French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  “Yes,” Xavier exclaimed, his eyes searching hers. “A girl like you should not have had to witness such violence tonight—”

  “Well, it wasn’t too terrible,” Alexa cut in, with a grin.

  “No. Your beautiful eyes should only feast on beautiful things,” Xavier continued, running his hands up her arms. “So come see my paintings. Please. Let me show you my greatest passion.”

  And really, all it took was Xavier saying the word passion to get Alexa back on his Vespa.

  This time, she unpinned her hair and let it fly freely behind her like a golden banner as she and Xavier tore through the nighttime streets. They rode to the nearby Bastille district, which was full of dim, narrow alleyways, all lined with different bars and clubs. Xavier’s studio was on one such street—the rue de Lapp—and located right above a humming Cuban salsa club. As Alexa passed the club, she thought briefly of Diego. Her ex-boyfriend hadn’t crossed her mind all night, and now she forcefully shook him out of her head as Xavier unlocked the street door and led Alexa up a crooked flight of stairs.

  But when Alexa arrived in Xavier’s spacious loft, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that showed all of Paris by night, any thoughts of Diego disappeared on their own. “Oh, wow,” she murmured, and began to walk in a slow circle, mesmerized by the bright canvases that were everywhere—hanging on the white walls, propped up against the columns, and drying on the floor. Most of the paintings were of stark geometric shapes—indigo circles and citrus squares—but Alexa’s eye also fell on a few charcoal sketches of people—a young boy playing in the street, an old woman knitting—as well as an abstract painting of a girl with flowing black hair. Everything was as exquisite as the guy who had created them.

  “You like it?” Xavier asked, grinning. He shed his leather jacket and draped it on a crate of paintbrushes, clearly enjoying Alexa’s reaction.

  “Oh, yes,” Alexa sighed, appreciatively eyeing Xavier in his tight black T-shirt. Then she gave a small start when she heard his cell phone ring from the pocket of his jacket.

  “Merde,” Xavier hissed, pulling out the phone. As he had last time, he flipped it open with a brusque greeting, spat out a few monosyllabic words, and then flung the phone shut again, tossing it onto a low table strewn with unlit candles, cigarette butts, and empty wineglasses.

  “Do you need to go?” Alexa asked, worried that their time at the studio was over already.

  “Non,” Xavier replied, rolling his eyes. “Just some bullshit.” Then he smiled at Alexa, turned, and headed for a small refrigerator in the corner. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

  “Um, sure,” Alexa replied, studying a painting of a shattered octagon. She didn’t need a drink; Xavier’s astonishing artwork was enough to make her feel buzzed. And for a second, as Xavier returned with a bottle of white wine, two glasses, and a cigarette for himself, Alexa wondered if she might be in over her head. I’m still in high school, she thought, randomly flashing on an image of herself striding down the Oakridge High hallways. How had she ended up here, tonight, with a famous twenty-one-year-old artist?

  Not that she was complaining.

  Xavier poured them each a glass of wine, and they sat on the long black couch that was flush against the wall. Other than the couch and the table, the refrigerator, a standing lamp, and an artist’s stool set up across from the sofa, the studio was devoid of anything but art. And right then, Alexa didn’t think anything else was necessary in life.

  “Do you live here, too?” she asked Xavier, taking a sip of wine and running her fingers along the couch’s soft material; it would be comfortable enough to sleep on, certainly.

  Xavier shook his head, glancing away from Alexa and into his wineglass, as if he found some inspiration there. “I have a flat on the Left Bank,” he replied distractedly, taking a drag off his cigarette. “And a small country house in Provence.”

  Provence. Alexa set her wineglass on the floor and collapsed back against the pillows and patterned silk throw. She closed her eyes and thought about the southern French countryside—the vineyards and fields of sunflowers and gentle caress of the sunlight. Suddenly, almost without her own volition, she pictured herself and Xavier in that setting. They lived in a yellow house on a hilltop, surrounded by olive trees. Xavier had a studio in the shed, and she had her own darkroom in the basement. All day, he would paint her, and she would photograph him, and then, at sunset, they would lie in a lazy hammock, kissing. They’d be married in a garden bursting with wildflowers, and they’d have lots of talented babies…

  “Alexa? Would you open your eyes?”

  Alexa let her eyes flutter open, and she gave Xavier a sheepish smile. She knew it was foolish—almost in a Holly Jacobson way—to actually think she was going to spend the rest of her life with Xavier Pascal. Though, on the other hand, why not? She could withdraw her enrollment from Columbia and move to France over the summer—her dad would definitely be cool with that plan. Alexa studied Xavier to see if he had somehow guessed at her heady thoughts, but instead he was studying her. He put his cigarette out in his wineglass and leaned in close, rubbing a hand across his chin, clearly deep in thought.

  “Stay just like that,” he told her, holding his hands out to indicate she shouldn’t move from her reclining position. “Perfect.” Xavier’s face lit up, as if he’d discovered some secret treasure. “Alexa,” he whispered. “You are perfect. I must capture your beauty.”

  “You—you want to draw me?” Alexa asked, going breathless. And to think she’d just been imagining pretty much that exact scenario—well, except with marriage and children thrown in.

  “It is not a matter of wanting,” Xavier murmured, holding her gaze as he stood up slowly. “I have to draw you. Here. Now.”

  Alexa nodded, trying to remain still on the sofa, but her pulse was racing, and it was all she could do not to start leaping up and down in elation. This night kept unfolding in ways that were ever more thrilling. She watched as Xavier darted, catlike, across the studio to retrieve a sketchpad and a wedge of charcoal from a box of art supplies in the corner. When he returned, he went into professional artist mode: depositing his supplies under the stool, turning off the standing lamp, and lighting the candles on the low table, which filled the studio with a soft, flickering glow that made Alexa feel incredibly alluring. Then, before Xavier began the actual sketching, he came over to the sofa to reposition Alexa a little.

  It was divine torture; slowly, Xavier ran his smooth, deft hands all over Alexa’s body—uncrossing her legs, moving one of her arms above her head, raking his fingers through her hair, and tugging her top farther down her shoulders. Alexa could feel her skin reaching dangerous temperatures, and her limbs trembled with desire. And although Xavier’s expression was all seriousness, his gray eyes blazed with lust, and she saw him quickly lick his bottom lip—again reminding her of a cat—as if Alexa were a tasty dish he was preparing to consume.

  “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” Xavier suddenly asked, straightening up and stepping back from the sofa, a devilish smile on his lips. As Alexa felt herself melting into the sofa, Xavier reached down and tugged his black T-shirt up over his head, revealing his ripped torso and a dark star tattoo on his left shoulder. Tossing the T-shirt on the floor, he finally returned to his stool, sat down, and took up his sketchpad and charcoal.

  Ooh, Alexa thought, her gaze lingering on Xavier’s tattoo as he began sketching. She’d never dated a guy with a tattoo before, and the mere sight of it sent shivers through her body. She continued to watch Xavier, rapt, as he scratched the charcoal across the paper in fast, sure strokes, his eyes flicking from Alexa on the sofa and back down to the sketchpad with lightning rapidity.

  I feel like I’m in Titanic, Alexa thought wryly, as she reclined there. Only not naked. She giggled out loud. Yet.

  “Shhh.” Xavier held a finger to his lips, but his eyes were laughing. When he resumed sketching, Alexa studied the tilt of Xavier’s head, the way he bit down on his lower lip in
concentration, and how the soft candlelight cast mysterious shadows on his face. Her stomach gave a leap, as if she were suddenly plummeting from a great height. And then Alexa realized that she was, in fact, falling, despite the fact that she was perfectly still on the sofa.

  She was falling in love with Xavier.

  It felt different from how she’d fallen for Diego—this love felt more definite, more certain, but also, at the same time, scarier. Bottomless. Alexa was reminded of the dizzy, exhilarating sensation she’d had while riding on Xavier’s moped—the sensation of losing control.

  Alexa heard herself sigh, and Xavier glanced up at her, chuckling.

  “Impatient?” he asked, and then, to Alexa’s surprise, tore the sheet off the pad and held the finished sketch up for Alexa to admire. She hadn’t thought so much time had passed, but clearly she’d been too deep into her lovesickness to notice.

  Alexa felt her mouth drop open as she examined the sketch of herself. How had he done it? With a few quick brushes of charcoal, Xavier had managed to harness her spirit: the lively glint in her big eyes, the princessy poutiness of her bow-shaped lips, the lush abandon of her long hair. But there was also something surprisingly vulnerable about the girl in the picture—an unexpected sensitivity that softened her confident expression. Alexa felt as if she were staring into a true, secret mirror, seeing the self only she knew existed. Xavier gets me, she thought, awestruck. All her life Alexa had felt woefully misunderstood; now, as she stared across the studio at Xavier, she realized she’d finally met someone who could read her soul.

  “Do I—I really look like that?” Alexa murmured, her voice catching.

  Xavier glanced from the sketch over to Alexa, and then nodded, his lips curving up in a grin. “Yes. You are—” He paused, as if suddenly overcome, and then pushed the stool back, standing up. “Alexa, you are the purest essence of what is beautiful. And your eyes—they contain vast oceans of fire and truth.”

  Alexa wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she didn’t care. And then Xavier was approaching her, the sketch left forgotten on the floor, and he was beside her on the couch, plunging his hands into her hair and pulling her in for kiss after kiss, his mouth hot and urgent on hers. His kisses trailed down to her neck, and he slid his hands along her body—only this time, it was definitely not for the sake of art.

  And Alexa discovered that he’d lied on the bridge yesterday—Xavier Pascal wasn’t just good with his hands.

  He was incredible.

  They fell back against the sofa together, their bodies entwining. As she and Xavier continued their feverish kissing, Alexa let her own hands wander over his body. She trailed one hand down the length of Xavier’s smooth, muscular back, while letting the other lightly rub the nape of his neck. When they came up for air, Alexa, smiled at him, tracing the jagged scar above his lip with her fingertip.

  “How did you get that?” she whispered, curious.

  “From a fight, back when I was young and stupid,” Xavier explained, leaning in to nip her earlobe.

  “And now you’re older and wiser?” Alexa laughed, kissing the tattoo on his shoulder and thinking about his scuffle with the photographers that night.

  Xavier nodded. “Now I have you,” he whispered into her ear. “My muse.”

  Alexa thought she might pass out. Hello, Dream? This is Coming True. It’s so nice to meet you.

  Xavier began hiking up her short white skirt, his lips still against her ear. “Do you want to stay over here tonight?” he asked, his fingers as smooth as his voice.

  Alexa tried as hard as she could not to hear Holly’s voice singing voulez-vous coucher avec moi? She knew, though, that this was her and Xavier’s voulez-vous moment: the instant in which they decided just how serious they were going to get. Alexa felt the briefest flicker of hesitation; though she felt so close to Xavier, she had only met him yesterday. And hadn’t she decided she was too mature for one-night flings when she’d rejected Sven in Eurotrash?

  But this isn’t just a fling, Alexa thought, wrapping her arms around Xavier. As if to confirm that thought, Xavier spoke into her ear once more—and this time what he said made Alexa’s heart swell with joy.

  “Je t’aime.”

  Those were Xavier’s words.

  The world’s most meaningful, wondrous, heart-pounding words—in any language.

  And though Xavier and Alexa had been speaking to each other in French all night, those words unleashed in Alexa such unblemished happiness that, when she spoke next, her tongue chose the language that, despite everything, came most naturally to her. She spoke English.

  “Me, too,” Alexa said, arching her back, her mouth seeking his. “I love you, Xavier.”

  And then they didn’t need words anymore.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  L’Amour

  “I hate her,” Holly muttered, dragging her duffel out of the guest room, her cheeks flushed with still-bubbling anger. “Track meet. If you can call him your boyfriend. Like I care. She’s such a bitch.”

  Holly realized that in talking to herself, she probably sounded like a crazy old woman, but it didn’t matter. Nobody was around to hear her anyway; seconds ago, Alexa (the bitch in question) had stormed out of the apartment for her date with Sketchmaster Xavier. Then, Holly, too furious to cry, had done some storming of her own, back to the guest room to retrieve her bag.

  The fight with Alexa had left Holly a whopping fifteen minutes to get to Gare du Nord, and as she crossed the living room with her duffel bag in tow, she had no idea how she was going to do that. The Metro would probably take too long, but she didn’t know where she could catch a cab; unlike in New York—the only big city Holly was semi-familiar with—you couldn’t just hail a taxi anywhere in Paris. Annoyingly, there were specific stands that—as Holly had discovered when she, Alexa, and the cousins had tried to get home from Eurotrash at three in the morning—seemed to be located as far as possible from any human activity.

  Holly stood at the front door of the apartment, feeling the symptoms of what had to be an oncoming anxiety attack, when she heard a key turn in the lock. She gasped—once at the sound, and then again when she saw the person walking in.

  “Pierre,” Holly said.

  “’Olly,” Pierre said.

  They looked at each other.

  “Um, I was just leaving,” Holly mumbled, swiftly turning her gaze to the floor. “Like, for good.” She pointed unnecessarily to the duffel in her hand, her face reddening. She felt the tension crackle between them—a tension that was very different from the one she’d felt when fighting with Alexa.

  “I can see that,” Pierre said softly.

  Holly bit her lip, studying her Adidas. Now was clearly the time for their good-bye, and Holly wondered how best to handle it. The face-off with Alexa had left Holly feeling edgy and reckless (as face-offs with Alexa often did), and for a second, she considered saying exactly what was on her mind: Thanks for showing me Paris, Pierre. I’m sorry I was so weird last night. And, oh yeah, I think I might be in love with you, but I have a serious boyfriend back home whom I never told you about. Later!

  Or not.

  Opting instead for an abrupt “bye,” and a quick wave, Holly tried to walk around Pierre to the door, but to her astonishment, he blocked her way.

  “’Olly, I am afraid I cannot let you leave tonight,” Pierre announced, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice had a teasing lilt to it, but when Holly lifted her head, she saw that his expression was hopeful. Suddenly, without understanding why, Holly felt a small ping of excitement in her chest, as if she somehow sensed that Pierre was about to change her destiny.

  Which, of course, he was.

  “Why not?” Holly demanded, trying to sound firm, even as she felt her duffel wobble in her hand. “I have to catch a train, Pierre.”

  “Because.” Pierre shot an impish grin at Holly, reached into the pocket of the messenger bag slung across his chest, and, with a flourish, pulled out two blue tickets. �
�If you leave tonight you will lose your only chance to sit in the front row of the Opéra Garnier and see an incredible performance of Roméo et Juliette. It begins at eight, but I believe we will make it if we hurry.”

  Holly glanced from the tickets to Pierre’s beaming face, not fully comprehending. “You mean, the play?” was all she could manage. The slight thrumming in her chest was progressing to actual thumping.

  Pierre shook his head and glanced down at the tickets, as if to double-check. “Non—the ballet,” he replied. He looked back at Holly, a small crease of concern appearing in his smooth olive forehead. “You like ballet, yes?”

  Surprisingly, Holly Jacobson did like ballet. She almost felt like it was her dirty little secret. Nobody at Oakridge High would ever look beyond Holly’s hoodie-and-sneakers exterior and guess that she had a private passion for tights and toe shoes. But Holly’s parents had shoved her into ballet lessons when she was six, and despite the pink girliness of it all, she’d loved ballet’s rigors and challenges. Though she’d quit when she started running in junior high, Holly still fiercely believed that dance was as much a sport as track or soccer.

  But, Holly realized as she nodded at Pierre, her interest in ballet was a hell of a lot less surprising than his. Back home, Holly didn’t know a single boy who would willingly sit through a dance performance. Over winter break, she’d hesitantly broached to Tyler the possibility of taking the train into New York to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, but she’d only gotten as far as “The Nut—” before Tyler cut her off with exaggerated gagging motions. Holly remembered something Alexa had said to her over lunch that day—that European guys tended to have more interest in cultural stuff than their American counterparts—but then Holly dismissed all thoughts of Alexa entirely.

  Still, Holly couldn’t resist asking Pierre if he went to the ballet often, and felt kind of relieved when he laughed and shook his head. “These are from my parents,” he explained, giving the tickets a tap. “They are, how you say, members? Oui. Members of the Opéra Garnier. They go to a ballet or an opera almost every week. But tonight they have to attend an event for my father’s work, so voilà, they gave me their tickets.” Pierre paused and gave Holly a slow, knee-melting smile. “And, ’Olly, you were the first person that I thought of.”