by Roya Carmen
“Sounds great. Is it nearby?” I ask, really wanting to know.
He smiles. “Just a few blocks from our place.”
A breath of relief escapes me. I’m shocked by my reaction. If he’d told me it was in Seattle or something, I would have been devastated. I realize right then that I never want to lose him, that I love him.
Should I tell him right now? We’re in Paris. The day is gorgeous. It’s the perfect moment.
“Weren’t those amazing crêpes,” I say instead. “You should serve crêpes at your new coffee shop.”
I’m such a coward.
He smiles. “Not a bad idea.”
I just can’t. I can’t tell him I love him. I’m too afraid he won’t say it back. I know I’m messed up. I know my dad fucked me up. And all that high school bullying… I’m afraid to love. I’m a complete mess.
“Well, I’m really happy for you, Oscar. You deserve this. I can see how excited you are.”
He smiles proudly, as adorable as a kid at a lemonade stand. “Never been more excited about anything in my life,” he tells me. “Well, when I first met you was also pretty exciting.” He winks at me and takes my hand. “You can come over all the time. Free coffee.”
“I’ll be there so often, you’ll get sick of me, buddy.”
He laughs. “Impossible.”
Antoine and Mom finally catch up to us. “Weren’t those delicious?” Mom says. She’s obviously forgotten all about Mark. A good crêpe and a sexy French silver fox by your side will do that, I suppose.
We spend another hour at the market. My eyes are greedy as we walk past all the vendors; old bicycles, rustic furniture, pretty antiques knick knacks, old books (mostly French) and so much interesting stuff. Mom buys quite a few things (a book she will never read, some artsy napkin holders, a stylish hat, and a pretty bracelet). Still on a budget, I limit myself to one thing: an old leather satchel. I’m thrilled when I discover an old French coin and a train ticket inside.
Oscar buys me pretty fresh flowers to take back to our apartment — it’s kind of a tradition of ours. He always buys me flowers — carnations, tulips and lilies, no roses or anything pretentious.
It’s a beautiful day in Paris. Mom is happy (for now), and so am I. I’m holding flowers in one hand, and Oscar’s hand in the other.
Life could definitely be worse.
But it’s too good to be true, I think, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
31
History
A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and cultures is like a tree without roots. — Marcus Garvey
I love history. I’m not talking about those boring history classes in high school. History is an important part of our identity, of our culture, but I’ve never been a big history buff. I’m talking about nostalgia, about the idea of a time before us. If I had a superpower, it would be to be able to travel back in time. There are so many eras I would love to visit. Paris in the 1920s when Ernest Hemingway and his closest friends; writers and artists, would hang at the cafés that are today’s hot spots. I don’t have any particular desire however to visit Les Deux Magots — Hemingway’s old haunts have all become overrun tourist destinations — it wouldn’t be the same. The magic is gone.
I had the time of my life at the flea market. Some don’t understand certain people’s fascination with old things. It’s about the possibilities, about the history, about the untold stories.
I pick up a pretty woman’s bracelet and study it, wondering where this bracelet has been, what stories it has witnessed. Who has worn this bracelet? What was she like? Where did she live? Was this bracelet a gift? Given to her by her lover? Or perhaps her parents? When I run my fingers against the fabric of a vintage dress, I wonder if it’s seen a ballroom, lively parties, if it’s ever been peeled off slowly by a lover. Every object incites these questions, this fascination.
As a child, I used to be obsessed with my mother’s old photo albums — evidence of a happy time in her life. Countless photos of her in her youth, and of her with my father. How happy they were. A small part of me believed that if I looked at the photos hard and long enough, he would miraculously come back to us, wearing the smile he wore in those pictures. My sister, Sarah, made fun of my obsession with those photo albums, but those happy pictures were completely fascinating to me: Mom and Dad holding Sarah at the beach. A family photo under the Christmas tree. Me, cradled in Daddy’s arms. Playing at the zoo. Another one of us at a picnic. And then… nothing. How could things have gone so wrong? They were so happy, and then… Was it me?
The past is intriguing to me. Things used to be so much more charming than they are now in the present. Clothing was sewn with more attention to detail. Likewise, buildings were constructed with much more care and hard work. Cars were made of steel, not plastic. Architecture was something to behold. Today, millions flock to old European cities like Paris to see it — it’s priceless.
Today, life is fast. Construction and creation is half-assed. We no longer care about beauty. We only care about the bottom line.
So when people ask me why I’m so obsessed with old junk and old countries full of history, this is what I try to explain to them.
They usually shake their heads, and tap away on the latest smartphone to check what’s new on Amazon. Made in China. And cheap.
“I can’t believe you’re going on another date with him,” Oscar sneers. “The guy is a jerk.”
“Well, he seemed so excited, and you know me… I couldn’t say no,” I try to explain. “He wants to take me to this cool Australian bar he knows.”
Oscar cocks a brow. “Australian bar? If you’d wanted to go to an Australian bar, you’d go to Australia.”
I smile. “Well, I’ve never been, so this might be fun. I can pretend I’m in Aussie land.”
“So, are you and him a thing?” he asks, and there’s so much pain in his beautiful eyes, I can’t answer fast enough.
“No, no, no. I’m putting an end to it tonight. I’m going to tell him that I’m not interested. I don’t want to do it in a text… that’s just rude.”
“Well, that’s what he deserves. The way he treated you…” His words trail off. He knows I don’t really like talking about those days.
“You should come with me,” I suggest. “We could make a night out of it…. the three of us. It might be fun.”
He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure Matt will love to have me there.”
“Oh, it’ll be all right. He’ll get over it. I’m sure he has a lot of women after him.”
Oscar cocks a brow. “You think he’s hot?”
I smile. I kind of like it when he’s jealous. “Well, not as hot as you, of course, but he does have a certain something, kind of looks like one of the Hemsworth brothers.”
He rolls his eyes. “Those blond, blue-eyed pretty boys?”
I laugh. “I prefer my men with dark mysterious eyes and thick crazy brown hair.”
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. We jump right in for another go before heading out for the night.
I’ve worn the sexy little red number I bought at Forever 21, and tall black pumps with red soles (not Louboutins of course… cheap knock offs). I’ve set my hair in rollers (thank goodness for Corrie and her overpacking). She’s decided to tag along to help us out. I figured that with Corrie there, Matt won’t feel like a third wheel once I let him down. And we could all have a double date of sorts. I’m excited. I’m really looking forward to a night out on the town.
Oscar is dressed in black from head to toe — he looks like a sexy bouncer. I’ve already checked out the place on Google and read some reviews. Apparently they don’t just let anyone in. But I’m pretty sure Oscar, Matt, Corrie and I will make the cut.
We have a few glasses of wine before we leave, and as we head over to the 14th arrondissement, Corrie and I are already a little tipsy.
Cafe Oz, with its green awning and expansive outside seating area, is just as
I expected. It’s already busy and there’s a small queue. Matt waves us over. As we near closer, I can see his expression more clearly. He seems surprised, and not especially happy. “I’ve brought Oscar and Corrie along,” I announce cheerfully. “We can have a double date.”
He smiles tightly. “Sure, I guess.”
As soon as we’re inside, Corrie and I look at each other and laugh. The place is kitchy as hell. It’s orange and green. Painted corrugated galvanized metal surrounds the bar. There’s a stuffed alligator on the wall, as well as a poster of a kangaroo.
Yeah, we get it… this is an Aussie themed bar.
There’s beer on tap, including Fosters, of course. And the guy at the bar is as creepy as the man at the flea market. But lots of people, lots of tables, and the music is great.
“The food is amazing here,” Matt tells us.
“I heard this was a pick-up bar,” Corrie chimes in.
“Uh… a little, I suppose,” he says with a guilty expression, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Everyone around here is young,” she points out. “I feel like an old hag.”
I laugh. “You look great. Hot as usual, and ten years younger than you are.”
It’s true. She looks amazing in her tight little black dress and purple heels. And although she’s in her mid thirties, she looks as young as me.
“You guys want any drinks,” Matt offers. “We should order a Margherita pizza. They’re amazing here.”
And by ‘should’, he means ‘will’. One thing I’ve noticed about Matt is that he’s as controlling and take-charge as his father. I suppose that’s why he’s successful. Charming and take-charge — a winning combination for success.
We take a seat at one of the tables. Matt brings colorful cocktails for the ladies and beers for the boys. We did tell him to decide for us, but I didn’t think he’d be so sexist about it. Nevertheless, I quite enjoy colorful cocktails so I can’t complain. We order a pizza, as suggested, and I have to admit that it’s delicious.
We polish off our meals and drain our drinks. The mood is dark and exciting, and everyone seems to be feeling good, including Matt. He looks into my eyes as he takes my hand in his from across the table. I catch the look in Oscar’s eyes — he’s not happy.
“Uh…” I start. Damn, this is going to be so awkward. And we were all having so much fun.
“I think we need to talk, Matt,” I tell him. “You want to head outside for a bit?”
“If we go outside, they might not let us back in,” he points out. “This place is bad like that.”
“Really?”
“What did you want to talk about?” he asks, intrigued. “I’m sure it’s not anything your friends can’t hear.”
“I suppose…” He’s right. Corrie and Oscar already know everything about it.
“Well, I just…” I falter. This is harder than I anticipated. I should have just turned him down when he asked me out for a second date. I’m so stupid sometimes. “I just… when you asked me out for a second date, I didn’t really want to—”
“You didn’t want to go out with me again?” he scoffs.
“Well…”
“Then why did you say yes?” he snaps.
“Because—”
“You’re really something else, you know.”
Corrie and Oscar are looking away by now, pretending not to listen, completely uncomfortable. Oscar is whistling.
Matt slams down his almost empty pint of beer. His eyes are cold. In the span of a few seconds, he’s become a different man. “You think you’re too good for me, that’s it?”
“No, I don’t—”
“Don’t you remember? How I was your only friend back in high school, when you were a pathetic fat loser.”
My jaw drops. I’m speechless. And so is everyone else at the table. He’s a little drunk, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior.
“You think you’re so hot now that you’ve lost all that weight,” he goes on, and all I can do is stare blankly at him. “You think you’re better than me? Well, news flash, Whaley Wilson. You’re still the same loser you used to be.”
Corrie is in shock, and Oscar is livid. “That’s enough,” Oscar says, struggling very hard to contain himself. He doesn’t want to make a scene. He doesn’t want to make things worse.
A waitress pops by, completely oblivious. “I see you have enjoyed the pizza,” she says in broken English. She’s a super young bouncy little thing. “Can I get you anything else? More drinks?”
“We’re all done here,” Matt deadpans and reaches into his wallet. He pulls out his card and flings it at her. She seems to have finally realized that something’s up at this table. “Okay, I will go get your receipt.”
I inhale a long breath through my nose, attempting to calm myself. I’m shaken, hurt, and I seriously want to punch him in the face. I think to myself, this is almost over. He’s paying the bill and he’ll be out of here in a minute.
But no such luck. He’s not done with me.
As soon as the waitress is out of sight, he starts up again. “You think you look hot in that cheap slutty dress and those ugly knock-off shoes?”
His words cut. I’m so hurt, I’m completely speechless. I realize that Oscar was right. Matt hasn’t changed at all — he’s still the same bully he used to be.
“People like you make me sick,” Oscar says. His voice is not his own — it’s cracked at the edges, full of emotion. “You get off on treating people like shit. Pushing them down makes you feel better about yourself.”
“Yeah, I bet you hate yourself, you little fucker,” Corrie chimes in. “With your stupid boring suits and golf shirts, you have as much personality as a can of tomatoes. Guys like you have no brains either, got everything you have from your daddy, you little prick.”
“I’ve got this,” Oscar says and leans in to the table. He bends his head down over Matt’s. Even as they’re both sitting, Oscar looks down on him. “Corrie’s right. You’re a little fucker who gets off on beating on people. You destroy spirits. You fuck up lives.”
I’m still speechless, but it’s no longer because of Matt’s awful words, it’s the emotion in Oscar, the pain in his eyes. I’ve never seen him like this. I know he loves me, but this is more than that. There’s so much anger and pain in him. He’s about to burst and I can see it.
I tug at his arm. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here, Oscar.”
“Kayla deserves so much better than you,” he tells Matt and gets up to leave.
Matt smirks. “Oh, she deserves someone like you, I suppose. A total loser who serves coffee and still lives with his mother.”
That’s the moment when Oscar absolutely loses it. He grabs Matt’s arm and jerks him out of his seat. The fear in Matt’s eyes is palpable — he realizes he’s gone too far. I want to stop Oscar, but I also want to enjoy this moment, if only for a second.
“You’re despicable,” Oscar sneers. “People like you should all be shot dead.”
The intensity of the hatred in Oscar’s eyes is shocking. Oscar’s such a sweet guy —I really didn’t think he was capable of such hatred.
We jerk back as Oscar takes a swing at Matt, and it’s a doozy. A single punch across the face, and Matt is down, his nose bloody.
“You had that coming a long time ago,” Oscar deadpans. “I really wish I could kill you.”
Corrie is wide eyed, frozen like a statue. I’m immobile too, as is everyone around us. The bartender heads outside, and so does Oscar. He obviously wants to make an escape before the bouncers get to him, or the cops.
“Holy fuck,” Corrie says.
Holy fuck is right.
32
“COME,” CORRIE URGES. “Let’s go grab our jackets and go find him.”
I take one last look at Matt, who is practically dead at the table. It’s amazing how much damage a single punch can do, but when you’re a boxer like Oscar, and about six foot two, you can do a lot of harm, I suppose
.
We grab our jackets from the coat check, including Oscar’s. I nip at Corrie’s heels as we both dash out of the club. We need to get out of here and find Oscar.
We manage to escape the bouncers who attempt to stop us. We tell them we don’t know anything and run off. Oscar is nowhere to be seen. I figure that he ran off as soon as he could, before the bouncers could figure it all out.
I text him, frantic.
Where r u? We’re walking towards the catacombs. I think Matt is still alive.
A few seconds later, my phone pings.
Too bad. I really wanted him dead.
—
Where are you?
—
I’m sitting near the catacombs. Next to the lion statue.
—
Stay there. We’ll meet you.
“My heels are killing me,” Corrie says as we head over to find him.
“Mine too.”
She checks her phone again. “What a total asshole.”
It’s dark and cold and my feet hurt. I felt so sexy and excited when we left our little apartment. Now, I feel cheap and ordinary… I feel like crap. “Yeah.”
“I was so psyched when Oscar punched him in the face,” she tells me. "If he hadn’t done it, I would have.”
I laugh. “I know you would have.”
“Well, you know me.”
“As interesting as a can of tomatoes,” I say, laughing. “Where did you come up with that?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me.” She smirks. “I ate pasta at a little Italian place last night. There were cans of tomatoes lined up on the wall.”
I spot Oscar in the distance, sitting by his lonesome next to the lion statue — it’s so sad.
He’s staring down at the ground, and as we near closer, he lifts his head and his gaze meets mine — he looks absolutely wrecked.
