Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

Max seems to consider it. “I don’t know, man. Maybe because human beings are masochistic idiots? We see everyone around us making the same stupid mistakes, yet we keep thinking we’ll be different.”

  As we approach my building, a couple holding hands exits the café-boulangerie and catches my attention. I can’t remember their names, but I know them. And by the way they’re staring at me, they remember me too.

  I met them at the Louvre. Them and their infamous self-vow book.

  The tall, brawny guy snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yale guy!”

  His petite wife, the brunette with the pixie cut, beams at me. “Trevor, isn’t it? You have no idea how much your travel advice helped us!”

  She seems as excited as if she’d run into an old friend. She surprises me by greeting me with a hug; I’m unable to reciprocate because my hands are busy carrying the bags of groceries. I make a quick introduction to Maxwell, which helps me remember their names, as they announce them during the handshakes. Luke and Chrissie. That’s it! They explain they’re on their last day in the city before heading somewhere else.

  “I still have your book!” I blurt. “Remember the book you forgot at the Louvre?”

  Her face lights up. “I thought I’d never see it again!”

  I invite them to come over to the flat and, while Maxwell keeps Chrissie company in the living room, Luke follows me as I roam the place searching for the book. In the meantime, we make small talk and Luke tells me how much they’ve enjoyed their month-long stay here. Apparently, they doubled up a job-related trip with their honeymoon. They’re returning to the US now but will be leaving for another job assignment shortly, this time in Italy.

  “Damn it, you’re so lucky!” I comment.

  “I know!” Luke’s eyes literally shimmer as he grins in the direction of the living room where Chrissie sits. “Being married is so wonderful! I can’t even imagine how single people survive.”

  I hate this guy.

  “I was talking about the traveling.”

  “Oh yes, that too.” He snickers. “Sorry. I can’t help gloating; it’s a reflex.”

  Where on Earth is that damn book? I just want to find it and give it back so this dude stops rubbing his happiness in my miserable face. Oh, wait. It’s still inside the backpack where Sophia and I carried our picnic for our trip to Versailles. I go fetch it from my room.

  I search the backpack while walking back to the living room with Luke on my heels. “Here it is!” I hand Chrissie what I think is the book, but that’s not it. It’s Sophia’s drawing pad.

  “I’m sorry.” I reach back into the backpack and pull out the book, but by then Chrissie is already perusing the pages admiring Sophia’s drawings. “Wow!” she exclaims. “This artist is amazing!”

  She turns the booklet to show us and my heart clenches. It’s Sophia’s drawing of me, sleeping in the grass the afternoon at Lake Annecy.

  Chrissie stares back and forth between the drawing and me. “It’s mind-blowing that a few pencil strokes can resemble a human figure. But on top of that, she really captured you.”

  “You’re right,” Maxwell agrees with a hint of teasing in his tone. “Dude, she even got your bristly eyebrows!”

  “I don’t just mean that,” Chrissie clarifies. Her eyes fix on me as she hands me the drawing pad in exchange for her book. “She really captured your essence. Whoever this artist is, she’s someone who really sees you.”

  Chrissie and Luke hug me goodbye like we were old friends, and this time I am able to reciprocate, even if through a mental fog.

  Luke can’t help twisting the knife one last time. “Don’t forget, man. Finding the right girl is like having lived in the desert and moving next to a river.” He pounds my back and heads through the door.

  “I really hope you find what you came here looking for.” Those are Chrissie’s last words before they thank me one more time and leave.

  I stand frozen in the middle of the room as the door closes behind them.

  “Are you okay?” Max asks, seemingly noticing the angst on my face.

  I’m mute and paralyzed with the drawing booklet in my hands, dwelling on Chrissie’s last words. What did I come here looking for? Maybe it’s true that all I wanted was someone to love me despite me screwing up.

  Or a favorite travel companion, to prove Dad was wrong and it’s not true that we all must walk alone.

  As I study my blissful expression in the drawing, sorrow strangles my throat. I remember that nap vividly, one of the most restorative sleeps I’d had in ages. It didn’t matter I thought I’d lost my passport and all my money barely a day before. It didn’t matter that I was terribly sex-deprived. There was something about Sophia’s soothing presence nearby that brought me peace.

  “She did see me,” I mumble, clenching the drawing pad. “She was the only person in ages who saw the real me—even more than I saw it myself.”

  I flop on the couch and Maxwell clears his throat, scratches his arm, and looks away before he eases onto the seat next to me, tense. Those years of military training left him ready to handle anything—except strong emotions.

  “Like that day she made me realize I loved architecture,” I mumble mostly to myself. “I hadn’t noticed how fascinated I was with it.”

  Maxwell is growing tenser by the moment. “There’s no point in sitting here sulking, man. If you miss her so much, just go get her,” he offers, obviously more comfortable with action than feeling.

  Dropping the pad, I rest my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands. “What can I do? I wish I could ask her to forgive me, but it’s not like we ever had a plan. Her life is in Indiana, my work is in New York City—” I stop. My words suggest that a part of me has already accepted the idea of returning to my old job.

  “What can you do? Well, let’s make a plan.” Maxwell seems relieved to find something practical he can offer. He picks up the drawing pad, finds a blank page in it and produces a pen from his jacket pocket. “Let’s make a list. What are the steps you need to follow to get out of this slump and find Sophia?”

  “I need to figure out my life. I need a job that I can stick with.” I groan. “And if I didn’t decide that in ten months, how am I going to figure it out now?”

  “You’ll find a way.” Maxwell pauses writing to place a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “This time it won’t take so long, because you’re not the same man who arrived here ten months ago.”

  He’s right; I’m not. And I have Sophia to thank for that.

  An idea brims inside, bathing me in soft light, and for a moment I feel like Sophia’s spirit floated into the room warming it up with her presence.

  I grab my phone from the coffee table and start a Google search. “Law jobs near Gary, Indiana.” I remember the Corinthian columns on the Pantheon’s façade and my fingers keep typing on their own, adding one more word. “Architecture.”

  A bunch of results come up, and I skim past the annoying unrelated ads on top of the search. Then my eyes immediately gravitate to one link. “Foreman Construction Law, Chicago, Illinois.”

  Chapter 34

  Sophia

  Hammond is never more vibrant than in the summer, when people stampede to the lake and rivers, trying to squeeze enjoyment from the last drop of sunshine before the inclement Midwest cold settles in again. And still, even during the busiest season of the year, my city’s a sleepy town compared to busy Chicago. And especially compared to Paris, which is stuck in my soul refusing to come out.

  But at least the worst of the pain is gone. I’m back to my sacred routines of early morning coffee on the back deck, overlooking the pond, while I sketch or work on my latest oil painting. I’m even able to ignore how awful the coffee tastes here. I’ve lost weight, as it’s hard to return to bland American food after European cooking. Even if French cuisine has never been my favorite, I could always rely on a butter-drenched appetizer to please my taste buds.

  After a week home, readjusting, I’m back to wor
k in Gary, teaching my art history class to at-risk youth. The school is nearly empty, as only a few classes are taught in the summer. After class, I face the gigantic pile of mail, mostly junk, that the secretaries held for me during my absence.

  I’m in the break room, opening envelopes while thinking about what to do for dinner—I have no energy to cook—when a knock gets my attention.

  “May I join you?”

  I recognize the voice even before I turn around.

  Of course, I should’ve known I’d run into George sooner or later. It’s not a big town and he works at the same school. “Hi.”

  He greets me with a hug, but when he tries to prolong it, I squirm and disentangle myself.

  He takes a seat at the table. “I’ve missed you. I’ve been checking your social media, hoping to find out when you’d come back from Paris.”

  As he makes chitchat, catching me up on the past few weeks of local news, I can’t help staring at him—his tall, slender figure, narrow lips, and receding hairline. I can’t believe it’s been just weeks since the last time I saw him in person. It feels like I was gone for centuries. Today I realize he’s never been the villain. He’s kind and attentive and worried about me.

  “You look sad,” he says softly, reaching for my knuckles, which makes me uncomfortable. “Was the self-discovery trip a letdown? You didn’t find anything about your parents?”

  I remove my hand slowly, trying to avoid offending him with abruptness. “On the contrary, I found out too much.” I feel numb as I say the words. “I learned my father had cheated on my mother and she asked for a divorce during their final trip.”

  Surprise sparks on his face. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry to hear that.” He scratches his beard, then gives a shy chuckle. “But I admit I’m also disappointed. Because I’d hoped—” He stops short.

  “What?” I ask.

  He gives a sheepish grin and guilty wince at once. “That your sadness meant things didn’t work out with that French guy.”

  I surprise myself by not blushing. “You guessed correctly; things didn’t work out.”

  The mixture of triumph and caution on his face is almost the equivalent to saying, I told you so.

  “Please don’t feel bad talking about it with me,” he quickly says. “I always knew that the whole purpose of your trip was having one ‘last hurrah’ before settling down. You kept saying you’d never done anything adventurous in your life, and…”

  I know what he means. He’d assumed I meant sexual adventures. George never quite bought I’d taken the vow, or understood my obsession with recreating my parents’ last trip. Normally I would’ve felt self-conscious, but a shift seems to have occurred as if I’d grown more cosmopolitan and less small-town girl just by having stepped foot in Europe. Maybe my soul and mind have expanded in an irreversible way.

  He continues, “For months I’ve tortured myself, imagining you finding a sultry French lover who was just going to use you for a while, then break your heart and leave you crying at the airport in a Casablanca-like goodbye.”

  He got a lot of it right. Except for the nationality of the lover and the fact that he never took me to the airport. “And now what?” I ask, impassive and slightly defiant. “Do you think less of me because I did have an adventure while I was gone?”

  He captures my hand again and leans forward, his expression dead serious. “No. If that was the price for shaking off the demons keeping you from marrying me.”

  I startle in surprise and free my hand from his. A part of me had assumed that when I gave myself to Trevor, I was burning my bridges with George, which had filled me both with fear and relief.

  I slowly rise from the table. “George, what are you saying?”

  He stands, too. “I’m saying that I want you to be my wife. And no, I wouldn’t care if Paris clouded your judgment and you had a little adventure. Everyone knows that city messes with people’s brains.”

  I study him. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t imagine a future without this man. And now I’m lifetimes removed from that old me.

  “I’m glad you had a chance to act out,” he continues. “And now you’ll value the peace and quiet of home even more. Now you’ll be more ready to settle into a simple life.”

  “And how do you know my ‘premature mid-life crisis’ won’t happen again?” I quote back to him his words when I decided to go to France.

  He blinks at my assertive tone. I don’t blame him for feeling confused. I barely recognize this feisty woman I’ve become since Annecy, staring men down.

  “It won’t. Because I know you,” he replies. “That was a phase you had to get out of your system. But you’re like me. Deep down, you value roots more than wings. You and I want the same thing: a predictable life, with no unpleasant surprises. Nothing would make me happier than building that life with you.”

  The old Sophia—the woman terrified of change—peeks her head out from under the thin layer of bravado I wore when I headed to France alone. Should I consider his proposal? George represents the security I clung to in my past.

  At the same time, the new Sophia—the one who’s heartbroken and hardened—also argues in George’s defense. What was the point of wanting something else anyway? This trip merely confirmed that eternal love doesn’t exist. That every illusion about romance I ever concocted was a lie.

  I busy myself opening mail as an excuse to avoid eye contact while I reflect. Wasn’t my goal this cleansing year to become a more practical thinker and better planner? Doesn’t it make practical sense to stop chasing butterflies in my stomach and settle down with someone who can give me roots? Especially when the only roots I thought I had were snatched away from me and destroyed.

  No. My real goal was to become self-sufficient and empowered. And maybe the lesson of my heartbreak was to realize I’m better off alone.

  I open the remaining piece of mail, a cardboard cylinder that looks vaguely familiar, and my breath hitches. I’d completely forgotten about this package I sent myself from Paris.

  It’s the poster Trevor gifted me that night at the flat, the picture of Canova’s Eros waking up Psyche with a kiss (7).

  I hold the poster flat against the table and delight in the beauty of the sculpture that captivated me back at the Louvre. His wings extended, he seems ready to take flight with her in his arms. Her languid lower body lies limp, as her arms reach back to frame his face. The long distance separating their lips captures forever their moment of longing.

  I am her. I’m the woman who was asleep—dead—before love woke her up. And now it’s too late to turn back the clock.

  An avalanche of memories from Paris hits me full force. For the first time I don’t remember the scenery, but the way I was feeling at that time with Trevor. Laughing at the stories we made up while people watching. Making fun of the modern art. Walking in his wake, feeling protected, as he dispersed the crowds for me with his larger body.

  And I snap out of a hypnotic trance.

  What am I doing? I took this journey to learn to listen to my own voice and honor what I really want. And now I know what that is. I don’t want to return to the past; I want someone next to me who makes my present worth living. I don’t want to stop change; I long for a travel companion to stay with me no matter how much the scenery changes around us.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t go back to plain ice cream after I’ve tasted glace.”

  “What?” George’s blank stare and agape mouth show his bafflement.

  “Just like I can’t go back to watery Folgers after I tasted Paris cappuccino,” I add. “And I can’t go back to Wonder Bread after having tasted a French croissant.”

  I turn around and I surprise him by giving him a quick hug. “Thanks for helping me see it.”

  Then, I pick up my purse and my poster and leave.

  As I walk out, my heart fills with hope. I’m ready. I’m ready to do or give up anything I have to in order to get Trevor back. And if I can’t, it will hurt like hell, but
I’ll survive.

  But never again will I settle for less than what I really want.

  * * *

  Chloe once lectured Mia about being choosy with her sleeping partners. She believes that when two people make love, they exchange pieces of their energy fields, their auras, their souls, even their personalities.

  Maybe she had a point.

  I don’t recognize myself right now. Gone is the woman unable to put a plan together. It’s like Trevor’s spirit has possessed me, and over the past two days, I’ve become the most freakishly organized person in the world. I’ve arranged for a substitute teacher to take over my class at the school. I’ve purchased tickets, booked hotels, and figured out my transportation from the airport. Putting together my first trip to Paris took me six months. This time it took me six hours.

  “I’ll re-activate my French number the minute I land and will text you to let you know I arrived okay,” I tell the sisters through group Skype on Chloe’s laptop. Tonight I’m staying with her, since my flight leaves from Chicago O’Hare tomorrow. As I talk, I pack the clothes I purchased this morning, now more aware of the needs in Paris in the summer. “Thank you, Ezra, for lending me the money for the tickets, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can withdraw money from my aunt’s trust again.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he mumbles from the screen. He’s somewhere far away right now. Tibet? I’ve never known exactly what Ezra does for a living. I just know it’s related to computers and pays insanely well—unfairly well if you ask teacher-me.

  But nothing can damper this euphoria that threatens to keep me awake tonight. For the first time in my life I clearly know what I want. I want to have a clean slate, let go of all my previous concepts of what a loving couple is supposed to be and start building my own definition with Trevor. And that will start by forgiving him—by giving my parents’ story an alternate ending.

  Yes, I know there’s a big risk things might not work out and I might get my heart broken. But never again will I let fear keep me from living.

  “Did you confirm the hotel?” Iris asks from the screen. The Florida summer heat has made her give up on the wig and wear a silk scarf instead.