Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  “What are you doing here?” Trevor asks the question from between his teeth, every muscle of his body tense as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  “Hello to you, too, I’ve also missed you.” There’s a touch of amusement in the man’s voice. Then his eyes slide to me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  As we sit in the living room, Trevor reluctantly makes the introductions and confirms my impression that the visitor is Craig Lawson, his father. They exchange a few tense polite words about Mr. Lawson’s trip, which I barely catch because I’m absorbed in their striking similarities—even gestures and facial expressions. Mr. Lawson’s dark salt-and-pepper hair hints Trevor got his sandy locks from his mother, but otherwise they share the same strong jaw, the straight nose, the shape of the forehead. The lines on Mr. Lawson’s face seem to enhance rather than spoil his attractiveness, and a part of me is almost getting a crush on that older version of Trevor. Mr. Lawson is a promising advertisement of the good aging genes my man has hopefully inherited.

  “Again, why are you here?” Trevor asks, cold, once the pleasantries about jet lag and weather have run out.

  Craig—he has requested I call him that—doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes dart toward me and then back to his son. “Can we talk in private?”

  I stand up from the sofa where I sit next to Trevor. “I’ll go for a walk—”

  “No.” Trevor grabs my arm to stop me from leaving. “You must be tired. Stay.” He slowly rises too. “Dad and I will go grab coffee.”

  Within seconds, Craig slips back into his obviously expensive tailored trench coat and the two men take off, leaving me alone in the flat. I have to guess Mr. Lawson has come to convince Trevor to return to New York. But Trevor seems so angry around him I wonder if they’ll end up recreating the argument they had before Trevor came here.

  The wall clock tells me I’m five minutes late for my weekly conference call with my girlfriends. Setting aside my curiosity about Mr. Lawson, I grab my phone just as it’s ringing. I answer automatically and realize too late this is not my usual videoconference; instead I’ve just accepted a Skype request from someone else.

  It’s George.

  George’s pleasant, familiar face fills the phone screen. He seems thinner than the last time I saw him. Dark circles age his eyes. “Hello, Sophia.”

  I give a tense, forced smile. I’ve been avoiding his messages for weeks and now I can’t get out of this call without being rude. “Hello, George. Everything okay? Any problems at school?”

  Across the screen, longing glimmers in his gaze. Luckily or unluckily, he skips the pleasantries and goes straight to the point. “I saw your new profile picture on Instagram.” He licks his lips and seems to debate for a moment. “You’ve met someone there, haven’t you?”

  His intelligent conclusion surprises me. I’ve posted few pictures of this trip. I’ve purposefully avoided posting any photos of Trevor. “Why do you say that?”

  “That’s a stunning picture. The sunset colors on your face, the river behind you, your radiant grin… It’s almost… too intimate for what I’d expect a stranger would snap. And obviously you didn’t take it yourself.”

  For a moment, I’m unable to answer, so he resumes. “I wouldn’t blame you. From what I can see, you’ve been to gorgeous places during this trip. I can imagine how so much beauty can play tricks on our brains.”

  I bite my lips not to give him an impulsive answer. Is there a point in explaining to him that I’m truly in love?

  I really don’t owe him any explanations, but this man on the screen represents a big chunk of my history—boyfriend on and off since college, and current colleague at the school where I work. In my commitment to honor the past as the foundation for my present, I can’t part from him on bad terms.

  It takes tapping into the new me to be able to say the next words. “You’re right, George. I met someone. And I’m very happy.”

  A flash of pain crosses his face. I suspect he knew nothing and was just probing for information. “I see.”

  He processes my words for what seems like a long time. “So what’s the plan for you two now?” he asks.

  I’m somewhat embarrassed that I can’t come up with an answer; truthfully I have no idea. “He tried to convince me to stay here, but I told him I have to return to teach my summer class.”

  “So, he lives in Paris?”

  No.

  Yes?

  Honestly, I’m not sure.

  “He currently does, but not for long.”

  “Where is he going after that?”

  Hopefully not New Zealand?

  The doubt must be showing on my face because George’s expression fills with hope. “So… you guys haven’t really talked about the future, have you?”

  His unsaid words are, Then, obviously, your relationship can’t be that serious.

  “We have some things to decide yet. But he’s been clear that he wants me in his life for the long run. And that he loves me.”

  “Dear, be careful. You’re very innocent.” George gives me the same look of worry Mia gave me the other day. I’m starting to dread that look. “Not to put down my own gender, but men would do and say anything to get a woman in bed.”

  Anger rises in me. How dare George talk to me in this condescending way? Never again will I be the fragile victim in need of protection.

  “Thanks for your concern, George, but I know how to take care of myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was about to make another call.”

  I disconnect the video chat, still fuming, but I have to admit he has a point about my naivete. Even Trevor acknowledged his original plan was to get me in bed and I bought everything he said without questioning.

  But that’s ancient history now. I’ve grown during this trip. I’m a woman who trusts her instincts and I know I can trust Trevor.

  Can I?

  Ugh! And now George has me doubting myself again! I have to be grateful that he’s out of my life. How did I almost marry a man who didn’t respect me enough to trust I’d make the right decisions?

  Memories of the day I ran away from Trevor to the Gare du Lyon station resurface. His angry words sting all over again. Am I fooling myself? Am I dating the same man with a different face and name?

  The doorbell rings, bringing me back from my ruminations, and I walk to answer it. Who could this be? It’s too soon for Trevor and Craig to be back. And no one rang the intercom—this person must’ve tailgated behind someone.

  The distorted image through the peephole doesn’t help much, but the thin, dark-haired lady at the door looks definitely familiar, and innocuous enough that I dare to open.

  “Bonsoir?” I say, busting out one of the few phrases I know in French.

  “Sophia, do you remember me?”

  I quickly search my brain files and come back with a name and place.

  “Dominique, from Annecy, right?”

  She nods.

  I let her in, but something doesn’t make sense. This lady is speaking in fluent English. This can’t be the woman I met back there, who needed Trevor to translate between us.

  “Your boyfriend gave me this address and his number. I tried to call ahead, but no one answered the phone.” No surprise Trevor and I have been ignoring the answering machine. I signal her to take a seat but she remains standing. “I needed to ask for your forgiveness.”

  I’ve been distracted by her cute French accent until now, but her last words bring me back to focus. “Forgiveness?”

  “A friend who works in housekeeping at the hotel said she saw you crying with the red journal in your hands, and I’ve felt terrible ever since. I never should’ve unloaded on your boyfriend the responsibility to tell you the truth. I should’ve done it myself, so you could get the story straight from the source, and have a chance to ask questions.”

  So… she told Trevor something he was supposed to tell me? Since I don’t want to show how clueless I am, I keep my face blank. “I appreciate it.”
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br />   She wriggles her hands, avoiding my eyes. “He was very young, still in his twenties. I was older and knew better; I should’ve been the one to put a stop to it.”

  I’m more confused by the moment. Did she and Trevor have an affair in the past? “Do you mean… putting a stop to… sleeping together?”

  Her eyelids fluttering and flush answer affirmatively. “Please understand him. He was going through his very first adult crisis—a baby, a struggling marriage.”

  Okay, she’s not talking about Trevor. Who then?

  The realization shatters my mind and my legs give way. I drop into a chair, fumbling for control.

  My father’s first trip to Paris alone.

  “You slept with my father.”

  The surprise on Dominique’s face seems to ask, “Isn’t this old news to you?”

  I’m dizzy. The temperature in my body is dropping by the second, and the room grows darker. The walls seem to be closing in on me and I can hardly breathe. “My father cheated on my mother with you?”

  Color drains from Dominique’s face. “Oh… your boyfriend didn’t tell you?”

  Chapter 30

  Trevor

  The day has warmed up, allowing my father and me to sit at the outdoor tables in the nearby café-boulangerie. We’ve ordered two lattes as an excuse to use the space to sit and talk. For the past half an hour he’s been drilling me nonstop.

  “I couldn’t believe it when my private detective called me saying you’d emailed him. I had him trying to locate you for weeks.” He shoots me the millionth offended glare of the day. “And I can’t believe you’ve kept me in the dark about your whereabouts for this long. I’ve been the most supportive father in the world. I deserve more consideration than this.”

  “The whole point of this year was to disconnect from my life in the States,” I retort.

  He sighs in exasperation and shakes his head. “But enough of that.” He sips his coffee. “Stewart has to schedule knee surgery. I need you to come back to the office immediately.”

  I tense up, and the pulsation in my temples announces an upcoming headache. “The deal was a sabbatical year. I still have two months left on my visa.”

  “Ten months, twelve months. Same difference.”

  “You’re wrong. I worked twelve years for you without taking vacation and I’m taking every last day of this break.”

  “You’re exaggerating.” He waves me off. “You took long weekends all the time. Didn’t you go to Bahamas with that girlfriend… what was her name?”

  “We didn’t even take a freaking day off after I almost got killed.”

  He flinches at the mention of the shooting, but then a cold mask slips over his face. “You seemed to be doing fine.”

  “Well, apparently, I wasn’t. And that’s what fathers are supposed to do, contradict you when you’re not making any sense.”

  He huffs. “Well, you’re not making any sense now. What’s the big deal? You can take those two months next year, when we’re fully staffed.”

  It’s a trap. If I return to the States and go back to the firm, I’ll never have a chance to escape again. I know my father; he never gives anything or does a favor without passing the bill later on.

  I take my time stirring the remnants of my latte. “What if I told you I’m not sure I want to go back—ever?”

  He doesn’t bat an eyelash. Clearly, he’s contemplated the possibility. “I would be very disappointed. I expected you to bounce back by now. I thought you were tougher than this.”

  There it is. The accusation of weakness I’ve endured all my life. Pain begins drumming the left side of my head. “Maybe I’m just sick of trying to be you.”

  My father presses his fingertips against his temples, rubbing them in circles. “Listen, son.” Judging by the stiff term of endearment, he’s changing strategies. “Twelve years of practice may feel like a long time,” he continues. “But your career is barely beginning and you have a bright future ahead. You know it’s a matter of time until I retire.”

  Not really. Do I know my father? He’ll work until the day he drops dead.

  “But even before retiring, I plan to slow down sooner than later,” he adds, as if reading my thoughts. “When I step down, you will be taking over as senior partner.” He leans forward and makes eye contact before concluding, “There is nothing more important than your future.”

  I observe him in silence for the longest time before answering, “Yes, there is. My present.” That’s the message Sophia and I came to teach each other. Sudden urgency to see her assails me and I search my new money belt for cash to pay for my coffee. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, my girlfriend is waiting for me.”

  “Is this about her?” he blurts. “You don’t want to leave her?”

  There’s no point in explaining that she’s the one about to leave me and return to the States, so I keep searching for cash without answering.

  He seems to be losing his patience, but then his voice softens and he extends his hand to hold my elbow. “Everything looks amazing when we’re on vacation in a gorgeous place with no real-life responsibilities. Trust me, none of that survives returning to normal life. If you rely on people to be happy, they’ll always end up disappointing you.”

  “Will you ever get over Mom leaving you?”

  He winces and I immediately regret what I’ve just said. My fingers seem clumsy, unable to find the five-euro bill I seek. As my headache intensifies, the light flashes begin to sear my vision.

  “The thrill of affairs doesn’t last,” Dad continues. “And it’s definitely not worth risking your career for another person who may leave you anyway later on.”

  I scoff. “You’d never understand, you have no idea who Sophia is.”

  “And you don’t either.”

  I recoil at his words; he has a point. I can’t claim to know much about a woman I’ve only spent a month with. It’s almost inconceivable that I’ve grown to feel this way about her in such a short time.

  And slowly, fear bubbles in me. Is he right? Have I been brainwashed by the stunning beauty of this city? Will I wake up tomorrow realizing that everything has been a spell—my love for Sophia, my new view of life, the messages we came to deliver to each other?

  The delusion that I can escape my destiny and reinvent my life?

  I leave a bill on the table and, without another word, I exit the café.

  I stride away without looking back. The last word hasn’t been said. But I just can’t talk to Dad right now.

  On the walk back to the flat my pulse pounds in my temples, waves of anger wash over my hot face, making my headache climb with every step.

  But seeing Dad has done more than just revive the wound between us; it has also reminded me of all that happened before leaving on this trip. The perspiration pearling my forehead and dampening my shirt starts even before the flashbacks from the shooting begin.

  The sounds of people screaming. Guns firing. Glass shattering.

  I can’t do it; I can’t return to the United States. I can’t face again the man I was before I came here—broken and emotionally unstable.

  My dark thoughts continue to drum and my migraine rises as I enter the building and climb the stairs. The memories of the shooting mix in my mind with the memories of the time after my parents’ divorce, when my world turned upside down the first time.

  And Dad’s words ever since. Don’t ever lower your guard. Don’t ever get attached to anybody.

  The sound of glass shattering. Wounded bodies strewn on the floor. The sirens of the ambulances and the police.

  My head is about to split. I need my migraine medication and could also use my emergency Xanax. My hands are shaky as I struggle to open the door and I slam it a little louder than necessary when it finally gives in.

  But Sophia is not alone in the living room. And recognizing the thin, brunette lady with her sends my heart into a precipitous fall that only adds injury to my current fragile state.

 
Shit.

  It’s Dominique.

  Chapter 31

  Sophia

  My whole world collapses around me. Never in a million years did I imagine that the big mystery I would uncover during this trip would be that I lived my life based on a lie.

  I’ve been a fool. I’ve spent twenty years treasuring the memory of my parents’ love for each other, and dreaming of some day having the same. But the excruciating tale I just learned from Dominique proves my dreams were misguided. Violent fights; a cheating husband; threats of divorce. Who are these people Dominique describes? They’re not the parents I remember.

  My despair swallows me, so I barely register Trevor’s arrival. I catch a glance of the shock and guilt on his face when he sees Dominique, and hear her half-hearted greetings and apologetic mumbles as she says goodbye and leaves, but I don’t catch the meaning of any words.

  Trevor closes the door behind Dominique and takes in a lungful of air before turning around and facing my gaze. “She told you?”

  “Everything.” The word comes out in a shaky whisper.

  He runs a hand down his hair. “I’m sorry. I can imagine how you feel.”

  No, you don’t; you have no idea. I’m devastated, trapped in a nightmare. “Everything I ever believed in is gone.”

  For someone able to cry on cue like me, my tears are stuck, clogged, refusing to come out. What I feel right now is more than sadness; it’s shame. I cringe as I consider my delusional state during the past year, ever since I found the letters and journals and declared my parents my gold standard for love. Breaking up with George, taking the self-vow, coming here to Paris. Breaking the self-vow! Everything I did with the intention of proving something to myself seems ridiculous now.

  Why did I ever think I could recover the person I was before I lost my parents? That kid who believed she was safe and loved in a happy family was living in a world of fantasy. That family didn’t exist. That kid from my memories didn’t exist.

  I will never be able to trust myself again.