Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  After Mia and Chloe have recounted their shopping trip on Michigan Avenue and yoga workout, I reluctantly mutter, “I have to go, girls. I’m meeting some American travelers for dinner. And, oh, I forgot! You’re never going to believe this!” My enthusiasm sparks. “I met a guy who’s taking the self-vow!”

  With a gasp, Chloe claps and bounces in her seat. “This coincidence must mean you have messages from the Universe for each other.”

  “Messages my ass,” Mia retorts. Then, she pierces me with her whiskey-colored eyes through the camera. “Sophia, you’re way too naïve. Don’t believe what any random guy tells you. I bet you started the topic and he just followed along to hit on you.”

  Mia has always been overly protective of me. When we became roommates in college, she immediately noticed my lack of experience and assigned herself as my guardian against sleazy guys. She took pride in being the most seasoned of the four of us. She still jokingly says that I’m “The Lady” and she is “The Tramp.”

  “No, no!” I rush to clarify. “He started the conversation himself! He was carrying Iris’ book and wearing the Ultimate Challenge bracelet!”

  “That’s great!” Chloe claps again.

  “No, that’s fishy!” Iris raises one drawn eyebrow. Even in the small screen, I can guess the worry in her hazel eyes. “Sophia, I know my target audience very well. It’s ninety-eight percent women, one point five percent gay men recovering from sex addictions, and only point five percent straight men. Is he gay?”

  “He doesn’t look like it.” Like, at all. Gosh. It’s been a long time since I felt that much masculinity radiating from a man. The memory heats me up.

  “Then be very careful. A man taking the Ultimate Challenge? I’ve yet to see that.”

  “Ezra tried to do it!” I protest.

  Mia snorts. “And lasted all of three days!”

  “Sophia, I don’t know what that guy would be doing with my book and the bracelet,” Iris insists. “But chances are he’s a scammer who’s using them to sweet talk women into lowering their guard with him.”

  “On second thought…” Chloe wrinkles her pointy nose. “I have to agree.”

  I look up to the ceiling. “Gee, girls, you sound so cynical. You need to have a little faith in humanity! Anyway, there’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re having dinner in a group; it’s not like we’ll be alone.”

  Speaking of which, I’d better hurry to make it there. I rush to say goodbye, knowing I’ll lose my Wi-Fi connection the minute I walk away from the hotel. Talking to the girls has intensified my homesickness, making me more than happy to join Trevor and his friends and get more of his amazing pearls of wisdom about touring the city.

  * * *

  Two metro transfers later I’m buzzing an intercom in a typical Paris building—and by typical I mean a gorgeous off-white stone building with elaborate black iron balconies (13, 14). I’ve never seen a more beautifully carved wooden door than the one I’m buzzing at. Of course, there’s no elevator and my tired feet hurt as I climb all the way to the fourth floor. I have to stop and catch my breath before knocking on the apartment door.

  At the door, Trevor greets me with a kiss on each cheek, apparently already adopting the local custom. It makes me feel downright cosmopolitan. “I can’t believe you made it! I could’ve sworn you agreed to come out of politeness but had no intention of showing up.” He looks just as attractive wearing dark jeans and a fitted blue-striped button-down shirt with the long sleeves rolled up. Gosh, he’s in good shape.

  He guides me into the small living room that feels bigger thanks to its high ceiling, enhanced by gorgeous crown molding. The furniture, white couch and armchairs around a glass coffee table, looks too modern for the classical space and contrasts with an antique roll-up desk against the entrance wall. There, he introduces me to Karla and Eric, the couple who shares the “flat” with him—for some reason they never call it an “apartment.”

  Karla and Eric are intimidatingly cool. Eric is a student of Buddhism and Hinduism—which complements his shaven head but contrasts with his British accent and white-boy-next-door looks. Karla seems cut out from a French magazine—dark bob, nude lipstick, and so slender I suspect you couldn’t pinch anything from anywhere on her body. Like Trevor, they have no visible means of making a living.

  “Please don’t tell me you wore those shoes to tour the city today!” Karla points at my wedge sandals with a wince as we move to a table in the white and blue kitchen. “You better throw those in the trash and go get yourself sneakers. And don’t get me started on that thick jacket you’re wearing. The key for traveling Europe in the spring is layers.” Her lecture makes me self-conscious, but also appreciative—God knows I need help.

  Dinner here is a super-long multi-course event. Over tasty soup, Eric relates his adventures “couch surfing” during the time he backpacked through Europe. And even as the three of them joke about their experiences penny-pinching and sharing bathrooms with strangers in hostels, a suspicion rises in me. They would not be here if they didn’t have money. My guess is they’re trust fund babies flying under the radar.

  This intuition about Trevor feels disappointing and relieving at the same time. I don’t see myself falling for a trust fund baby who doesn’t work. It doesn’t matter how rich—or attractive—that guy could be, my life is my ideals. If someone doesn’t have something they work for, a cause they believe in, a mission they strive for, I doubt I could connect with them. But I try to give Trevor the benefit of the doubt. If he’s taking the vow too, he must be seeking more in his life.

  I was sure Trevor was bluffing when he said he could cook, but it’s true. And the beef sirloin, glazed onions, and fontinella cheese he serves along sautéed vegetables for the main course are amazing. Now that I’m no longer worried about his attractiveness, I have to admit Trevor is delightful company. Witty in a cool, mildly sarcastic way, he deadpans the funniest lines, and I find myself laughing too much during the evening. Granted, it might have to do with how unaccustomed I am to wine with dinner.

  When it’s my turn to be under the spotlight, I give them the light version of the reason why I’m in Paris. “When I was still a baby, my father came to Europe on an educational trip sponsored by the college where he taught. Back then, taking pictures in museums was forbidden, so he brought home several books he purchased in the museum gift stores, showcasing the collections. I grew up leafing through the pages of those books and admiring the art. My favorites were the Louvre guides. Because of that, visiting the Louvre museum has been a lifelong dream of mine.”

  As I talk, Trevor keeps his eyes on me. “That’s a great story. I envy anybody who has any dreams to pursue, let alone accomplishes them.”

  During the last course of salad—go figure, here they have it at the end of the meal instead of before or during—they take turns sharing their wisdom about the city. But my favorite tips by far are Trevor’s. The guy is an encyclopedia of practical knowledge to save time and money and get the best out of Paris. Seriously, he should have his own YouTube channel or something.

  “Don’t waste your time climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower for the view,” he explains. “Everything looks too small and if it’s cloudy, you’ll see nothing. And the lines for the elevators are ridiculous. If you want a good view of the city, which includes seeing the Eiffel Tower, go to the Montparnasse building. And if you have to climb the tower to scratch it off your bucket list, take the stairs to the first level. The line is shorter, it’s a doable climb, and the view from the levels above is not any better.”

  After dinner, Karla and Eric do the dishes—house rules, I learned. Whoever cooks is exempt from kitchen cleaning.

  Trevor and I sit in the cozy living room with the background sounds of water running and clanking pots and china behind us. I’ve been scribbling Trevor’s tips on my dinner napkin and it’s now full on both sides, ink bleeding through, and so smudged that it makes no sense. I didn’t think this through. “O
h, shoot. My notes are ruined.”

  “Come on. I’ll get you some real paper and we’ll start over.”

  He picks up the wine bottle and our empty glasses and signals me to follow him to a bedroom. Hesitant, I stay outside, but he insists, “Just come sit on the balcony. It’s quieter here and easier to focus.” He sets the goblets and bottle on a dresser and searches for something in a nightstand drawer.

  My eyes dart to the bracelet on his wrist; a void settles in my stomach and my heart speeds up. Can the girls be right? Is this guy trying to seduce me, his vow a scam?

  “Oh, I forgot! I got something for you!” From the nightstand, he hands me a paper shopping bag. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  The bag contains a cylinder, and when I unroll it I can’t help but gasp. It’s a high-quality poster of Canova’s Eros and Psyche sculpture, better than any picture I could’ve taken with my camera or my phone. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “I almost got you a replica of the statue they had at the store,” he comments as he sets two folding chairs on the small balcony. “But that would’ve been a hassle to carry around. You can mail this poster to yourself and it will be waiting for you when you get home.”

  He produces a bound notebook from the nightstand and hands it to me, grabs the wine, and then takes a seat at the balcony. He’s acting like coming into his room is the most natural thing in the world and I don’t want to advertise what an unsophisticated hick I am. Curiosity about the view wins and I step in.

  In every movie about Paris I’ve ever watched, you can see the Eiffel Tower from every window. Apparently that’s not true. But the iron balcony building across the street is beautiful enough to remind me I’m not in the US anymore and make me excited about being here. (15)

  I imitate Trevor, taking a seat on one of the chairs and setting my gift bag on the floor.

  “This is more like it.” He pours two glasses of wine.

  All business, he starts reading from the napkin, repeating his advice. I rush to transfer the notes to the notebook. To the notes on the napkin, he adds a few more that blow my mind, and soon my trust returns.

  Then I catch him studying me.

  “Do I have sauce on my face?” I ask, getting shy.

  He half-smiles. “No, I like the expression you show when you like something. Your delight during dinner was the best compliment a chef can have.”

  “It was the best meal I’ve had in months.” I’m not exaggerating.

  His hazel eyes are fixed on some vague place on my features. “But I’m disappointed about your lack of enthusiasm for the wine. I was truly hoping to get the same reaction.”

  My shyness deepens by the seconds. “Wine is not really my thing.” And also I know nothing about it. He said this wine is supposed to be extra good, or something. But even after two glasses of it, I still don’t get what’s the big deal about it.

  “Wait. It needs something else.”

  He disappears briefly and reappears with tiny cubes of cheese on a plate. “I wasn’t ready with dessert for you, but this might help.”

  The cheese is delicious. Gosh, how am I ever going to go back to Velveeta after this? He shows me how to alternate the cheese with another sip of wine, insisting that I should notice a difference in the taste. But I don’t. And I really, really try, afraid I’ll disappoint him if I don’t get it. And I take sip after sip, on top of the wine I already had over dinner, until a terrible realization strikes me.

  I might be drunk.

  Chapter 5

  Trevor

  Karla and Eric will soon leave us alone in the flat. After the dishes, they’ll go walk along the bank of the Seine, and then explore bars as per their nightly routine. On the balcony, Sophia and I have been talking about everything between the travel tips. I’ve volunteered to show her around the city before she leaves for the Alps Saturday and she’s unsure, but I know she’s tempted. Apparently, her first day touring Paris alone didn’t go well.

  I observe Sophia closely, trying to read her signals. She wouldn’t have agreed to come into my room if she didn’t want me to make a move, would she? Is the dude from the museum right? Is she sending me a message that she wants me to seduce her?

  I’ve taken advantage of my “safe” status tonight to slip in all sorts of casual touches, and the sparks are flying between us; she definitely likes me. Maybe the wine is affecting me, but the prospect of rescuing her from her crazy vow excites me more than I anticipated.

  Tourist advice, homemade dinner, wine and entertainment, a present… To be fair, I rarely work this hard to get a woman in my bed, but this is going to be worth it. When I finally get my hands on that deliciously curvy body and unlock the months of pressurized sexual energy she’s been storing, the night is going to be epic.

  Now on her third glass of wine, she opens up and shares more details about her trip. “Normally, I wouldn’t be able to afford a trip like this on a high school teacher’s salary. But my aunt passed away and left me her estate in her will, with a letter begging me to use the money for something I’d always wanted to do.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say, with sincerity.

  I take her free hand and massage her knuckles with my fingertips and her palm with my thumb. The gesture is friendly, but it carries the second intention of letting her know what my skillful fingers could do on other parts of her body. “Sorry for your loss. Were you and your aunt close?”

  She’s making that face of delight at my touch as she answers. “She finished raising me after my parents passed away.”

  “I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing it occurs to me to say.

  She twirls her goblet, studying the red wine. “This month is the twenty-year anniversary of the plane crash that killed my parents.”

  My fingers freeze on her palm. I wasn’t expecting that.

  She continues, “It was a plane they were taking to return from France, from their fifteen-year anniversary trip.”

  Gosh, what a tragic story. I let go of her hand.

  She doesn’t seem as sad as I’d expect when she goes on. “Aunt Margie had been kind of a free spirit during her youth and always bugged me about not being more adventurous or taking any risks.” She takes another sip from her wine, distracted. “As I took care of her estate, I had to go over all her things and decide what to sell, what to keep and what to discard. It was a daunting task.

  “Then, I found an old box in her basement, from when I still lived with her. It contained my old childhood journals and my mother’s letters from that trip—some of them ruined by moisture and mold from when the basement flooded. After I sold Aunt Margie’s house and paid her debts, I decided to honor her last wishes by using part of the money left to take this trip. Coming to France and following the steps my parents followed in their final days feels like the right thing to do.”

  Her blue eyes are shaded by bittersweet nostalgia. I’m suddenly ashamed of being here, on this balcony, scheming my way to get her in my bed.

  “It must’ve been fascinating to find your childhood journals,” I comment, not knowing what else to say. “Did you start keeping them from a young age?”

  She bobs her head. “Ever since I learned how to write. My mother always kept a diary and taught me to do the same. I’d abandoned the habit for years, and now the urge to clarify my thoughts in writing has come back stronger than ever. I… I have some big decisions ahead of me.”

  She sips from her glass, then lowers it. “This is a critical point in my life, when a lot is changing. I desperately long to reconnect with the person I was before I became an orphan—before my identity was shaken and self-pity became ingrained in me.”

  I feel like scum for having lied to this woman. “That’s a beautiful mission. Do you have a plan?”

  “You’re going to say I’m crazy.” She titters and looks up to the dark sky. “Organizational skills are not my strength. I brought along my mother’s letters and postcards from that trip. Between that and the notes I’ve
highlighted in my childhood journal from that time, I hope to recreate their steps here in Paris.”

  Wanting to make up for my not-so-lofty intentions of screwing her brains out all night—which I haven’t abandoned completely, but have certainly softened—I make her an offer. “I’m pretty good with organizational skills and know the city well. If you want to, I can help you go through those notes and try to recreate their path. I can be your guide.”

  “Well, it’s an offer I can’t refuse.” She beams. “Thank you.”

  I brush the guilt from my mind. This girl deserves a break and I’ll make sure she gets it. I will give her the best tour of Paris in history and help her recreate her parents’ steps. And then I’m going to blow her mind in bed and make the rest of her trip unforgettable. She’s been officially promoted from a one-night stand to my focus all week.

  That’s better, right?

  I move to stand behind her and massage her shoulders. “I see you’ve gone through a lot lately. Now I understand why you picked up the cleansing year and took the self-vow. You needed to take some time for self-discovery, right?”

  “Mostly yes, but there’s more. My friend Iris, whom I’ve known since elementary school, wrote the book.”

  “You mentioned she was your friend.” My thumbs draw sensual circles on her back.

  “Iris has spent the last six months receiving chemotherapy for breast cancer, with the hope of shrinking it enough to get a free margin in surgery.”

  Shit. More tragedy? This girl has been slammed.

  “I couldn’t believe I might lose her too. She’s done great so far, but it hasn’t been easy for her. She’s my hero.” She pauses. “And she’s my age, only thirty-two.”

  God, I’m a pig. And a dog. Here’s this woman having her life shaken from all different directions—her parents, her aunt, her friend’s health crisis—and all I’m trying to do is get her to sleep with me. “So, by taking the vow, you felt you were supporting your friend in her writing career?”