by Jill Cox
“What are you doing?” I squealed loudly enough that several people spun around to see what was the matter. Pete must have thought I was kidding at first, but when he saw my horror, he took my elbow and led me over to the side of the stage, under the trees.
I’d never realized how tall Pete was until he was looming over me beneath the fairy lights.
“What’s up, Sully?” He asked, so softly that only I could have heard him. “I thought you were some sort of Irish dance champion back home. Or did the Highgate rumor mill get that one wrong, too?”
Until this year, I’d always believed Pete Russell was the vilest creature on the planet, and because I was a crazy person – a crazy, lonely person – I was unable to think past his kind, dark eyes and the surprisingly nice smell of his breath so close to my face.
Hold on. Why was I thinking about Pete’s breath? Had someone given me drugs tonight?
“Pete, please,” I begged. “I haven’t danced in ages. Can’t we just sit down and enjoy the music? You have no idea how embarrassing this will be. For both of us.”
Pete peered over my left shoulder, then over my right. “Is someone here grading you?”
“Of course not. You’re missing my point.”
Pete lowered his face so that we were looking directly into each other’s eyes. His nose was almost touching mine, and his lips were… well, they were too close. “Look, Sully, you seem to be having difficulty with your English comprehension right now, which is understandable since we spend most of our days speaking French. I’ll spell this out for you: no one else is with us. It’s just you and me and the band, okay? Besides, how many times in your life will you get the chance to dance to a live orchestra in the middle of the Tuileries on a night like tonight?”
I didn’t move. I just stared back at him, blinking. How could I argue with Pete’s logic? This was one of those moments you didn’t skip in life. So when the lines along his eyes creased upward, I couldn’t help it. My mouth tugged into a smile.
“There’s my girl,” Pete grinned. Then he led me by the hand back to the dance floor just as the band started a new song.
Begin the Beguine.
Dazed by the coincidence, it took a moment before I registered movement in my feet as well as the not-so-unpleasant sensation of Pete’s arms guiding me deftly around the dance floor. The other dancers whirled around us, some laughing, some taking themselves very seriously (especially one couple dressed in forties garb). I couldn’t quite believe how easy it felt, thanks to Pete’s strength and confidence. How did a jokester like him know how to dance like this? There was no awkwardness between us. Just a guy leading a girl, one step at a time.
When I was a little kid, I watched all the old movies with my parents. My favorite part was always the sweet ingénue floating around the dance floor in the arms of her male lead. Tonight, under the canopy of twinkling lights, I was that ingénue. And when the music ended, Pete was still holding me, his expression somewhere between surprise and anticipation. And warmth.
I willed my lungs to breathe normally, which I might have attributed to the dancing if Pete’s gaze hadn’t just traveled from my eyes to my lips. But just then, the percussion section began the opening riff of Sing, Sing, Sing, and Pete’s face lit all the way up.
“Yes!” He looked up at the band, then back at me, wrapping a hand around my waist. “Tell me you know how to Lindy Hop.”
“Maybe a little bit,” I lied. Those concerts of my dad’s down in Newport? There was always a Lindy Hop and Jitterbug class whenever the band took a break, taught by yours truly and a local dance teacher. But the thing about dances like the Lindy Hop is that they can go very wrong, very quickly. It was challenging enough with the Newport dance teacher, and I trusted that guy completely. During those lessons, whenever we switched partners, it was a complete nightmare. Inexperience plus unfamiliarity do not make for great dancing. It took practice. Lots of practice.
“No,” I stammered, pulling away. “Seriously, Pete, it has been years. I don’t think I even remember the basics. What if I bump into someone or punch them in the face?”
“Sully, please.” Pete took my hand in his again, sliding his thumb along mine. “All you have to do is let me lead, just like last time. If you’re not having fun by the time this song is over, I promise we’ll sit down. Just trust me, okay?”
And with that, he pulled me onto the dance floor, twirled me once, and never let me go.
I couldn’t believe how different it felt dancing with Pete. His confidence made me forget every single fear that normally plagued me. The way he held my hand was tender but secure, and when he spun me on the dance floor, I knew I could count on his arms to hold me in place. There was no way I could have made a mistake because we were connected, mind reading mind, anticipating one another’s next move like we’d been dancing together for years.
Soon enough I was channeling my inner USO girl, determined to upstage that overzealous couple showing off in their wide-legged trousers and doo-wop shoes. I even let Pete flip me.
When the song ended, the people at the tables just beyond the dance floor stood and cheered for us. I looked at Pete and laughed, and when he nodded, I understood. We bowed together. Then he flipped me one more time, and the whole place erupted again. Even the band was clapping.
“You… are… such a … liar,” Pete said between heaving breaths as we left the dance floor. “You have so done that before.”
“Maybe,” I grinned. “But it’s never been like that.”
“Of course not,” he grinned back. “You weren’t dancing with me.”
FOURTEEN
After he bought us a couple of water bottles from a nearby concession stand, Pete motioned for me to follow him over to the reflecting pool, away from the music and the dancing. I wasn’t going to tell him this, but I’d loved this quieter part of the Tuileries ever since the first time I’d come to Paris. The number of times I’d imagined myself sitting here over the years must be in the thousands by now. There was something about sitting right on the axis of so much history that always made me a little starry-eyed.
With the Louvre behind us, the Seine to our left, and the Place de la Concorde beyond, we were the King and Queen of France.
As we each plopped into our own green metal chair, I gave Pete the stink eye. “So, do you DVR Dancing with the Stars and practice down in your grandmother’s basement every night or something?”
Pete took a sip from his water bottle, eyeing me back, then turned his whole body toward me. “Look, I will tell you, but this needs to stay between us, okay? I can’t have you blurting out my secrets in the middle of Wednesday night dinner.”
I lifted my hand to my heart. “You have my word.”
“Okay. So in the eighth grade, my soccer coach forced our entire team to take Lindy Hop lessons with the girls’ team.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “The girls’ coach at my school heard about some other team using that technique to improve footwork, and she convinced my coach that we should all go in on it together. For weeks, it was Lindy Hop Central on the soccer field. I want you to imagine that for a second: a bunch of gangly boys matched up with girls who were a hundred times cooler than we were, all dancing to music from the middle of the last century.”
I had to laugh at the image. “Wait, you’ve remembered it that well for all these years?”
“Oh, I’m not finished with my confession yet.” He lifted an eyebrow, then continued. “Now, this next part is actually Code Red security clearance, okay? You have to swear to me you won’t tell your buddy Sutton what I’m about to tell you next, because while I know everyone finds him hilarious, charming, and totally adorable, even you have to admit that he’s not quite as enlightened a person as he should be.”
I pushed down the urge to defend Drew and nodded. “You can trust me, Pete.”
Pete’s eyes searched mine for a moment longer. “You sure? Because if Drew Sutton w
ere to find out, for example, that I was the captain of my high school’s competitive swing dance team, it might undermine years’ worth of hard-earned street cred among my so-called brothers.”
My eyes grew as wide as that bright moon in the sky because… whoa. I had not seen that one coming. And to my shock, Pete’s face flushed bright crimson in response.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Sully. It’s not that weird.”
I sat up straight in my chair. “I’m sorry, competitive swing dancing? Are you kidding me right now, Pete Russell? Wait a minute. Is this about a girl?”
“See, I knew you caught on quicker than the average person.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Her name was Brooks Darby. She was a senior, I was a freshman. Her family lived down the street from us, so she drove me home from school every day.”
“Aw. Did little Pete have a crush on his babysitter?”
“Laugh it up, Sully. The heart wants what it wants.” Pete lifted his eyes to the sky and his hands to his heart, mocking his younger self. “But see, I haven’t always been the specimen of masculine grace and swagger that you know and admire today. For weeks and weeks, Brooks and I drove to and from school without a single word. Until one morning, when she mentioned that I would need to find another ride home that afternoon because she was in charge of auditions for – wait for it – the Ducky Shincrackers.”
That time, I laughed so hard I actually snorted. “You’re making this up.”
“Oh, I wish I were,” he sighed. “A ‘ducky shincracker’ is forties slang for a good dancer, so when swing dance came back on the scene in the nineties, some teacher at St. Francis Prep started a competitive team. By the time I got to high school, it had become sort of a big deal. We even performed at pep rallies and football games.”
“Really? That’s kind of fun, actually.”
The muscles in Pete’s jaw relaxed a bit and he smiled. “I thought so, too. So when Brooks told me about the auditions, I figured I’d impress her by showing up.”
“And did you?”
“Please,” he huffed. “You should know me well enough by now to realize I’m at my best whenever I’ve got an audience. Were you not at Le Somnambuliste in Rouen?”
“Oh, I was there. Who do you think booed you from the back of the room?”
“Well, we can’t all be experts at everything like you are, champ,” Pete grinned, dangling his fingers to mock my Irish step-dancing days. “I impressed Brooks enough to make the team that day, but sadly that was as far as it went. She had a boyfriend. Some senior soccer player who felt it his job to ruin my life when I made the varsity soccer team a couple of months later.”
“Aw. Poor little Petey Russell. And you didn’t bail after all that?”
“Are you kidding me?” He beamed. “I’m no idiot. Half the girls in school wanted to be a Ducky Shincracker. I figured the odds were in my favor that someday I’d win someone over with my mad skills.”
Someday indeed.
FIFTEEN
As we exited the gardens near the Pont Royal sometime after 2:30 a.m., I instinctively began to walk a little faster. Three hours ago I was just here to hear some Big Band music, and now, I was trying to rid myself of this crazy attraction to Pete Freaking Russell. Was there some sort of rip in the space-time continuum?
And what about Anne? If Dan’s fears were warranted and she had a thing for Pete, he was off-limits. I’d never broken girl code before, and I wasn’t about to start now.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about what Drew had said that night at Devil’s Lake this summer. You could be walking through the Tuileries one day and there Prince Charming will be, waiting to whisk you off your feet. All Romanov jokes aside, I could almost believe those words had been prophetic.
Wait a minute, what? This was Pete Russell. The king of the offensive nickname. The ruiner of every single French class at Highgate College. How many U-turns had I made the last two years just so I wouldn’t have to speak to him? One bazillion, at least.
I looked up at the moon and scowled. I thought we made a deal. You’re supposed to help my boy Dan. Why are you still hanging around here?
“So, what have you got planned this weekend, Sully?” Pete asked as we reached the sidewalk along the river Seine. “Besides Dan and Kelly’s birthday party on Saturday, of course.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “My brother’s been hassling me about filling up my bracelet with more charms, so I thought I might head down to Versailles.”
“Yeah, you could do that.” Pete was silent for a minute, then stopped. “Or you could come with me to the Gare du Nord early Sunday morning and we could hop the first train.”
I stood there, stunned. “Just like that? No matter where it’s headed?”
Pete stepped a little closer. “Can you give me a good reason why not?”
A tiny laugh escaped me, and I’m not sure why, but I laid my hand across my heart. “Um, I can give you about fifty. What if it goes all the way to Belgium? Or the Netherlands?”
“What if it does?” In Pete’s dark eyes, I could see the reflection of the lamplight behind me. “We’ll hop off the train, find a charm for your bracelet, then take the next train back to Paris. You don’t have to see every museum or historical site for a visit to count, Sully.”
My brain felt like it might jump out of my skull. Pete Russell and I were standing under some Parisian street lamp, meters away from the Seine, and he was asking me, what? On a date? To escape with him to Gretna Green like Lydia Bennet and Mr. Wickham?
But before I could figure out what anything meant, we were suddenly surrounded by loud American voices, rambling on and on about their evening, pushing us forward on the sidewalk toward the Pont des Arts.
“You guys missed out,” Kelly was saying, her long blond hair swooshing from side to side as she looped one arm through mine and the other through Pete’s. “The director was completely drunk. Do you know how ridiculous it sounds to slur in French?”
“Yeah, you guys missed it!” Dan said over his shoulder. “The whole cast came on stage, but the director was so hammered he couldn’t hold his microphone. Then the lead actress walked off the stage, and it was so awkward and quiet that Kelly started church giggling.”
“Rewind and tell the truth, Dan Thomas,” Kelly shouted. “You guys, Dan was laughing so hard that an usher told him to be quiet.”
“Okay, well, that’s true,” Dan said over his shoulder as he turned to walk normally. “But the lead actor – you know, the one who’s supposed to win the César? He was so fidgety he couldn’t sit still. If I had to guess, he’d been lining mirrors with the white stuff backstage. And when the lead actress left, he ran over to the director, and punched the guy square on the jaw!”
By the time we reached the wooden stairs to the Pont des Arts, everyone was so engrossed in their own tales that they failed to notice the young couple fifty feet away. With my friends flanking me on both sides of the nearest double-sided bench, I sat facing south, watching the pair leaning against the Plexiglas-lined balustrade, their foreheads resting against each other’s.
My friends chattered on, oblivious, as the guy wrote something on an object only he and his companion could see. For a handful of years, millions of people had come to this bridge to declare their love for one another by attaching a padlock to the chain link fence of the balustrade, then throwing the keys into the River Seine below.
Total schmaltz, I know. But ever since my first visit to Paris in high school, I’d been obsessed with this tradition. The moment two people clicked that lock into place, they were hitching their wagons to the same glorious star for all eternity.
If anyone knew how many times I’d imagined myself on this bridge with my one true love, they would’ve pushed me over the railing for my own good.
But a couple of years ago, the City of Paris had declared war on romance and cut every last padlock off the bridge, replacing the railing’s chain link with a
n impenetrable wall of Plexiglas.
Rude.
Kelly and Dan were still rambling on – something about champagne bottles getting smashed on the floor of the Louvre – when the guy moved behind his girl, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned slightly over the railing. Panic rose in my throat. Had she lost something? Did she see a body floating below? Then she looked back at him over her shoulder and nodded. He dropped the small metallic object in her hand, and together, they bent over the railing and dropped it into the water.
Then he lifted a chain over her head and around her neck, and I suddenly understood.
Very clever. They’d reversed the tradition, dropping their padlock into the river and keeping the keys.
When they started kissing, I finally looked away, and that’s when I caught Pete staring at me. Really staring, with the strangest grin on his face. What in the world? I was beginning to wonder if this bright moon business could cause the earth to spin backwards on its axis, because nothing about tonight actually felt real.
“Meredith?” Harper waved her tiny hand in my face. “Did you hear me? How was the concert?”
I looked back at Pete, and there wasn’t even a trace of the smile from before. He shrugged nonchalantly, then stood and stretched his arms to the sky. “Snooze fest,” he said, bending one elbow over his head, then the other. “Sully put me to sleep rambling on and on about the underground jazz scene in Sarajevo back in the seventies.”
“The forties,” I corrected, then rolled my eyes at Harper, hoping Pete meant for me to play along. “Would you believe Pete didn’t hear three words before he conked out? You guys should be glad he wasn’t at the film with you. Pete snores so loudly, that drug-fueled actor might have punched him instead of the director.”