Naked Love

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  Her cry seemed to come from outside of her and my own groan was something I'd never heard before. I lost control completely, and my body flailed with hers, against hers, as hers.

  Finally, it was over. And fuck if that didn’t feel so incredibly wrong. Over. Finished. Last. I hate it.

  I held her in my arms. I didn't dare speak, lest I voiced the trite thing vibrating through my whole body, the only thing that would've been right to say: I never want to let you go.

  * * *

  I woke warm. She was still in my arms. My Frenchy beach fairy was snuggling against me in my bed. Everything felt wholly right and quietly, peacefully, still.

  Except…I needed to piss, so I reluctantly disentangled myself from her sleeping form. When I left the bathroom, my bare feet made contact with something. In the sliver of moonlight sneaking through my curtains, I could just make out…my dirty socks.

  Smiling grimly, I took one step more, then paused. Cursing to myself, I bent down, grabbed them, strode over to the hamper, and chucked them in.

  There.

  9

  I woke up cold.

  As soon as my eyes opened, I knew. She'd left. Giselle had gone without even saying goodbye.

  Although I did have her cell number by now, I didn't bother, because I knew she'd already shut it off. No, I was almost certain where I would find her.

  Tossing on whatever clothes in my bedroom floor radius seemed to take half an instant and several decades too long. Racing out to my car took too fucking long too.

  Only a few minutes later, once I merged onto the busy highway, did I realize what I'd been in a race with: my sense of certainty. And if the paperweight lodged in my chest as I stared unseeing at the stream of cars ahead of me was any indication, I had lost.

  After breaking the news that she was leaving, Giselle had made no real mention of her flight. What sort of moron hadn't asked her for that vital fucking information? Or would have figured the best plan was to head to the airport—not her place—first? I'm so fucked.

  I glanced at my watch for the fifth time. Yep, it was 12:17 p.m. already—I'd somehow managed to sleep in until noon. Fuck. At least if Giselle wasn't at the airport, then I could probably catch her at her place still, right? Unless she was on her way out at this very moment and I managed to miss her by seconds. Epically fucked.

  Whatever the case, all I knew was that I had to try to see her again and chastising myself as I sped along a busy highway wouldn't do me any favors.

  Inside a few minutes and one shitty parking job later, I thanked the gods that Charleston didn't have numerous terminals like a bigger airport. Here I was, the only terminal Giselle could be in if she was at this airport and hadn't gone through TSA yet. She’d be flying to New York most likely because there were no direct flights to Europe from Charleston. My eyes slid from one faceless person to another, rapid-fire, seeing only that they weren't her.

  There was a Caviar Banana stand (whatever the hell that was), a wooden-paneled stand called Harvest Grounds, and then there, in the corner, looking almost as stupefied to see me as I was her…my French beauty. She looked delighted, and upset, and contrite all at once as I rushed over to her.

  When all those emotions had washed away, all that was left was a miserable expression.

  "I am sorry, Gage." She looked at me with her eyes up and her head lowered, like a child about to be scolded. "I am very terrible at goodbyes."

  Frozen motionless, half-believing my incredible luck of finding her here, I threw my arms around her and pressed her to me tight. "I'm just glad I caught you," I said against her neck, inhaling the scent of her so I could remember.

  She buried her head in my chest as our bodies eased into each other. I felt woozy, sick, like if I peeled away from this woman, my body parts would fall to the floor.

  The motherfucking loudspeaker boomed above us, "1:20 p.m. flight to Paris through JFK now boarding. Please proceed to gate—"

  Giselle eased out of my embrace and hiked her bag over her shoulder. "That is me. Late as always."

  And yet, she didn't move. We stared at each other, as if willing the other to make the move, say the words. The right ones that didn't exist that would make this better. But what? What was the point? Her flight’s been called. This is it.

  Giselle tried to smile, but her lips only drooped more before she shook her head and said, "Au revoir, mon beau surfeur." She pressed a finger to her lips and then blew a kiss to me before turning and walking toward the security checkpoint. My understanding of French had improved enough that I knew what she'd just said to me. She'd said it before. Goodbye, my beautiful surfing man.

  I watched her go in a dreamlike state, realization descending on me gradually. The one thing that mattered. What I should've said.

  Gi…I love you.

  But I'd let it go too long…and now it was too late.

  Those were fairy-tale heartfelt words for a different time, different place, and most of all…different person. Not me. Not the hard, proud, ever-closed-off disappointment of Gage Danielson.

  Giselle had even said it herself. Sad. Because without her, that was what I was. Would be. Fuck.

  Giselle

  M'éloigner de lui était probablement la chose la plus pénible que je n'avais jamais faite. Mais j'ai vu son visage, et il ne pouvait pas exprimer ce qu'il ressentait pour moi.

  Si Gage m'aime vraiment, il peut me le dire. J'en mérite autant.

  Même lorsqu'il y a tant à donner à l'intérieur de lui, il a toujours peur.

  Mon beau surfeur ne connaît pas encore la profondeur de ce qu'il pourrait offrir, si seulement il permettait à l'amour de traverser la douleur qui habite son cœur.

  N'oublie jamais.

  Je ne t'oublierai jamais, Gage.

  Mon amour.

  ~pour vous en anglais~

  Walking away from him was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But I saw his face, and he could not say whatever he does feel for me.

  If Gage does love me, he can say it to me. I deserve that.

  Even when there is so much inside of him to give, he is still afraid.

  My beautiful surfing man just does not yet know the depths of what he could give if only he would allow the love to break through the hurt that lived in his heart.

  Never forget.

  I will never forget you, Gage.

  My love.

  10

  Four days later.

  “You holding up okay?"

  I frowned as I lolled back onto my bed, closing my eyes. Although Gray's call was our first talk since our meal at Jazz Street a little over a month ago, I could guess that Reid had filled him in on all the Giselle details he'd pried out of me since her departure.

  Couldn't have even one week to myself to process things before my friends came crowding in. Nope. Reid had shown up unannounced the very next day after Giselle left, and seeing my dejected state, had point-blank guessed the whole thing.

  Clearing my dry throat, I lied, "I'm okay, Gray."

  "Good. At least it was only a month."

  "Yeah," I echoed hollowly.

  A month, I reminded myself. Only a month. Not long enough to truly know anyone…or to fall in love with them. Whatever I'd felt for Giselle was just lust in its purest form.

  You keep telling yourself that, asshole.

  It was common knowledge that those spur-of-the- moment, love-at-first-sight Vegas weddings never worked out. Not for rich and famous celebrities, and definitely not for us regular people. No matter how strongly I believed I cared for Giselle, all it could be was simple head-over-heels lust.

  Liar. Just keep on lying to yourself, motherfucker.

  "How are things with you?" I asked. My attempt at being a decent friend, before I indulged in bad manners crying about my life without asking about his.

  "Really great, actually." His sorry tone set my teeth on edge. "Reese is getting impatient for the baby to be born. She's cranky and uncomfortable and in need of constant rea
ssurance that she'll be a good mom, and that I'll still love her if she weighs a few pounds more than she did before. Shit like that. And it's just…great…"

  I tuned Gray out as I pretend-listened to him tell me how "great" it was to be with the one you love and living through the milestones of life I'd probably never experience. I started rifling through the contents of my bedside drawer as a distraction. It was a catchall for pencils, receipts and random notes, so when my hand made contact with something unfamiliar, I pulled it out.

  A piece of drawing paper from Elysium.

  "Gage?" Gray asked.

  I turned the paper over and saw words written in a familiar hand.

  "Yeah?" I answered on autopilot.

  "Reid's dating this new girl. She's Brazilian and so tall she has to—"

  I stopped listening to whatever the fuck he was saying because…I was reading the poem in my hand.

  love

  is not just a word with you

  love

  is your sweet kiss at the small of my back

  love

  is a new smile in your eyes on our third hour mark

  love

  is our dirty socks entwined in the hamper

  love

  is just you

  I read it again and again. The answer to a question I hadn't even asked her started strumming through my veins.

  "Sorry, Gray," I told him, "Just realized something. Talk to you later, brother."

  I lifted the paper to my lips, pressed and held it there. My eyes closed, and I breathed deeply in and out.

  It was obvious now. What my body had known, but my mind had taken too fucking long to figure out.

  I loved Giselle, and she loved me too. Thank God she had the courage to say it.

  I didn't know what in hell that would mean for me now, except that by letting her go, I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

  So now, the only thing for me to do was to set it right.

  * * *

  Later that evening.

  The flight to Paris was one level beyond unbearable.

  Unable to secure anything in business class, my last-minute seat assignment had me wedged between a tired mother, her cranky toddler, and a very large man on the aisle in a flop sweat. With the toddler shrieking and the man's prolific sweaty rolls angling for me, it seemed like they were in an unofficial competition as to who could make the flight more awful.

  I slapped headphones on and cranked up the music…and thought about how Giselle would make this hideous experience somehow laughable—something funny to reflect upon at a later time. My French beach fairy possessed special skills like that.

  When my seat mate fell asleep and began snoring (and sweating) on my shoulder, no matter how many times I prodded him off, he won.

  Seven-hours-and-twenty-minutes of claustrophobic hell later, it all came to a welcome end when I stepped out into the early morning Paris sunshine. I hadn't been to Paris in years, but I soon began to align myself with the layout of the city. My chest still had the ache firmly in place, but maybe it was eased somewhat in knowing I was on the same continent as Giselle again.

  The taxi line out of the airport wasn't exactly a quick affair, and the trip into the city took a while, but I knew where I was headed. Although calling it a "lead" was being generous.

  "I just cannot get enough of drawing at the Tuileries Garden," she said. "My favorite spot is under those perfect rows of trees, in the shade." A wistful smile came over her face as she remembered. "Before I left, it had gotten to the point where I had named all of the trees and learned the names of some of the regulars. There was Maurice, the little old man who talked to himself and even to me too if I bothered him enough. There was Hillary, the middle-aged woman with the long winding yellow scarf, who came at twelve o'clock for one hour precisely each and every day. There was Winston the squirrel, who would stop by every so often to nibble at my sunflower seeds."

  So, to the Tuileries I went.

  Unlike my expectations, most people I asked for directions knew English and were very polite to use it with me. Although I'd been to Paris before, I'd never gone to the Tuileries. So, I followed their instructions and sure enough, when my squint stopped on green that extended as far as I could see, I knew I was golden. A quick walk through the gardens found them far bigger than I expected.

  But I was fatigued to nearly collapsing-level proportions, so I stopped in at a nearby express grocery store to deal with the basics. After loading up with several incomprehensible but still clearly ham packages, Doritos, some oranges, and a container of strawberries, I hit up the bathroom.

  There, after washing the strawberries in the sink, I popped one in my mouth.

  “I just love strawberries.” she'd said amidst the sunflowers. It had only been a month ago, but it seemed like a different era entirely.

  Quit fucking crying about it and get your sorry ass moving, fool.

  Determined not to waste another second, I strode outside and into the park. There, I began my search, which also doubled as sight-seeing. Now I could see it through her eyes just as she'd sketched it for me in my mind.

  I meandered past several giddily spurting fountains, brigades of expertly crafted statues, a ton of painstakingly tended gardens with flowers every shade of the rainbow, and an infinite number of trees.

  After an exhaustive search, peering around every shrub and oak, examining every vaguely Giselle-resembling girl who passed me by, there was nothing left to do but camp out by the long rows of trees Giselle had told me about. The shade was where I slouched for my wait.

  Here I would sit, and here I would stay. This was the best—the only—chance I really had for running into Giselle. This will work. She'll come.

  A few hours later, down to my last chewy ham slice with the sun nosing down the horizon, I wasn't so sure. I'd been sitting on this uncomfortable patch of grass for what had to be four hours now. Despite the vigilant and borderline insane way I'd been staring holes and occasionally following any woman that even passably resembled Giselle, I hadn't seen her. So far, the police hadn't showed up to ask me to leave, so I counted my blessings, even though it wasn't much.

  Although I'd had ample time to imagine what Giselle might be doing while I sat waiting in the Tuileries hoping to find her. No matter what odd charming situations I half-pictured in my mind's eye, they always came back to the same image of her eating strawberry pancakes in her flat while looking out over Paris. Yep, that was the only other "lead" I had on her. Giselle lived in the city and apparently loved it.

  So, all I had to do was search out every twenty-four-year-old artist living in downtown Paris… What an easy fucking task that'll be. I prayed it wouldn't come to that. The Tuileries was my best chance.

  Scowling, I swatted away a fly descending on what was left of my half-eaten strawberries. The ants, flies, and the occasional bumblebee had long since discovered my presence and had banded together to drive me insane.

  "M. vous doivez partir." A man decked out like a swanky mall cop leaned over to give me the brunt of his judgy well-mustached frown.

  In response to my blank face, he let out an impatient sigh.

  "The park is closed," he said in a heavily accented voice, stabbing his finger out to drive the point home. "You must leave."

  * * *

  The next morning, I was up early, wolfing down my croissant as I barreled down the stairs two at a time. Surprisingly rested after sleeping so well in my room at Hôtel Juliana, I decided it was because I was now in the same city where she was.

  Outside, speed walking was essential, since the sidewalks were already flocked with people.

  About twenty minutes later, I was back at my spot. Parked in the very same indentation in the grass where my ass had been situated less than twelve hours prior. Flanked by my sentinel of perfect tree lines and a grasping, increasingly diminishing hope.

  And so the hours slowly crept along as I leaned on the tree and a parade of not-hers passed by. Most looked
to be tourists. Fascinated timeworn men, bored adolescent girls.

  Seeing a lilac-haired one stride past without so much as lifting her eyes off the screen made pain scrape through me. Giselle and I had talked about that, one night—people barely living because they were so concentrated on their phones—after I'd nonchalantly mentioned never seeing her on her own Motorola.

  "The whole phone thing, it is like a screen for the present moment," she said. "To face the world head-on, to give it one instant or iota of their full attention, is something most people today cannot bear. So, they glaze it away. Glue their gaze and minds to the screen. Scrolling, scrolling to infinity. Maybe a picture, a few texts saying nothing in response to less. When you think about it, it is nothing more than a smart, sad strategy. Always being halfway in this world and halfway in that, so there is no room."

  "Room for what?" I asked.

  A shadow passed over her face. "For the thoughts they cannot bear creeping in."

  * * *

  As I stared glumly ahead, the thoughts I hadn't wanted to face hit me square in the gut. Cassidy had been right about me. That in the end, even when I'd met a girl I really did care for, or love, I'd messed it up.

  Maybe I was doomed to be alone.

  And Giselle? I'd never found out what had driven her to Charleston so impulsively. Why hadn't I pushed until she'd told me? We’d spoken about many things, but had we ever truly gone beneath the surface? Had she wanted me to?

  Something in me ached with recognition. Regret over what could've saved everything. Maybe if we'd bonded over her intimate secret, maybe she would've stayed. Maybe I would've realized sooner what she meant to me.

  The sun seesawing from one horizon to the other was my indication of time passing and marching forward. When the shining orb began its inevitable descent, so too did my last dregs of hope. This was it, then.

  She isn't coming.