French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  “You are not a liar,” Pierre insisted, before Holly could go off another diatribe. “It is my fault, too—I never asked. You see, I suspected that you had a boyfriend, but I think perhaps I did not want to know.”

  “You suspected all along?” Holly whispered, searching Pierre’s warm blue eyes in surprise.

  “Well, I was wondering always how a girl so beautiful and funny did not have a boyfriend,” Pierre replied, softly cupping her cheek with his hand. Holly’s heart jumped, both from Pierre’s touch and his sincere words. But this time the vibe between them felt surprisingly relaxed, less charged with sexual tension. Maybe we just needed to get it out of our systems, Holly thought, remembering their earlier kissing—which now seemed sort of surreal.

  “This Tyler, he has a lot of luck,” Pierre added quietly as his mouth curved up in a thoughtful smile. “And I am sure he is…how you say? A good—guy?”

  In spite of her tears, Holly couldn’t help her own smile. She loved it whenever Pierre clumsily tried his hand at American phrases, and it was simultaneously weird and refreshing to hear Tyler’s name in Pierre’s adorable French accent. Tie-laire. Like everything else about Holly’s time in Paris, it shed bright new light on something all too familiar. Tyler was all tangled emotions. Tie-laire was somehow…manageable.

  “He is a good guy,” Holly admitted, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “But Pierre—so are you.” Although her face turned hot, she held Pierre’s gaze, knowing she owed him more of an explanation. “You’re wonderful—different from any boy I’ve ever known,” Holly whispered, meaning every word. “And I got so caught up in spending time with you that I sort of let myself pretend that I was single…and that we were…” Holly trailed off, feeling herself choke up again. In love, she wanted to say. But had she loved Pierre? Or had it just been lust? Was it possible to love two boys at once?

  “I was caught up in you, too,” Pierre said, matter-of-factly, tracing a line down Holly’s cheek. “Still, ’Olly, you must think about it—we did not do anything so very wrong. So we kissed a little bit.” Pierre tilted his head to the side and grinned at Holly. “This does not make a great tragedy.”

  Holly bit her lip, knowing deep down that Pierre was right. In the end, they weren’t Romeo and Juliet. And, thankfully, she hadn’t let them go any further tonight. Yes, technically, she’d cheated on her boyfriend—something Holly had never thought herself capable of—but Holly also knew that her three-day flirtation with Pierre probably wouldn’t be enough to shatter her year-long-relationship with Tyler.

  Providing that relationship still existed.

  Holly sighed, her head fuzzy. “I guess I agree with you,” she finally told Pierre, reluctantly stepping out of the warm circle of his arms. “But I still need to figure stuff out—it’s all so complicated.”

  “L’amour, c’est compliqué,” Pierre agreed. He was quiet for a minute, looking out at the water, and then he turned back to Holly. “And, ’Olly, if you cannot figure out things with Tyler,” he added with a smile. “You know, I will still be here in Paris.”

  Holly nodded, her heart racing at Pierre’s offer. By way of response, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on both cheeks, returning his gesture from the day they’d met. She was shivering a little in the cool night air, so Pierre shook out his blazer once more and then draped it around her shoulders. Then, as wordlessly as they’d come, they climbed up the stone steps and started walking down the stone quay again, their hands lightly linked. The pose fell somewhere in between romantic and friendly, which, Holly realized, was what she and Pierre might always be toward each other.

  “So,” Pierre said, breaking a long stretch of silence. “What was this you were telling me about a…tracking meeting?” Shrugging his shoulders, he shot Holly a curious glance.

  “Track meet,” Holly said, remembering her nonsensical rant. Suddenly, she started to giggle, feeling her spirits lift. After the intensity of the night, laughter felt like a pure release.

  Pierre began laughing, too, shaking his head. “Yes, yes, a track meet,” he chuckled. “And then something about an argument with my dear cousin? I am very interested to hear.”

  Holly quickly checked her watch. It was three in the morning, which meant she’d only get an hour or so of sleep—especially if she planned to explain everything to Pierre. But Holly figured she’d make do somehow; she could always sleep on the train.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “Track. Alexa. Where do I start?”

  And then, for no real reason—other than the fact that they were still tipsy, and sort of embarrassed by their encounter—she and Pierre started laughing again. Holly realized that whether or not she’d been in love with Pierre, what she had loved about him was his easy laughter—the way he made her feel hilarious and sexy at the same time. Holly knew she’d miss that quality more than anything when she went back to New Jersey.

  Well, that and having someone call her ’Olly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Party Crashers

  “Holly? Holly!”

  With excruciating slowness, Holly let her eyes flutter open. Her head pounded, and her mouth felt cottony. Light was pouring in from somewhere, making her want to shut her eyes again. It couldn’t be morning yet, could it?

  “Holly, what are you doing here?”

  Where am I? Holly wondered, blinking and lifting her head off the lumpy pillow. She took in the small room, the shuttered windows, her green safari-print dress pooled on the floor, and finally, the blonde girl leaning over her, looking bewildered.

  Alexa, Holly realized. Paris. Then, as clarity and panic hit at the same time, Holly grabbed her travel alarm clock off the floor by her bed and stared in horror at the numbers there.

  12:00 P.M.

  She screamed.

  Alexa jumped back, clutching Xavier’s sketch to her chest as Holly sprang out of bed, holding the miniature alarm clock up to her face. “No no no no no,” Holly cried, rattling the clock so hard Alexa was sure she’d break it. “Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a joke.” She was speaking directly to the clock now, and Alexa worried for her friend’s sanity.

  “Hol,” Alexa said gently, putting one hand on Holly’s shoulder and forgetting that, fifteen hours earlier, she’d wanted to throttle her. “I don’t think the clock is joking.”

  Alexa held her breath as Holly looked up, her gray-green eyes enormous and her freckled skin pale. “You missed your meet?” Alexa whispered, already knowing the answer. She’d guessed as much when she’d drifted into the room on a cloud of Xavier-induced bliss only to find Holly passed out on her bed in the classic drunken-sleep pose—mouth open, covers kicked down, tank top riding up her belly.

  “My meet—my train—my life!” Holly wailed, breaking into a little jig of madness. As often happened whenever she thought of Wimbledon, Holly’s ankle began to throb. She pictured the Eurostar train pulling out of the station, Holly-less, and zooming on toward England, where Meghan, Jess, and the rest of her teammates waited in vain for her. She was their captain, and she’d let each and every one of them down.

  And Coach Graham was going to eat her alive.

  At this thought, Holly had to cut her jig short and sink down on her bed, her breaths coming fast and shallow. She had no idea what to do. Rushing back to England now seemed pointless—the meet would be long finished when she arrived in the late afternoon. And she didn’t want to turn on her cell phone, where a million you’re-in-such-deep-shit messages from Meghan surely awaited. Or maybe it was Jess who had called, to inform Holly that all three girls would not be graduating in June.

  “Stop hyperventilating,” Alexa ordered, trying not to roll her eyes; Holly’s nervous breakdown was understandable, but Alexa had only so much tolerance for hysteria. Adjusting her minuscule white skirt on her hips—Xavier had sort of broken the zipper last night—Alexa sat down beside her friend, sketch in hand. “Weren’t you supposed to leave last night?” she asked massaging Hol
ly’s back. Alexa couldn’t hide the curiosity in her voice; her sixth sense for boy-gossip told her that Holly’s change in travel plans somehow involved her hot cousin.

  Holly, who always paid close attention in health class, now had her head between her knees in case she fainted. “Pierre—ballet—beers—fooled around—came home really late,” she managed to stammer. How had she been so stupid? Through the fog of her searing headache, Holly remembered coming back with Pierre, her throat raw from talking and her emotions still tumbling. She remembered changing into her boxers and tank and collapsing facedown in bed. Then, very vaguely, she remembered hearing the buzz of her alarm in the darkness and slapping her hand down to silence it. And the next thing she knew, Alexa was hollering her name.

  Maybe oversleeping was punishment for kissing another boy.

  “I so called it!” Alexa exclaimed, giving Holly’s unkempt ponytail an excited yank. “I predicted from, like, day one that you and Pierre were gonna get it on!” Alexa felt a flood of satisfaction; she didn’t know where Tyler Davis fit into this whole scenario, but Holly and Pierre made a too-cute-for-words couple. Maybe Holly and I will both move here to be with our respective French boys, Alexa mused. Holly’s practically related to me anyway, so it would make sense for her to end up with my cousin—

  “But we’re not together now or anything,” Holly said, unwittingly putting an end to Alexa’s daydreaming. She straightened up, feeling marginally calmer now that she had something other than Coach Graham’s snapping fangs on her mind, and turned to Alexa, grateful that her friend was there to soothe her. Holly, too, had momentarily forgotten last night’s argument. “I mean, it was nice and all,” she clarified with a sheepish smile. She knew Pierre was in classes all day, so at least she didn’t have to worry about him overhearing. “But we stopped before it got too intense. I told Pierre all about Tyler, and—”

  Holly paused at this mention of Tyler and, with a jolt, remembered her and Alexa’s serious clash from the night before. Alexa seemed to remember as well, because her mouth tightened and her blue eyes went cold. An abrupt silence fell between the two girls, like a sheet of ice. Oh, yeah. We’re supposed to hate each other, was the unspoken realization. Alexa chewed her bottom lip and Holly cleared her throat as they each sought safer places to rest their respective gazes.

  Holly chose the sheet of paper in Alexa’s hand, and saw that it was a charcoal sketch of—without question—Alexa herself. “Who drew that?” Holly asked quietly, glad to be able to fill the stark silence. She wasn’t about to forgive Alexa, but Holly loathed awkward moments like these. Plus, after the over-sleeping disaster, she no longer had the energy to remain truly mad at her friend.

  “Xavier,” Alexa answered shortly—but she felt herself soften at the memory of the artist and their knee-weakening night together. Alexa was still pissed at Holly, but the girls’ snipefest seemed borderline trivial compared to Alexa’s all-consuming love.

  “Oh,” Holly mumbled. In all the chaos, she’d also managed to forget about Alexa’s hot date with Monsieur Shady. Now, Holly took stock of her friend—the loose, tangled hair, the top on backwards, the unglossed, slightly swollen lips—and realized that Alexa had only just come home this morning. After an obviously eventful night. But Holly also noticed a little-girl vulnerability in Alexa’s expression—a hopefulness—that contrasted with her trashy walk-of-shame look. She’s beyond into this guy, Holly thought, feeling a twinge of regret that she’d been so harsh on Xavier. Maybe he deserved another chance.

  “Will you see him again?” Holly asked, trying to sound contrite. She could feel some of her tension with Alexa dissipating, though things weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy yet.

  “Tonight,” Alexa sighed, and flopped back on the bed, staring up at the moldings on the ceiling. “I’m going to his glitzy gallery opening on the place des Vosges.”

  What Alexa failed to mention was that Xavier had no clue she was going.

  That morning, she’d meant to ask him about the opening, but there’d been no time. Xavier had woken her with a kiss on her bare shoulder, whispering that he had to run, but that she should let herself out of the studio, since the door was self-locking. After a lingering kiss on the lips and a request that she call him later, Xavier handed her the sketch—and was gone. Stretching across the sofa with a contented sigh, the silk throw draped over her body, Alexa decided that instead of bothering Xavier (who must have been super-stressed) with a phone call, she’d simply show up to the party on her own, looking her most devastating. And surprise him.

  Much sexier.

  “A gallery opening, huh?” Holly asked, glancing down at Alexa. “As in, people standing around in a white room drinking wine and analyzing, like, sculptures of someone’s feet?” Holly couldn’t think of anything more pretentious or irritating. “Can I come?” she asked in the next breath, startling both herself and Alexa.

  But Holly knew just why she had posed the question. She was desperate for a distraction—any distraction—from the gigantic, hovering, elephant-in-the-room problem of Wimbledon. She wanted to cast everything off, to pretend track and Coach Graham and her parents didn’t exist. And having an event to attend in Paris that night—even if it was a snobby gallery opening—would allow Holly to do just that—keep stalling, keep pretending.

  Holly Jacobson, welcome to the happy Land of Denial!

  Lying flat on her back, Alexa studied Holly’s anxious face, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Naturally, Alexa had been envisioning sauntering into the gallery alone, people murmuring appreciatively as Xavier rushed over to sweep her into a kiss. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a friend by her side as a fallback in case Xavier was busy mingling. Yes, the event was open to the public—and she was, after all, Xavier Pascal’s muse—but Alexa still hadn’t been officially invited. It was one thing to arrive unannounced at a house party in Oakridge, as Alexa had done on a dare from Portia sophomore year (she’d gotten drunk off bad keg beer and wound up making out with a hot senior in the upstairs bathroom). It was something else entirely to crash a grown-up Parisian bash where there might be tons of celebrities.

  She just hoped Holly wouldn’t do something to embarrass her.

  “Well, if you don’t need to run back to England…” Alexa began with a shrug—her passive-aggressive way of saying yes. “But,” she added, raising a warning eyebrow at Holly, “I’ll probably be with Xavier and his crew most of the night, so you might need to fend for yourself.”

  Holly felt her hackles go up at Alexa’s condescending tone—until she saw the humor in her friend’s words. Knowing Alexa, she probably had this elaborate fantasy of being the star of the show—people murmuring appreciatively as she sauntered past, Xavier rushing over to kiss her, cameras going off in her wake…Holly bit back her smile.

  If she was a citizen of Denial Land, then Alexa was the freaking prime minister.

  Alexa spent the afternoon napping, while Holly went out for a defiantly big lunch comprised mostly of pastries, so both girls were feeling a little mellower when they arrived at the Galérie Paradis that evening.

  Once the bouncer confirmed that they were not, in fact, paparazzi, he let them inside the packed, dimly lit gallery—which was not at all the stark, snobby scene Holly had been picturing. The floor was painted to look like a cloud-filled sky, the walls were exposed brick, and light-filled paper lanterns swayed from the beams in the ceiling. What sounded like the French equivalent of The Shins blasted from the speakers, and hipsters congregated in groups, sipping flame-colored martinis. Holly decided that if it weren’t for the paintings displayed on the walls, the gathering would feel like a party at some cool college-age person’s apartment.

  But instead of getting intimidated by the trendy crowd, Holly felt surprisingly at ease in her new black cami with a burgundy sash, black cardigan, reliable denim mini, and crushed velvet flats. Maybe it was just that she’d been so turned off by coming here, but was pleasantly surprised at how chill the vibe was.
Holly was certain that Alexa, for her part, would be totally in her artsy element—only, when she glanced at her friend, Holly saw that her glossy lips were white with fear.

  Why am I so nervous? Alexa was asking herself at that very moment. Her palms were clammy and her stomach hurt—both rare conditions for her.

  Yes, Alexa knew she looked hot in her new high-necked, backless paisley halter dress—cinched at the waist with a thick, burnished-orange belt—toeless apricot pumps, and big amber hoops. Her hair was swept back in a loose chignon and held off her face with a wide paisley headband. The effect, Alexa felt, was very Twiggy. Then, glancing around, she caught sight of a super-skinny Asian girl with bleached-blonde hair who was wearing nothing but an oversized, raggedy brown sweater and moon boots. Alexa sighed; it was impossible to stay a step ahead of cutting-edge Parisian fashion. But as long as Xavier appreciated her outfit, that was all that mattered. And speaking of which, where was he?

  Holly, of course, wasn’t looking for Xavier at all, which was probably why she spotted him immediately. He was standing on the opposite end of the gallery, surrounded by a tight circle of admirers—among them a girl with a scarlet-red bob who wore a short white dress that looked as if it had been slashed to bits and a skinny guy with chunky glasses and a chipped front tooth. Xavier was talking animatedly to someone else, someone Holly couldn’t make out, and gesturing with one hand while the other held a martini and a cigarette. Holly had to grudgingly concede that the artist looked really, really good in a black button-down shirt tucked into black trousers, a red silk tie, and his paint-stained, scuffed-up boots.

  Still on her giving-Xavier-a-second-chance kick, Holly elbowed Alexa and whispered, “He’s over there.” If anything, Holly thought, that would at least put an end to Alexa’s fidgeting—she’d been giving herself whiplash every two seconds, clearly dying to find her loverboy.

  Alexa’s heart leaped as she followed Holly’s gaze, and there, at long last, was the object of her affection. He was talking with a few of his friends that Alexa recognized from last night. But the friends—along with Holly, Ms. Moon Boots over there, and everyone else in the gallery—went blurry, and all Alexa saw was Xavier. His artfully messy auburn hair, his smoky-gray eyes, the mouth she had kissed so many times…Alexa felt a small explosion of joy and pride in her belly; this yummy guy was the reason all these people were here tonight. And he was all hers.