Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  “Just tell him exactly that,” Chloe adds, setting a tray full of supplements and probiotics in front of Iris. “Have that conversation with him, like two adults.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll try to talk me into letting him come with me,” I whimper.

  “He can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Chloe obviously overestimates me. Yes, I want to prove to myself that I’m in control of my life. But the truth is that it terrifies me to confront Trevor. “Can I just run away while he’s still asleep?”

  Chloe tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. “I don’t think that would be very mature.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just kidding.”

  Am I?

  After disconnecting the call with the girls, I reflect on my decision and conclude it’s the right thing. Saying goodbye to Trevor is going to hurt. But I can’t let myself down now by breaking my promise to myself.

  Chapter 18

  Trevor

  I don’t know what brain-reboot happened after kissing Sophia, but my mood bounced back and the end of the day exceeded my expectations. No matter how many times I see the Eiffel Tower explode in flashing LED lights at the top of each hour, it always moves me. And Sophia’s child-like joy as she saw it for the first time infused the experience with new meaning (52).

  The next morning my phone wakes me, but strangely it doesn’t upset me. An unusual enthusiasm and optimism fill me, and I can’t remember why.

  “Hello?” I mumble, still groggy, keeping my eyes closed.

  “Oh shoot, I miscalculated the time, didn’t I?” It’s Max, calling from Chicago. “Did I wake you up?”

  “It’s fine. I have to get up early anyway.” I stretch and yawn. “What are you doing awake? It must be super late there.”

  “It’s past midnight. I’ve been working on a grant and suddenly broke into a cold sweat remembering something. Didn’t you say your roommates were going out of town for the rest of the month? Are you managing okay?”

  I’ve almost forgotten that Max sees me as a depressed and psychologically fragile patient. “I’m fine.”

  “I could try to swing by and visit you while I’m in London attending that symposium in a couple of weeks. Will you be okay alone until then?”

  I smile against my will. “Well… I’m not exactly alone.”

  Yes, my bed—or better said, Eric and Karla’s bed—is half empty. But I now have the hope that it won’t be for long.

  I quickly catch up Max about the past week and a half, having Sophia as a guest and new interest.

  “Last night, on the way back from the river cruise, I got her to promise we’ll use the four-hour train ride to Annecy to discuss our situation,” I conclude.

  “And what exactly does ‘our situation’ mean?”

  “Pretty much it means that I want her, and I know she wants me too.”

  That’s right. That’s why I’m in a good mood. Sophia has no idea who she’s signing up to debate with. I might no longer want to be a lawyer, but nobody can deny I still am one.

  “Aren’t you going a little too fast with someone about to return to a different continent?” I can imagine Max’s scowl.

  “I know, I know.” I groan. “She and I have a lot to decide about our futures. But precisely because of that, figuring out what’s going on between us first is critical.”

  Max’s voice carries an accusatory ring. “And you feel no remorse about planning to make her break her vow?”

  I position my back against the wooden headboard. “Come on! The belief that taking this vow would help her friend’s health is all superstition. Sophia even admitted it herself.”

  Max is the type of highly moral man who would rather die than break a law, a rule, or a promise, no matter how ridiculous. “I don’t know, man, I don’t like this. Just be careful.”

  We say goodbye and end the call and I brush his concerns from my mind. Of course rescuing her from her vow is something I need to do, for her own good.

  I review the arguments I’ll present during the train ride. Denying each other—and ourselves—the opportunity of being together is masochistic and unhealthy. It defeats the purpose of self-love and self-respect that she’s trying to accomplish with this one-year program. Welcoming me into her bed, acknowledging what she wants, would be the best vow of self-confidence, as it means she has learned to trust herself above her teacher.

  And then sooner than later we’ll also have to touch on the “minor detail” that really she made a vow of celibacy; I didn’t.

  But I think I’d better cement a deal with her first before bringing that out.

  I stretch out in bed, imagining the possibility of spending this night with Sophia, if I succeed at convincing her; my body is already responding to the thought. Then I notice it’s brighter outside than I would’ve expected.

  Wait. Did Max say it was past midnight in Chicago?

  I check the time on my phone and gasp at the confirmation that here it’s already seven twenty.

  “Oh, shit!” I toss the blankets aside and jump out of the bed. Sophia was supposed to wake me up by six to get ready to leave for the train station. “Sophia! We overslept! We have to hurry or we’ll miss our train!”

  Her room door is open. The bed is made and her things are gone. Cold, painful understanding grips me as my clumsy fingers pick up the note on the pillow. My eyes refuse at first to focus on its only line, “I will always be indebted to you for your kindness. Best of luck.”

  My body trembles as reality settles in.

  I can’t believe this.

  She ditched me.

  I hurry to the kitchen where our train tickets were hanging from the fridge with a magnet and confirm they’re both gone. She took my ticket too, to discourage me from following her.

  Cussing under my breath, I rush back to my bedroom and throw on my black jeans, gray turtleneck, and sneakers. No time for a full morning routine, I skip shaving. I wash my face instead of showering, swish with mouthwash instead of brushing my teeth, and run a wet hand through my hair instead of combing it. I click on my money belt and, remembering it’s supposed to be colder in the mountains, I shrug on my old black trench coat. My backpack was ready last night, so I swing it over my shoulder and dash out.

  Damn it, I can’t believe she’s doing this to me.

  No time for public transportation. I grab a taxi to the Gare Du Lyon. During the car ride, my shock mutates into anger.

  I arrive with time to spare before the train leaves, but that’s not enough. I need to find her in the sea of people at the station (53).

  I need to give her a piece of my mind.

  * * *

  Sophia

  For hours, I’ve been sulking in a chair at the station, waiting for the time to board my train. Thank God, Iris and Chloe have kept me company through the screen. It’s like 2:00 a.m. in Florida, but they’ve stayed up watching movies and chatting while waiting to hear the end of my drama.

  After venting for a while, I admit, “Leaving Trevor without saying goodbye is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. It’s not like me to sneak out at five in the morning and leave an impersonal note on the bed he generously lent me for over a week.”

  “You did the right thing; I’m proud of you,” Iris says, but her slurred speech suggests it’s not her talking, but the exhaustion.

  I expect Chloe to reprimand me for my cowardice, but thank God, she graciously decides to look at the positive side. “If your instinct told you it was better to leave, I’m glad you listened. You’ve always said that your goal this year is proving to yourself that you can make your own decisions.”

  “You’re right.”

  Chloe’s words soothe my guilty conscience, but not much. If I were as strong as I want to be, I would’ve said goodbye to Trevor face-to-face instead of sneaking out.

  After disconnecting the call with the girls, I reflect and decide to embrace my choice. I had to leave. I had to do it for myself and f
or Iris, but also for Trevor. I can’t become the reason he breaks his promise to himself.

  Something bumps the back of my row of link chairs, shaking me from my thoughts, before a deep voice says, “You owe me an explanation.”

  Oh shoot.

  I slowly rise from my seat and turn around. Arms crossed, sneaker tapping, backpack hanging from one shoulder, Trevor glares at me. Despite his scowl, he looks sexier than ever, unshaven and with his hair tousled in a different way today.

  I avoid his eyes. “I… I didn’t think you’d follow me.”

  Uncrossing his arms, he clenches his fists and paces back and forth. “I… I just can’t believe this! I never imagined you’d be the kind of woman to use a man for help and asylum and then run away in the middle of the night.”

  “What are you talking about?” I whip my head to him. “I never used you! You offered me your help voluntarily!”

  Huffing, he swirls an accusing finger at me. “You made me care about your archeological explorations to the point that I put my life on hold and was ready to go out of my way to keep helping you. And now that you’ve learned enough to manage alone, you kick me to the curb? Without even having the decency to say goodbye to my face? Damn it, Sophia! I thought we had a deal!”

  I square my shoulders. “Well, I wasn’t ready to pay the price of that deal!” The words escape me against my will.

  Trevor recoils, as if I had slapped him. “Are you insinuating I was trying to sleep with you to collect a payment?”

  It’s not that. Maybe the right way to phrase it is that being in debt to him made it even harder to say no. “All I’m saying is that after what happened yesterday, I didn’t consider it safe for us to take a trip together and stay at the same hotel, even in different rooms.”

  He seems to be getting angrier by the minute. “Do you really believe I would put a finger on you if you didn’t want me to? God, Sophia, is that how poorly you think of me?”

  I can’t answer. There’s no point in explaining I’m more afraid of myself than of him.

  “Have you forgotten you said we crossed paths because we’re meant to help each other find clues about our futures?” he asks, barely controlling his voice from rising. “For crying out loud! I opened up and shared so much with you yesterday! And this is the way you treat me?”

  Gosh, this guy really is a lawyer. How does he know exactly what to say to touch the deepest nerve in me? I throw my hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I thought you were humoring me on this trip. I didn’t think this was so important for you.”

  His knuckles turn white grasping his backpack strap. “For your information, it was. It was the first time in ages that I felt enthusiastic about a project. It was the first time since the shooting that I had a sense of purpose.”

  His words hurt me like a punch in the stomach.

  He continues, “But you ruined it. You confirmed what my father always says, that you can never rely on anybody. You’re just like everyone else, squeezing the last drop out of others before throwing them away when you’re done.”

  Ouch. I flinch at the harsh—and mistaken—words. I’m sure he’s just hurt and doesn’t really mean that. But before I can answer, he pivots on his heels and stomps away. He strides down the swarming train station without looking back. His figure shrinks, mixed with the crowd around him, until he takes a turn in a hallway and disappears from view.

  I sink into my seat and bury my face in my hands, while the tears begin to flow. I’ll probably never see him again; the thought hurts much more than I anticipated.

  Chapter 19

  Trevor

  I’m fuming, almost literally steaming with rage as I stomp across the huge train station on my way out. I’ve overdone it. I didn’t mean half the things I just told Sophia. But I’m too furious to look back now.

  I guess this is how it ends. All that talk about giving myself permission to try a new way of thinking meant nothing.

  As I march, my backpack feels heavier than ever over my shoulder, a mocking reminder of how delusional I was when I left the flat. Did I really believe she’d throw herself into my arms, apologize for leaving me and still want me to go with her to Annecy? How stupid can I get? I was fooling myself to think she cared for me. And that’s fine, because I don’t care for her either!

  Right?

  I stop to adjust the backpack and spot the restrooms. I head in that direction since I left the flat in such a rush this morning I didn’t even pee. As I shove my hand in my money belt searching for coins to pay the fee to enter, a ripping sound announces something is coming apart.

  I stand at the restroom entrance, ignoring the people jostling their way around me, and stare at my torn money belt, its strap hanging by a few threads. Sophia won’t be around anymore to fix it with her sewing kit. The thought hits me harder than I expected along with a ridiculous desire to cry.

  As I use the restroom, I slowly cool down and run through my mind the horrible things I’ve just said to Sophia, regretting most of them. After washing my hands, I study my money belt again. The rip she previously fixed is strong. She did an industrial-quality job sewing it. But the tear in the strap makes it too risky to carry it around my waist now, as it may break any minute. I stow it away in my trench coat pocket, trying to talk myself out of my disproportionate concern.

  It’s okay. I’m planning to take this coat to a tailor to fix the torn lining. I’m sure the tailor can fix my money belt strap too.

  Except I’d be too self-conscious to ask him to fix a dirty, twenty-year-old pouch I’m pathetically attached to. Sophia? Yes, I didn’t mind. Somehow she made me feel safe about showing that silly part of me.

  That’s it. I can’t. I can’t walk away and let her take that train without apologizing for my words. I need to at least leave the possibility open of talking again in the future.

  I head back to where I left her. Damn it, she may be gone by now. The train is boarding any minute; maybe she’s already boarded. I pick up my pace, loop my backpack through both arms, and now I’m running more than walking.

  Before long I see her in the distance, still in the same chair where I left her. Her head is down, her shoulders slump and her hands clench each other. Remorse about making her feel that sad drowns my impulse to reprimand her for leaving her bag unattended on the floor, out of her line of sight.

  I wait to be close enough for her to hear me before calling her name. “Sophia!”

  When her eyes lift and meet mine her face lights up with the most wonderful smile I’ve ever seen. My heart tightens in joy.

  And then, like the fulfillment of an oracle, I watch a stranger seize the bag at her feet and dart away.

  “Sophia! That guy just stole your bag!” I yell, pointing at the short man in a dark hooded jacket who just took off. Every drop of color drains from her face, but she’s paralyzed, frozen.

  I sprint behind the bag-snatcher and time seems to shift into slow motion. I haven’t prayed in forever, but I beg Heaven that today Sophia remembered to put her passport in her money belt and didn’t leave it in that bag. I doubt we’ll be able to recover it, as the figure dashes away at amazing speed, mixing himself with the crowd.

  As I pass her, chasing the thief, she cries out, “Trevor! My mother’s letters! My journals!”

  Shit. I run even faster. The only thing worse than losing her passport would be losing those irreplaceable letters and her childhood notes.

  God, this guy races fast! About to lose my breath, I shout, “Stop the guy with the red bag! He stole it from me!” I yell the words in English and French, and a businessman pushes his rolling suitcase in the runner’s direction, forcing him to stop and regain his balance. This stumble helps me catch up. He bolts again, but, at my cries for help, a group of backpackers joins the efforts to slow him and I can finally grab him by the hood of his jacket. Realizing he’s in trouble, the guy drops Sophia’s bag, shrugs off his jacket and darts away at a ridiculous speed, leaving me with his jacket in my hand.


  I pant, cough, and heave, bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath, as I cross the space to where Sophia’s bag landed. I thank the young men who helped me, and people cheer and clap in celebration. We didn’t catch the thief, but we recovered the bag. One of the backpackers, an American, keeps the abandoned hooded jacket as a souvenir.

  I’m limping, having done a number on my knee during the sprint. I’m breathless, and sweaty, and just now realize I was wearing my own heavy backpack all through the chase. Which is probably okay since Sophia has proven she’s not a reliable luggage-watcher.

  When she sees me return with her red bag in my hand, joy and disbelief mix on her face. “Oh my God, Trevor! You got it back!”

  She takes a step toward me, but I lift a hand to stop her. I’m irrationally angry with her right now. “How many times have you heard, ‘Do not leave your luggage unattended,’ at airports? Do you realize you were this close”—I hold the index and thumb of my free hand together—“to being stranded in a foreign country?”

  She flutters her eyelashes, like a little girl being reprimanded, but she’s also suppressing a smirk as she taps her waist. “My passport, phone, and cards are in my money belt right here under my clothes like you taught me.”

  Pride surges inside me, but I make an effort not to show it.

  She takes another step toward me and the way her face lights up chips away at my self-righteousness. “If that man had gotten away with my mother’s letters and my childhood journals, I would’ve never recovered. Thank you so much. You’re amazing.”

  “You’re not going to sweet-talk me right now,” I reply. “I still haven’t forgiven you for ditching me, and I’m still mad at you for leaving your bag unattended.”

  Her smile grows, crinkling her cute freckles and deepening the adorable dimples in her cheeks. “And I’m so happy you came back and saved my bag, I don’t mind that you’re upset with me.”

  God, it’s so hard to stay furious when she grins at me like that. But I give it my best. I stand in front of her and glower. “I came back to apologize, and to make peace before you left alone on your trip. But this”—I lift her bag—“proves to me I can’t let you out of my sight for one minute.”