Love in B Minor

by Elodie Nowodazkij

  I shake my head. “Nope. Nope. Not you. Definitely not you, but thank you.” Her face falls but she keeps her smile on—probably for all the photographers. “But you can help me distract them.” I nod toward the vultures.

  “How?”

  “I’m sure you can find something. You were always good at make-believe.” The words sound a bit harsh but I kiss her cheek to soften the blow. “Thank you. I owe you one.” Olivia and I have known each for so long. So long. Again, the cameras flash.

  Olivia’s smile turns into a grimace which may look natural to everyone but me. It’s her I’m not happy forced smile. But she still leans in, giving me a very good view of her boobs. They almost spill out of her top, but they don’t do anything to me. She doesn’t do anything to me.

  I need to get out.

  She whispers in my ear. “Fine, but you do owe me one. Now, let me put on a show.” And she jumps up, clapping her hands like she’s the happiest person on Earth, and she calls up to Grégoire. “Grégoire! Grégoire, come on, you have no idea what Lucas just told me!” She’s loud. Super loud. Everyone turns their attention to her. And I use the moment to wobble toward the bathroom, which also has another exit. I grab my phone and dial my driver’s number. “Hey Mathieu, tu peux venir me chercher?” When I have too much to drink, I fluctuate between French and English, it can be hard to follow me apparently. “I’m getting out of Club D—that new disco on the Champs-Élysées. I’ll be in the back.”

  And I slip out. Man it’s cold. And dark. And what time is it? It’s not even midnight yet. Maybe I could pass by Jen’s and tell her the good news. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s too late. Or maybe if she’s awake. Maybe I should call her again. Or text her.

  Yeah, I’ll text her. Hi Laura/Jen…

  After one second, she answers. Hi Clement/Lucas. So, you’re the number who called me several times. Sorry, I was with my mom on the phone. I wanted to tell you. I loved your song. I loved every word of your song.

  My car pulls next to the curb and I slide into it, almost bumping my head on the ceiling. Because clearly texting and walking is a hazard. Are you awake?

  No. I’m typing in my sleep. Of course I’m awake.

  And I laugh. Because she’s right. And maybe because the last shot may have been a bit too much. I’m on my way.

  What?

  Be there in five minutes. Good news.

  Good news that you’ll be there in five minutes?

  No, no. I have good news.

  And I lean back against the leather seat. “Can you take me to this address?” I show Jen’s address to my driver.

  “Should I wait for you once we’re there?”

  “I’ll take a cab home. Don’t worry.” My mouth tastes weird and forming sounds is much harder than before.

  “Mister Sarant has asked me to make sure you get home safely.”

  “Grégoire is not my father. I’ll be fine.” And I close my eyes—until the car stops again.

  “We’re here.”

  For a second, my brain scrambles to find reasons not to get out of the car. Rushing to Jen because I’m feeling down isn’t something I should get used to, right? Rushing to Jen because I’m dying to see her again is risky—I don’t know her. I’m not sure what she wants, where she’s at.

  “Do you want me to keep driving?” Matthieu asks me slowly, like I may not understand.

  “No. I’m getting out.” I struggle to open the door and to read the numbers of the buildings. She lives in 12 rue Voltaire. There. But I forgot to write which apartment.

  I take out my phone. She sent me several messages but there’s no time to read them. Which one is your apartment?

  When she doesn’t answer, I sway to the side and sing. Maybe a bit too loudly. A window opens and an older lady screams in French. “You got to leave or I’m calling the police. I need to sleep!”

  Oops. Someone else could have recognized me.

  Another window opens. This time the voice warms my heart and my entire body. “Oh my god, stop singing. I’m buzzing you in.”

  CHAPTER 22 - JEN

  I can’t believe he was outside singing. He sounds drunk. His texts sounded drunk. And what the heck am I going to do with a drunk Lucas?

  Someone could have seen him enter, and then could have called the press. I so do not need anyone to scrutinize my life. I slam the window shut and bite the inside of my cheek. My apartment isn’t a mess, but it’s sad and pathetic. I don’t even have enough dishes to invite friends over. Even though Mom thinks I bought them. The next time she comes to visit she’s going to be disappointed.

  I wipe my eyes before buzzing him in. No time to at least try to look decent. Oh well. “Third floor.” I’m proud my voice isn’t as needy and lost as I feel.

  He knocks loudly and I don’t think before opening to him. Because if I paused and stepped back to analyze the situation, I would know that this could be a terrible mistake.

  “Can I come in?” His voice sends a warm tingle down my spine. His deep voice. The one I don’t think I’ll ever forget after listening to him sing and talk and sing again. His hair is tousled, like someone ran their fingers through it several times. And right when I’m thinking this, he runs his fingers through his hair, and I smile one of those smiles that only he instigates. It’s a happy I-can’t-help-it smile.

  “You look beautiful.”

  I open the door wider, to let him in. “And you stink.”

  “I drank. A little. A lot.” Our arms brush as he enters. Our arms brush and my heart skips a beat. Maybe talking in the hallway would not be such a bad idea. But someone could recognize him and there’s a sadness surrounding him that I can’t bear. “You had no clue who I was.” It sounds like a question, like he wants to make sure of a detail I’m not entirely sure I understand.

  “I pretty much only watch Netflix.” I walk to my tiny kitchen; my steps seem all wrong, like my feet know he’s watching me and they’re trying to impress him but they can’t. My movements are all wrong. I’m too aware of him.

  Stopping in front of the cabinets, I pull out a glass, anything to prevent me from looking at him right now. If I did, he’d probably see how much I want him, how much it scares me, how much I have no clue what I’m doing. “Do you want some water? I think you need water. Or coffee. Something other than tequila.”

  I swear I can hear him smile. Or maybe it’s the way he answers with a little twang in his voice that wasn’t there before. “You’re probably right. I think you’re right.”

  I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make small talk. He plops himself on my couch. “Your apartment is empty.”

  “I have a couch. A bed. A table and chairs.” I sound defensive even though he’s right. I know he’s right. My apartment doesn’t necessarily look like a lived-in place.

  “I like the drawing on that wall. It’s pretty.”

  I don’t need to look to know what drawing he’s talking about—it’s the one Mia made for me the day she told me I needed to go to Paris. There’s a plane and an Eiffel Tower and we’re both smiling. “My sister made that drawing for me.”

  “You said your sister was gone…in my apartment, you said…she passed away but…you said…no talking about it.” He sounds tired and his words blur together. He takes off his jacket, frowns and his face is so sad that I want to go and hug him. But even though we slept together, I’m not sure I should. So, instead, I pat his hand very awkwardly. “Here, drink some water.” I give him the glass and he gulps it down.

  “More?” he asks and I laugh because what else am I supposed to do?

  I get up and pour him another glass.

  “So…you mentioned the other night your mom is French and your dad is American?”

  I have no clue if he’ll be able to talk but I think he needs to distract himself from whatever thoughts are bringing him down.

  “Yep. It was love at first sight. Dad came to France to study at La Sorbonne, he met my mothe
r one morning while he was exploring Versailles. She was his guide—she was studying to become a history professor and working there on weekends. He wanted to be the curator of Le Louvre at some point. They got married six months later.”

  “Wow.”

  “One of those stories you see in movies. We lived in the US until I was thirteen and then when Mom got a job opportunity in France, Dad decided we should take the plunge.” He takes the glass of our water and this time, when our fingers touch, my heart doesn’t only skip a beat, a delicious tingle spreads though my entire body. He still sounds hammered but maybe more tired than drunk now. “I didn’t like it at first. But the American School was fun and they had lots of music. That’s where…Olivia.”

  “Olivia,” I repeat.

  “She’s my ex.” Too bad his eyes are closed because he’s missing some major eye rolling action.

  I remember who Olivia is. Of course I do. She’s one of the reasons why this…us…this thing right now is a very bad idea.

  “We’re not together. Anymore. She…she used me.” I hate the disappointment in his voice. And again, I’m reminded that maybe he still cares for her, more than he realizes.

  I sit back away from him a little and he opens his eyes.

  There’s hurt and there’s passion.

  But most of all there’s a whole lot of pain.

  CHAPTER 23– LUCAS

  I’m not in my bed. I’m not in my bed and my head is pounding. The strong smell of fresh-brewed coffee is overpowering. And my stomach lurches. Man, I drank too much last night. The last thing I remember is trying to kiss Jen and her gently pushing me away. I can’t believe I tried to make out with her while I was so wasted I probably didn’t even remember my birthday.

  The front door opens and Jen enters, carrying a bag from a bakery. “I brought croissants. They’re buttery and fat, so it could help with your hangover.”

  “Did I tell you last night that I thought seeing you again was a sign?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And did I really make a move on you?”

  “A move which was very hard to resist. You can be very convincing.” She smiles and her entire face lights up. “Don’t worry. You weren’t too bad.”

  “Not too bad.”

  “And you did tell me I got the part in the music video, so that’s a plus.”

  “We didn’t…” I gesture to the bed, feeling like the biggest jerk on the entire planet.

  “Nope. I slept on the couch, while you took my bed. You didn’t claim it as much as falling into it, really.” She steps forward and hands me a croissant. “I’ve got to go to rehearsal in about thirty minutes. You said something last night about Grégoire needing to talk to some blog gossip lady first to make the big announcement.”

  “That’s right.” I stand up and she purses her lips before giggling.

  “You might want to put clothes on.”

  “What?” I look down and I’m baring everything. And I can’t hide the fact that I’m happy to see her. “How?” I grab the sheet and cover myself, but now her giggle has turned into a full-out laugh, including one tiny snort she doesn’t even bother to hide, and I love the sound of it.

  “Last night, you decided you were hot and then you said something about no longer hiding and being your true self and you took off your clothes.”

  “I have a feeling I should get the jerk of the night award.”

  “Nah, you were cute and you were sad at the beginning. We talked for a long time and it was nice.”

  “Nice enough for you to reconsider giving me a chance? I do remember you telling me you didn’t want to get in the middle of Olivia and me.”

  “We’ll see. How about first we, I don’t know…hang out? And do that video together, and then we’ll see.”

  “So, you want to do that video together first.” I don’t like the sound of that. I remember Grégoire’s words, how we don’t really know Jen, how maybe she knew who I was. But even if she did, she’s the best dancer for the part, and I can’t believe I’m doubting her after she took such good care of me last night.

  “Your phone is beeping. Quite insistently.” Jen picks up my phone, which for some reason ended up on the floor last night.

  “It’s Grégoire,” I tell her. “And I’ve got a message from Olivia.”

  Grégoire calls again. And he can be persistent. “Where are you?” He sounds upset, but again when does Grégoire not sound upset?

  “I’m at Jen’s. Why?”

  “You haven’t seen your emails yet?”

  “Nope. It’s seven in the morning. My head is killing me.”

  “Well, your head might be killing you more once you found out what Stardom Magazine has printed this morning.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a picture of you and Olivia kissing.”

  “Kissing? Olivia? What?” I turn to Jen and she furrows her brows, staring down at the floor and stepping away from me. “I didn’t kiss Olivia last night.” I repeat, this time for Jen’s sake, “I did not.”

  “You can do whatever you want,” she mutters. “That’s why we’re friends. Friends is good.”

  “Did Olivia spread the rumors?”

  “No, she did not. She called the newspaper up herself and said this was a lie; she’s also quoted in another online magazine saying that you were kissing her on the cheek to say goodbye and that you guys are not back together.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I don’t think she’s playing games anymore. She’s learned her lesson. And I don’t think publicity—any publicity—is bad, as you know, but what I don’t want is another love triangle.”

  “Another?”

  “You know what I mean.” And I do, and it hurts. Because the gossip magazines had picked up on the time Olivia and Benji spent together, they twisted everything and when Benji died from an overdose, they called it the end of a tragic love triangle.

  Bullshit. So much bullshit.

  “Fine, whatever. There’s nothing. Because Olivia and I are nothing anymore. Friendly exes, that’s our aim.”

  “What you say goes,” Grégoire replies. “Don’t forget I’m telling Fran at twelve thirty, so make sure your Jen doesn’t blabber until the news gets out at two thirty on her blog.”

  “She won’t say anything.” I hang up, feeling even more hungover than before, or maybe just more frustrated, angry.

  I find my boxers on the side of the bed and put my jeans back on, trying to make eye contact with Jen, but she’s keeping busy, cleaning a counter that already looks spotless.

  “Apparently, the media is having a field day with me kissing Olivia on the cheek.”

  “You don’t have to explain.” She shakes her head, and her long black hair flies around. She gathers it to her head and ties it into a knot. I’ve noticed she’s done that before, usually when she’s trying to keep busy, or trying to push me away, to keep me at distance. “Really, you don’t.”

  “But I feel like I do.”

  “Last night, when you were drunk, you told me you agreed with me. That being friends would be good. That you needed a friend.”

  “Did I say that after my failed pathetic attempt at kissing you?”

  “You kissed my shoulder. You were getting tired at that point.” When she smiles, I don’t see it in her eyes; it’s like half of her is there, and the other half is gone somewhere I can’t reach her.

  “Why don’t you want to give us a try?” I rub the back of my neck and when she turns to me, her mouth forms a small “o” as she keeps her eyes trained on my body before reaching my face. I know I’m not letting her indifferent. Hell, the night we spent together was not only fun, it was also hot, full of passion. You can’t fake that kind of passion.

  She shuffles around and then gets my shirt from underneath a pillow on the couch. “Here, maybe you want to put that on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t think straight whe
n you’re half naked in my apartment.”

  “You’re attracted to me.”

  She rolls her eyes like I’ve stated the obvious. “Of course. I usually don’t sleep with strangers I’m not attracted to.”

  “You like me.”

  And this time, she tilts her head, steps forward, like she wants to be closer to me. I’m not objecting. Not one bit. “I do like you.”

  “So, what’s the issue?”

  “I’ve got something to tell you.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, first, I don’t want to get in the middle.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “That’s what you say but there are signs I recognize. The fact that you still care about Olivia.”

  “I think I always will. She was a part of my life for so long and even though she screwed up, I know she wasn’t the only one. I screwed up too.”

  “You’re not hearing what I’m saying.”

  “You’re afraid I still love her.”

  She tilts her head back. “Okay, maybe you’re hearing what I’m saying.”

  “What other reasons do you have?”

  “We’re going to be working together for several weeks at least. Grégoire sent me an email about doing some promo together, some live shows where you’ll be singing and I’ll be dancing. You also showed me the contract last night and it could get really awkward, especially if we don’t work out.”

  “Not more awkward than singing for my dead friend with the girl who lied to me and who everyone believed had something going with him.” I raise one eyebrow because I know I got her there.

  She gasps. “What?”

  “Long story short, Benji and Olivia were spending a lot of time together. Without me. And rumors spread about them maybe sleeping together behind my back. Benji denied it. Olivia cried. Whatever.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers and her hand runs down my arm soothingly. I stare at it. Usually, I joke when I’m being shown one ounce of compassion or pity, because I don’t think I deserve it, because I don’t think I was there enough for Benji. But her touch is intoxicating, like she understands me. Like she knows what I’m going through and wants to help.