Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  “Does it look like I want to talk about it?” I can’t help the sour tone, then immediately feel bad about it. It’s not her fault and I shouldn’t make her pay for it. “I’m sorry.” I come off her arms and touch her shoulder. “I’m okay now. It’s not a big deal.”

  She seems to be making an effort to recompose herself. “I just wanted you to know that I understand better now why you needed to escape the US. I’m very sorry if I ever made it sound like I was judging you.”

  The truth is that I still can’t forgive myself for the weakness that pushed me to take this sabbatical. Sophia has been so impressed with how “put together” I am, but she’d probably think differently if she knew the mess I was at the time.

  I’m not sure what compels me to tell her the story. Maybe I just want to reassure her I’m fine now, rather than letting her imagination think the worst. She has already risen from the seat when I surprise myself by blurting, “The second bullet was meant for me.”

  She freezes in place and then turns around slowly, caution and horror mix in her expression. She eases back down onto the couch, and her attentive eyes encourage me to continue.

  Repeating the story a million times in the past must’ve helped. It’s amazing how little emotion I have left as I retell it today. “A couple years back, my firm won a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against a small company. I didn’t know that company was the handiwork of one man who had built it from scratch. The loss sent him into bankruptcy and cost him his marriage. He showed up at the office that day, determined to kill my father and me.”

  I halt. For a moment, a wave of fright threatens to rise, but the effects of the sedative flatten the adrenaline. Sophia’s hand reaches toward mine but hesitates; then it inches again until her cold fingers grab mine.

  Hypnotized by her touch and soothing gaze, I go on. “The first bullet hit the person right next to me, a client at the office the shooter confused for my father, wounding him seriously. I threw myself under the conference table, so the second and third bullets flew over my head. What saved my life was that security arrived right after that and seized the shooter. But before they took him down, he shot four other people, including our secretary. Two of them, a security guard and an innocent bystander, lost their lives.”

  And to think that random, senseless shootings have become such a normal thing in the US that stories like ours barely made the news and didn’t make it onto the countdown of New York’s memorable events of the year.

  I’m surprised at how easily I can talk about it. Maybe these months away have helped. I’m also surprised how well Sophia is holding it together. In a moment, she’s transformed from a rattled woman into the image of poise.

  “I can only imagine how terrifying that must’ve been. Was your father one of the other people wounded?”

  I half sigh, half groan. “He wasn’t in the office right then. Not only did he never acknowledge how lucky he’d been, but he also behaved like an a-hole about the whole thing.”

  She holds my hand, transmitting peace through direct contact. “What do you mean?”

  “He refused to compensate the victims, not wanting to send the message that we felt responsible for anything, to avoid potential lawsuits.”

  The grip of her hand on mine tightens. “What did you do?”

  “I went against his orders for the first time in my life. I sent sympathy letters and financial gifts to the families of the two men who died. I helped cover the hospital bills of the wounded people. I even wrote a condolence letter to the family of the shooter, offering my help for anything they needed.”

  The words sound surreal to my own ears as they leave my mouth. I can hardly believe I managed to do all that back then, as if on autopilot, numb from the shock. I guess the guilt of escaping unharmed while other people didn’t propelled me forward.

  Sophia’s head tilts back and her eyes widen. “Wow. That was taking the high road. You’re very brave.”

  “No, I’m not.” I scoff and free my hand from hers. This is the part I’ve dreaded sharing. “A month later, everything hit me at once. One day, while my father was berating me for the hundredth time about having done all that against his counsel, I ripped my desktop computer off my desk and threw it against a wall.”

  The rage resurges inside as I relive the memory. “They say when you face death, you see your life flash in front of your eyes. In my case, all I saw was one question: why had I wasted a decade of my life practicing a career I never liked in the first place, with a father who had so little humanity?”

  The truth is, I never had a say. Dad paid for my degree, so he got to choose what it was. If I ever expressed any doubt, he accused me of weakness by questioning whether I had what it took to be as great of a lawyer as he was.

  “Every resentment against him I ever hid inside burst out, and I yelled and accused him of ruining my life.” I pause and shudder. “I couldn’t stop screaming. My anger surprised me even more than him. He decided I’d just lost my mind and sent me to therapy—the ultimate humiliation, as it proved my weakness. Then, every time I told the shrink I no longer wanted to do a job that caused so many people to hate me, he kept asking what I really wanted to do. The only answer I could come up with was ‘I want to go back to Europe.’” It’s uncomfortable to admit I did something so out of character for me. “The worst part is that after so long, I’m not any closer than before to knowing what I want to do with my life.”

  That’s it. Now she’s seen the darkest, most broken part of me.

  After a long silence, Sophia squirms in her seat and sits up, straight, on the edge of the couch. There’s no pity in her eyes, on the contrary, the only word to describe what shines there is admiration. “I’m trying to come up with something deep to say, but I’m still stuck on the part that you postponed your breakdown until you’d taken care of everybody around you, and then still had the focus and stamina to plan this trip.” She chuckles. “Man, I want to slap you for putting me to shame again! On your worst day, you make me on my best day look like a freaking mess.”

  I can’t help chuckling too, and it feels good to release some of the tension. God, she has a point; I kind of am an organizing freak.

  “But I think I understand better than ever what you’re doing here.” She recaptures my fingers and her blue gaze pins me in place. “You’re not really trying to figure out your next career step. You’re trying to figure out your relationship with your father.”

  I jerk up straight and blink, considering the idea for the first time. “It could be. Until the day of my breakdown I’d been the perfect son who never questioned him and followed in his footsteps, even when those steps headed to working until the day we both drop dead, while stomping on everybody in our way. I can’t believe it took a shooting to make me react.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Her delicate hand moves to my back, infusing me strength with her touch. “It’s understandable that you’d try to follow in his steps; you love him.”

  Do I?

  “I don’t think it had much to do with love,” I mutter, reflecting on it for the first time. “After my parents divorced, pleasing him became my obsession. Maybe because he was the parent whose love and attention I didn’t take for granted. Or maybe because I sensed in his bitterness that he’d lost the most from the split.”

  And at once, I realize why I’ve grown interested in Sophia’s journey and her parents’ love story. I spent my childhood hearing Dad rant against my mother for leaving him and warning me that people would always disappoint me. I enjoy partaking in Sophia’s fantasy that if her parents were still alive, they would still be together and in love—which would prove Dad wrong.

  I don’t notice Sophia move. In a flash, her warm arms curl around me. Her fingers guide my head to rest on her shoulder and then play with the hair at the nape of my neck. Somehow, it’s both soothing and tantalizing. Too soon, she pulls back and the space between us hurts like the perpetual void inside me.

  She p
okes my shoulder, as if trying to ease the tension of the moment. “Cut yourself some slack for not having the world figured out yet, Trevor. You’ve been through a lot. You deserved an aimless break in Paris to soak in a little pleasure and beauty.”

  I study her, reflecting on her simple statement, and a weight lifts off my chest. I’m seeing myself through her eyes, and for the first time in months I see my breakdown and unproductive year in a new, more compassionate light. So, is this how it feels to screw up and have someone cut you slack? It’s pretty damn good.

  And I suddenly realize Sophia is growing on me at a rate that scares me, like weeds and vines spreading over a tropical jungle, overrunning everything in their path.

  My eyes send her a silent thank you and I smile. “You’re right. That is what I’m doing here. I’m just soaking up a little pleasure and beauty.”

  And the richest beauty I’ve encountered is this woman in front of me. No masterpiece I’ve seen on this journey compares to the adorable freckles on her nose. No place I’ve toured has been more enjoyable than her company, and no pleasure can compare to her mouth beneath mine.

  I’m not sure how it happens; I guess I move first. The next thing I know, her mouth stirs against mine once again.

  I drink her lips, fervently, barely managing not to bite her. She kisses me back with equal desperation, like our lives depend on it. As my mouth imprisons hers and my hands explore her exquisite curves, lust amplified by hunger fuels me, but there’s more.

  Is this force pulling me toward her something real? Or is it just the hypnotic effect of this magical place? I can’t make sense of my own voice when my body screams out a deafening roar. I ache with desire. I need to have her now, to quench this thunderstorm inside, and then I’ll figure things out.

  I continue to devour her mouth as I push her back on the couch. I pin her down with my body—and she does nothing to stop me.

  Chapter 17

  Sophia

  This is wrong. This is so wrong.

  But then why does it feel so, so right?

  I’m kissing Trevor—again. It’s been going on forever, yet it will never be enough. I suck on his lips as frantically as if he were my oxygen supply as I dive deep under a raging sea. I more than kiss him, I inhale his vital essence, I claim with greed that masculinity that has summoned me since the day we met.

  God, he’s delicious! His scent; the minty taste of his mouth; his searing, solid body pressed against mine.

  Stop! You barely know this guy, a corner of my brain warns, but it’s just a whisper drowning in the tsunami of my desire. My body has been restrained for months and now cries out in rebellion.

  Stop! You’ll never see him again after this trip. This is not like you. The whisper strengthens, but I can barely hear it. Trevor’s stubble scrapes me deliciously with every shift of his kisses. His smoldering hands clasp my flesh, possessive, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

  At first he pins me down on the couch, but somehow we manage to switch positions and now I straddle him with my legs. My hands run inside his shirt, delighting in the hardness of his torso; his slip beneath my blouse, caressing my breasts through the bra, making me arch with pleasure. My body ignores my orders and squirms and writhes against his, desperate for something to soothe this ache. But it’s pointless, because the more I touch him, the more I want of him and the deeper I yearn.

  As my fingers shift to tangle in his silky hair, an image of Iris, bald and pale against the hospital pillow, assails my mind.

  You took this vow for Iris’ health. If you break it, you’ll never forgive yourself.

  The arguments in my head are getting harder to ignore, and I pray for the strength to break the kiss, but I can’t find it. As if sensing my plea, Trevor’s hands have moved down to my hips and he’s shifting me forward to align me with his arousal. Thunder and lightning run through me.

  My prayers are answered in the form of a stumble. We slide off the couch and he has no choice but to pull his lips away as we fall on the rug covering the hardwood floor. I land on him, which saves me from injury, but adds to the painful awareness of how much I want to get lost in that body.

  His breathing hitches as if he’d climbed five flights of stairs. Fire blazing in his eyes, he mutters, “Let’s go to my room.”

  The words splash me like icy water and I freeze. While my hands grip his shoulders, my body still on top of his, I gape at him.

  I finally gather the strength to move away from his chest. My hoarse voice is almost a whisper. “You and I both know we’ll regret that tomorrow.”

  I climb back onto the couch and hunch forward, trying to gather myself. Relentless, he joins me there and presses his lips against my neck, then licks it. My mind clouds and my skin flourishes with goose bumps.

  He speaks between kisses on my neck. “I won’t regret anything. I want you so much.” The hunger in his voice matches the desperate call in my core.

  Summoning all my strength, I nudge him away and place my hand on his chest. It’s a symbol of talking heart-to-heart with him, but it’s also my way to keep his tempting mouth away from my skin. “You know I want you too, but there are things in life more important than our desires, like the promises we’ve made to ourselves.”

  Something I can’t interpret darkens his expression. “Maybe you’re wrong about me. Maybe I don’t have the character and strength to make myself any promises.”

  “Yes, you do!” I protest, moving my hand from his chest to his arm. “You can do this. It’s only six more months—”

  I stop. I’d forgotten that he took the self-vow later than me and for him it will be even longer.

  But more importantly, the real issue hanging between us is that in six months—in six weeks—we’ll no longer be together.

  He runs a hand through his messy dark blond hair. His words seem to echo my thoughts. “Sophia, I barely know where I’ll be six hours from now—let alone in six months.”

  “Six or nine months may feel like a long time right now, when desire is flaring, but trust me; time will fly before you know it.” My arguments sound weak to my own ears when I’m talking to a man who witnessed people get hit by bullets and may no longer believe in the word tomorrow. And how can I blame him for not trusting that we’ll have this chance six or nine months from now? We don’t even know if we’ll be on the same continent.

  I search my mind for a compromise. “Let’s practice what Iris says in the book about fighting temptation. Let’s find a distraction, go for a run, indulge in some chocolate. Let’s just tell ourselves, ‘I’m not saying no forever. I’m only saying no for the next twenty-four hours.’”

  He pierces me with his green-golden eyes. “And if twenty-four hours from now, we still can’t stop thinking about it, then we’ll give in?”

  My heart flutters. “Uh… then another twenty-four-hour period starts.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head with a half-smirk and I sense a new determination in him that scares me.

  I swallow hard. “How about… we cross that bridge tomorrow.” I stand up and tug on his arm to get him to rise too, but the contact with his skin is too much to bear and I release it right away. The intense way he looks at me makes it hard to think, but I force a grin. “For now, if we still hurry, we might be able to catch the last river cruise.”

  * * *

  Paris illuminated at night, its lights reflecting in the Seine waters, shows a different type of beauty than in the daytime. The Eiffel Tower struck me as “prettier than pictures” before, but now, as it shines lit up against the dark sky, I fall in love with it. Its serene, golden presence would’ve been enough treat to the eyes; then at the top of the hour it surprises me by bursting into sparkling, flashing lights, and tears of joy sweep me away (50-52).

  But I’m afraid I didn’t think this through. This river cruise, romantic to the point of exaggeration, is not helping distract me and Trevor from our lingering desire. The air between us is thick with electricity, a
nd Trevor, whose mood has made a great recovery, uses every excuse to touch me, threatening my resolve. When the boat passes under the Pont Marie, “The Lovers’ Bridge,” and the guide announces the questionable tradition of kissing the passenger sitting next to you, he reaches for my lips and I offer him my cheek instead. And even then he manages to deliver his kiss right at the edge of my mouth, enticing me with the promise of more.

  Every moment with him now is torture. His hand brushing my knee to get my attention, his breath in my ear as he whispers a joke about our tour guide, his arm around me as we walk back from the pier. He chips away at my determination with every featherlight touch.

  After we return to the flat and I evade his attempt at a good night kiss, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time before I can doze off. And when I do, my slumber is restless.

  I’m wide awake by four in the morning. My mother’s daughter, I resort to my journal to try to put my thoughts in order, but today it’s useless. Thank God, when I message Iris she’s awake and willing to talk. It’s past 10:00 p.m. in Florida—her usual bedtime—but her days and nights are still mixed up from all the daytime sleeping she’s done while recovering from her surgery. She and Chloe, who returned for a weeklong visit, are up watching TV.

  After venting for a while through Skype, I arrive at a conclusion. “I have to tell Trevor he can’t come with me to Annecy. He’s too much temptation to be around.”

  “Go for it,” Iris says, her bald head uncharacteristically exposed. Her sleepy eyes on the screen make me suspect she’s more tired than she admits. “Next thing you know he’s going to sneak into your bed in the middle of the night.”

  “He would never do that!” I protest. But as I say the words, I use my free hand to wedge a chair under the doorknob. “Still, I have to put distance between us. Otherwise, my resistance is only postponing the inevitable.” I groan. “But it breaks my heart. He’s been so generous to me, helping me so much during this trip and even hosting me here without charging me.”