beautiful and I completely fell for you.”

  I smile at the memory. “Yeah, I had a pretty big crush on you. I might have not been your type, but you were totally mine.”

  “Those muffins were pretty bad.”

  I laugh. “What? They’re healthy. Made with almond flour and flax seed.”

  He cringes. “Exactly.”

  I’m taken back to those first few weeks — we were always in bed. “Well, you didn’t seem to mind my body too much when we were fucking twenty-four seven.”

  His grin is wicked. “Oh, the first time we fucked, I thought you were the sexiest little thing ever. I loved your sweet little tits and ass,” he tells me. “And I still do.”

  I lie back on him. “Women come in all shapes and sizes, and we’re all beautiful. It’s such a shame that society makes us feel less than. I hate that there’s this stupid standard we all struggle to live up to.” I look up at him, so many painful memories in my heart. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to hate your own body? To want to be someone else?”

  It’s not really a question. It’s just something I say out loud because I need to say it. I’m shocked when his face falls and his gaze suddenly escapes mine. “I do.”

  “What? Seriously, Oscar?” I laugh. “I’ve seen how comfortable you are with your body. Lord knows, I’ve seen you strut around naked around my apartment enough times,” I joke.

  I expect him to chuckle a little and say something snarky, but he’s quiet, not quite himself.

  “I’ve seen pictures of you. You’ve always been painfully good-looking,” I tease, but again, he doesn’t crack even the slightest hint of a smile.

  “Listen, I wanted to take you somewhere,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. “When you were in Montmartre, you didn’t get a chance to hop on the carousel. I know you must have been dying to.”

  I laugh. “You know me too well, buddy.”

  “I do.”

  “You wanna go again?” he asks. “Then we could pop by Moulin Rouge for dinner and a show. Tomorrow?”

  “Ahhhh… there it is. I knew you had an ulterior motive… scantily clad women flinging their legs up while you drink wine and eat steak. Life could be worse, right?”

  He smiles. “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? I can buy us tickets right now,” he says as he reaches for his phone.

  “Yeah, sounds great,” I say, always up for an adventure. He
taps away on his phone and I replay our conversation. What the heck was he talking about? Oscar has always been the most confident, carefree man I’ve ever known, almost annoyingly so.

  Not a care in the world.

  I thought I knew everything about him.

  But maybe I don’t.

  I text Mom, still insanely worried about her. Here I am in one of the most exciting and beautiful cities in the world, and I’m a complete mess. I’m worried about my mom, I’m trying to figure out how to let Matt down easy, and I’m concerned about Oscar and our relationship.

  How are you, Mom? What are you up to? R u still reading? R u up for a movie night? They have some decent movies on DVD here. I can go buy some popcorn.

  Mom might have been a little flaky when I was growing up, but she was always there for me. Every time I came home crying, she was there. She’d go to Blockbuster (back when those still existed) and rent us a few girly movies; usually silly rom-coms. We’d have Diet Coke and popcorn and Twizzlers. We’d have a movie night, I’d laugh at the stupid jokes, and soon enough I’d feel better, much better. I probably wouldn’t survived high school if it weren’t for my mom.

  Just like the old days. What do you think?

  I’m making myself a tea when my phone pings.

  Sounds great. My eyes are getting tired of reading. I need some company.

  —

  Did you eat yet?

  —

  No.

  —

  Okay. Come in about an hour. I have a bit of food here. I’ll whip up something.

  A night in, in Paris. I think that’s a first for me. Oscar will probably want to hang around but I’ll have to ask him to make himself scarce. He and Corrie wanted to see the Catacombs. I have no desire — too cold, dark and morbid for me. I don’t like to be reminded of death. I’m not even a big fan of Halloween to be honest — too many skeletons.

  30

  I KNOW MOM’S NOT QUITE RIGHT because she’s wearing leggings and a loose sweater. That’s the kind of thing I wear daily, but not her. She normally wouldn’t be caught dead in leggings out in public, especially in Paris.

  Funny enough, we’re both wearing black leggings and red tops. “Twinsies,” I cheer. She shoots me a tight smile.

  “Come in,” I urge. “I’ve bought some popcorn, but it’s some kind of fancy stuff. I was looking for some plain old popcorn, but no luck,” I tell her as she slips off her boots. “I did manage to find some Diet Coke, but I couldn’t find Twizzlers. I found some French brand licorice which will probably suck.”

  We make ourselves comfortable at the kitchen table. “How are you?” I ask, still feeling insanely guilty for being at the root of this whole unfortunate turn of events. But it had to be done. She might be hurting now, but in the end, it will be for the best. I just pulled off the Band-Aid really fast.

  She smiles. “I’m good, actually.”

  I cock a brow, curious. There’s something she’s not telling me. I detect a sliver of happiness in those pretty blue eyes of hers. But I decide not to pry.

  The table’s already set. I add tonight’s dinner; a big bowl of pasta I quickly whipped up, and a charcuterie plate, served with Diet Cokes. “So… movie night. What will it be?” I ask. “Lots of choices.” I walk over to the bookcase by the kitchen; about a hundred movies are lined on the shelves.

  Mom says she’s not in the mood for a romantic comedy, so we finally agree on Snatched, a silly comedy with Goldie Hawn and Amy Schumer. We both love Amy, and it’s a mother-daughter comedy — rather fitting.

  And I want Mom to laugh.

  The movie is funny, funny enough for us to forget about our troubles for two hours. The bowl of popcorn is empty, and so is the bag of licorice. Mom is happy.

  “So guess where I’m going tomorrow?” she says.

  My eyes grow wide. “I don’t know… Versailles?” I venture, a random guess. She’d mentioned wanting to see the famous gardens.

  She smiles. “No… Antoine and I are going to Saint Germain… to the flea market.”

  I laugh. “You’re going to a flea market? That’s not really your thing, is it? That’s more my thing.”

  She smiles. “I know, but Antoine says the flea markets here are the most real authentic spots in this city. And I thought about you… how you would love it. Why don’t you tag along?”

  “Well, I don’t want to be a third wheel. And knowing how you and Antoine get along, that’s exactly what I’ll be.”

  She grins playfully. “Why not invite Oscar?”

  The thought of Oscar makes me smile. “Yeah… and maybe Corrie too.”

  “It’s a date!” Mom says, and I wish this very second could be frozen in time. She’s fine now, but how will she fare when Paris is gone, when Antoine is an ocean away? When she’s back in Burlington, with its pedestrian streets, gloomy late spring weather, all alone. Thankfully, she’s held on to her townhouse despite the fact that she was practically living at Mark’s. Perhaps a small part of her knew it wouldn’t work out.

  I kiss her on the cheek when she leaves. She grabs her purse and rushes to go. “Sorry, my driver is waiting.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I’m in heaven.

  Heaven has many faces. For one, it might be sun and a beautiful white sand beach. For another, it might be a snowy mountain. For yet another, it might be a busy chaotic club; sex, booze and drugs. For me, it’s a flea market in Paris — it truly is a feast for the eyes, so much interesting and colorful stuff. Everything tells a story. I pick up an antique woman’s watch, its edges tainted, its hands not moving. I wonder where it’s been, who it belonged to. Is its owner still alive? Was it a gift once, part of a romantic story?

  Oscar hands me a silver watch with not as much history. “This one is nicer.”

  “I prefer this one,” I tell him, but I’m not planning to buy it. I’m not sure if it works, and I already have about half a dozen watches.

  Mom and Antoine are huddled together nearby. He’s telling her something in his charming broken English. They’re both smiling as he picks up an old hat and slips it on her head. She models for him, does a little dance and curtsies for him. It’s all very romantic.

  “I hope that hat doesn’t have lice,” Oscar says, ruining it all.

  “Ah, Oscar. You’re such a cynic.”

  He laughs. “There’s a reason they call these places ‘flea markets.’”

  I shake my head and take in my surroundings; beautiful vintage dishware I couldn’t possibly bring home, a gorgeous full sized carousel horse and worn vintage jackets I would never try on, for fear that, yes, they might have fleas… or lice, or bedbugs.

  We come to an interesting booth; a taxidermist; stuffed animals (not the fluffy cute kids’ kind, actual dead stuffed animals). There’s also a small wooden bin filled with actual glass eyes. Oscar picks up two and pops them in front of his eyes, completely freaking me out. I jump back a step and break out in laughter. The proprietor, a very old hippie type with long dirty silver hair shoots us the evil eye.

  “I’m so sorry,” I offer. “Stop that, Oscar.”

  Oscar gently sets the eye balls back in the bin. “We better get out of here,” he says quietly. “The guy looks like he wants to kill and stuff us.”

  I smile. “Probably does.”

  “I’m sure he has a basement full of stuffed people. He likes to dress them up and have tea with them.”

  “Stop creeping me out, Oscar. You read way too much Stephen King.”

  “Ah, c’mon. You love my odd little stories.”

  I smile. I do.

  “We’re going over to have crêpes,” Mom tells us cheerfully. “You two want to join us?”

  My stomach growls at her words. I love crêpes.

  We stand in line and chit-chat. Antoine tells us he only works three days a week, and that’ he’s originally from Avignon, in the South of France. I tell him I’ve always wanted to visit the south of France.

  Oscar and I both ord
er strawberry Nutella crêpes and I can’t wait to dig in. Since there are no tables, we must all find spots to sit. We get separated (kind of on purpose) and Oscar and I find ourselves on a bench, under a tree.

  I dig in right away and savor my first bite. “Corrie would love these,” I tell him. “She loves Nutella.”

  He smiles. “Who doesn’t?”

  “True,” I agree, digging in again.

  “What is Corrie up to today?”

  “Oh, she didn’t want to tag along… she hates flea markets, said something about ‘old dirty junk’. She’s kind of a snob that way. She went to do some ‘real shopping.’”

  He smiles. “Sounds like Corrie.” He pops a huge bite of crêpe into his mouth.

  We enjoy our treat silently, and study the passersby; people from all backgrounds, from different parts of the world; so many interesting stories there, I’m sure. Oscar doesn’t have any clever tales because he’s too busy stuffing his face.

  Finally, when he swallows his last bite, he smiles and gestures for me to hand him my empty plate. He throws both his and mine in the bin. “I have some exciting news to tell you.”

  I sit up straighter, curious. “Yeah, what’s that?”

  I don’t know what it is, but I hope it doesn’t take you away from me.

  “Well,” he starts, pausing for a long beat, seemingly unsure. I’m dying of curiosity.

  “I never told you this before,” he goes on, and I’m completely glued to his words. “I’ve been saving up for quite a while.”

  “Yes, I know how cheap you are,” I tease. “I’ve always thought it was because you have no money.”

  “No, I have money… but I also have a plan.”

  I’m on the edge of the bench. “Tell me!”

  His grin is as big as I’ve ever seen it when he says, “I’m buying a coffee shop. Taking over the lease.”

  I hop off the bench and hug him. “I’m so happy for you. That’s great.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been working this out for a long time, researching the business, and keeping an eye out for opportunities. I’ve been keeping track of this one place… lots of regular customers, busy all the time. The owner is a nice old guy… seventy-eight years old. He wants to retire.”