An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  All of them believe I’m a strong person.

  They can’t all be wrong, can they?

  It doesn’t matter that I’m feeling so faint right now I need to lean on the wall to steady myself before entering the loge. Breaking down simply isn’t an option. Liviu needs his mom sane. It is my job to take care of him, to make sure he thrives and is happy. It is my job not to let my troubles affect him.

  I’ll get a grip—I always do.

  Just give me a moment. OK, maybe an hour. Or a few days… A couple of months, tops.

  My cruel mind flashes an image of Thomas’s handsome, kind face.

  Would a year do the trick?

  25

  Thomas

  In Paris, Corinne tells me, it’s not unusual for early December to be milder than November. Definitely true this year, I tell myself as I drag my feet home on this Friday night.

  Armelle is on my arm. We’d been out celebrating her first invitation to a job interview. She says it’s in two weeks.

  The weather has been weird since Sunday. It’s warm, or rather, warmish. Not summerlike, but mild enough to go out without a coat and a scarf. And it’s also heartrending, mind-numbing gray.

  Corinne calls this freaky interlude “autumn’s swan song before it fades into winter.” She’s been rereading Paul Éluard’s poetry lately.

  I call it global warming.

  During November, Armelle and I settled into near-normalcy. But the climate inside my apartment isn’t much different than the weather outside. Just like the weather, it’s weird. Warmish. Gray.

  She still refuses to talk about her abduction. I tiptoe around her, trying not to do anything that would upset her. We argue sometimes, but I always cave in. She’s been through hell, I keep reminding myself. She needs me.

  Since mid-November, I started having a recurrent nightmare in which I’m trapped in a cell-like room with no windows or doors.

  Not terribly subtle as nightmares go.

  Even sex, which used to be Armelle’s and my biggest common ground, doesn’t work anymore. Because of me. I’d like to—I think—but my lust for her has dried up.

  In the beginning, I told myself she needed to heal. She wouldn’t want to be touched after what she’d been through. But then, one day, she took the initiative. We stumbled through foreplay, but then—for the first time in my life—I failed to launch. When she tried again, on another occasion, I said it had been a crazy week at the clinic and I was too tired.

  Ha! What will be my next pathetic excuse? A headache?

  I’ve been wondering if my issue is my suppressed anger over her refusal to talk about her abduction. Except, I’d been mad at her before, and it never prevented me from wanting her. But now… She leaves me flaccid.

  That’s not to say I haven’t had a hard-on in a month. I’ve had plenty. Every time I’ve thought about Dana.

  The week Armelle returned, Dana stopped jogging with me. She said we should stay out of each other’s hair. I now jog later in the morning, so that I pass her building after she’s finished cleaning the sidewalk. I also moved my afternoon workouts to the days when there’s no Zumba class at the gym. And to avoid chancing upon Dana, I stopped going to La Bohème.

  All those measures have been so efficient I haven’t seen her in over two weeks, despite living next door to each other.

  I did bump into Liviu once while he was walking Baloo. I stopped to chat with him. He asked why I didn’t come by anymore. I began explaining how busy I was when he interrupted, asking if it was him, if he’d done or said something wrong.

  My chest clenched so hard I had to count slowly and breathe.

  “It isn’t you,” I finally said. “You’re an amazing kid. You’re the most amazing kid I ever met.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “My fiancée.” I tried to smile, to make light. “She keeps me busy.”

  He leveled his clever eyes with mine. “Mom told me about her.”

  “How is your mom doing?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  “She’s sad.” He gave a whistle to Baloo and strode away.

  It still hurts to recall that exchange.

  Armelle and I reach the corner of the street and halt at the traffic light. A yellow notice glued to the lamppost draws Armelle’s attention. I read it, too.

  DINNER IN YELLOW

  Tomorrow, December 3, La Bohème is hosting a neighborhood event to brighten your mood.

  Tired of the dark and gray? Book a table for dinner, put on something yellow, and come help us beat the autumn blues!

  What to expect: pumpkin-based dishes, a live band, and a French rock ’n’ roll party for those who stay late.

  What to bring: yourself, your date or your friends, and smiles!

  See you tomorrow,

  Jeanne and her team

  “We’re going!” Armelle declares. “It’ll be fun.”

  Ooh, that’s a terrible idea. “We just went out to dinner. Why don’t we stay home and watch a movie tomorrow night?”

  “Please, pretty please?” She claps her hands. “I even have a yellow dress. Tomorrow morning, I’ll pop into Galeries Lafayette and buy you a yellow sweater, and then we’ll be set.”

  How can I explain to Armelle that I can’t do it because Dana might show up?

  “Please, please, please?” Armelle keeps chanting. “I want to go to that dinner and then the party afterward! We haven’t been to any parties since I got back.”

  Hell, I want to go, too! You have no idea.

  But what if Dana is looking forward to some fun time among friends? What if seeing me with Armelle ruins her evening?

  As has been our MO since Armelle’s return, I give in to her wishes.

  The moment we get home, I text Dana to let her know Armelle and I are going to La Bohème tomorrow night. Now she knows.

  And she can choose to be there or not.

  26

  Thomas

  Dana never responded to my message. Regardless, when Armelle and I step into La Bohème the next evening, dressed in yellow, I’m hoping against hope to see Dana. But no such luck.

  Maybe she’ll stop by later.

  As we place our order with Manon, a dark-haired man in his late twenties walks in. He isn’t wearing anything yellow.

  Jeanne gives him a warm hug. “Amar! So glad you made it! So, what’s your answer?”

  Apologizing to us, Manon storms up to him. “You? Really? You just walk in like this, like it’s no big deal, like you never left? What the fuck?”

  “Ooh,” Armelle whispers, leaning forward. “I smell drama.”

  Amar trains his black eyes on Manon, and they stay like that for a moment, staring. Well, he’s staring. She’s glowering.

  Jeanne breaks their moment. “I’ve offered Amar his old job since he’s looking for a job and we’re looking for a server.”

  Manon pivots and glares at Jeanne and mutters, “Excuse me,” and strides out.

  “Will someone come and take our order, please?” Armelle calls out.

  Jeanne pats Amar’s shoulder and hurries to our table.

  While Armelle describes which specific ingredients she wants on the side and which to omit, Dana walks in.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  She’s by herself, wearing a pair of jeans and a yellow shirt. Keeping her eyes downcast, she heads to the counter, which is only a couple of meters to my right.

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  Jeanne follows my gaze and waves to Dana. “I’ll be with you in a sec, honey!”

  As soon as Armelle and I have finished with our culinary desires, Jeanne beelines to Dana. “He’s here.”

  For a split second, I assume she’s talking about me.

  “Really? Where? What does he look like?”

  “I’ll take you to his table. Hang on!” Jeanne leans toward the serving hatch and relays our order to the chef.

  Dana smooths her already smooth hair. “Do I look presentable?”

/>   Jeanne smiles. “You look lovely. Come.”

  Unable to do much but stare, I watch Jeanne lead Dana to a table occupied by a well-dressed man in his forties.

  “Arthur, this is Dana, the woman I’ve been badgering you about.”

  He stands up. “Delighted, Madame.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Dana says.

  They sit down.

  Who the hell is this Arthur?

  While Jeanne goes away to fetch their order, Dana and Arthur engage in small talk.

  This must be a blind date that Jeanne has set up for Dana to help her move on. In all fairness, Arthur seems to be a decent chap, and not without charisma. He’s soft-spoken yet authoritative. Cheerful yet dignified.

  I hate his guts.

  Not because he’s so cool and might actually be worthy of Dana. Of course not. But because… because… She might be walking into a trap, that’s why! What if he’s fake? What if he’s one of those smooth operators that are so hard to see through? What if his polished exterior hides a real douche?

  Don’t fall for his act, Dana!

  Don’t fall for him, I’m begging you. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.

  Baby, please, don’t do this to me—

  The profound selfishness of my wish gives me pause.

  Jeanne returns. “Like I said, Dana knows everything there is to know about Le Grand Rex.”

  She mouths “eve-ry-thing” again for added emphasis.

  “Is that so?” Arthur asks Dana.

  “Quiz her,” Jeanne says with a shrug.

  “Maybe later.” He chuckles before turning to Dana. “But first I want to hear why you’d like me to offer you a part-time job.”

  A manager! He must be a manager in charge of recruitment at Le Grand Rex. If not the theater’s owner.

  As Dana starts telling him about her love of movies and her personal circumstances, the last vestiges of my uncalled-for jealousy vanish, giving way to embarrassment and regret. Immense, bitter, punishing regret. The prison cell of my nightmares made real.

  Manon barges back in and goes straight to Jeanne. “I’m the headwaiter. You always involve me in hiring new people.”

  “Amar isn’t new,” Jeanne says.

  “I don’t want him working here.”

  “I understand, honey, and I appreciate that things might be difficult at first, but… if he says yes, he’ll have the job. I’m really sorry.”

  Manon searches Jeanne’s face, consternation and incredulity in her blue eyes. “Is there something you know that I don’t? Something you aren’t telling me?”

  Jeanne shakes her head.

  Manon turns on her heel and strides to a table to take their order.

  A snap of long fingers brings my attention back to my table.

  Armelle cocks her head. “You seem awfully distracted tonight. Trouble at work? Too much commotion here?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “We don’t have to stay until the band arrives.” She moves the food on her plate around with her fork. “I’m suddenly tired, too.”

  I say nothing.

  She eats a forkful. “Let’s go home as soon as we finish the main course.”

  “As you wish.” I pick up my knife and fork.

  While we eat, Armelle blabbers on about something while I try to make out what Dana is saying to Arthur.

  “Who’s the brunette with the hot older guy over there?” Armelle nods to Dana. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes.”

  She puts her fork down. “How well?”

  I lift my eyes to hers. “Quite well.”

  “Did you sleep with her while I was away?”

  “You mean while you were abducted.” My tone is way too harsh, and I regret it as soon as the words are out.

  “Yes,” she says, her lips tightening, a wounded look in her eyes. “That’s what I mean.”

  I rub my forehead. “I’m sorry, Armelle. I’m… You’re right, we should go home.”

  We eat in silence for a while.

  “Are you ready to file a complaint with the police?” I ask.

  “Not yet.” She won’t look at me. She never does when I ask that question.

  “The more you wait the harder it will be for them to catch him. He’ll get away with what he’s done to you.”

  “Do you care about my well-being?”

  “Yes, of course. But I also care about your safety.”

  “I’m safe now. He let me leave, Thomas.”

  Oh? That’s new.

  “Still,” I say. “You’re a liability. What does he have on you, Armelle? What do you have on him? What makes you think he won’t try to kill you so you don’t talk?”

  “I know he won’t. And if he did, you’d protect me, won’t you, darling?”

  I nod.

  We’ve had this conversation a dozen times already. It always ends the same way, and it’s starting to feel surreal. As if we were each reading our parts from a script.

  We finish the main course, and I ask for the check.

  One last time, I let my gaze travel over Dana’s soft, pink lips. Down the side of her graceful neck. To the bun at her nape, which I’m dying to undo, so that I can delve my hands into her hair. To all the other treasures Dana is hiding from the world.

  Yacine is right. Life’s a bitch.

  27

  Thomas

  OK. Calm down, Thomas. Don’t do anything rash.

  You’re a level-headed guy. You can process this rationally. You must process this rationally before you say something you might regret.

  Averting my eyes from Armelle, I throw on some clothes, grab my phone and my jacket, and stride out the door. I run downstairs, taking two steps at a time. Once outside, I head down the dark street toward the Grands Boulevards. They’re still empty. Paris hasn’t properly woken up yet on this wet Sunday morning.

  I pull up the hood on my jacket, shove my hands into my pockets, and head in the direction of Place de l’Opéra.

  Last night when we came home from Dinner in Yellow at La Bohème early, because Armelle had changed her mind about dancing, my landline rang.

  I barely get any calls on it these days with my friends and family using the cell number. When the phone in the main room does ring, it’s always a telemarketer peddling something. It was almost eleven. Telemarketers who call that late don’t deserve courtesy, so my hello when I picked up the phone sounded like an angry bark.

  But the woman at the other end of the line wasn’t trying to sell me anything. She was hoping to talk to her daughter Armelle.

  I didn’t sleep all night.

  Ducking into an archway, I pull out my cell phone and dial Yacine’s number. It’s only seven in the morning, but he’s an early riser, a certified lark since he was a kid. He’ll be up and about already.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  “Armelle has parents. They live in La Rochelle.”

  It takes him a few moments to process that. “Not an orphan, then.”

  “No.”

  “Why would she lie to you about something so important? And how did you find out?”

  “To your first question, I don’t know.”

  “And to the second?”

  I tell him about last night’s call.

  Yacine whistles.

  Neither of us speaks for a long moment.

  “How did Armelle explain it afterward?” he asks.

  “She said they’d been estranged. They treated her very badly throughout her childhood, so she took off as soon she turned eighteen.”

  “Why didn’t she just tell you that from the outset?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you believe her that she was abused?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another silence.

  “All this time,” I say at length, “She’s been telling me she’s an orphan, and I never doubted her words. I never checked.”

  “Are you beginning to doubt the abduction story, too?” he asks. />
  “I began to doubt it soon after she came back. After yesterday’s call, I stopped…” I draw in a breath to prep myself for the enormity of what I’m about to say. “I stopped doubting. I know she’s lying.”

  “Life’s a bitch, huh?” Yacine says before adding, “Dude, confront her. You’ve waited long enough.”

  We hang up without me committing to anything.

  But as soon as I get back home an hour later I corner Armelle and demand the truth.

  She cries.

  I don’t relent.

  “It was the prewedding jitters,” she finally says. “I freaked out.”

  I stare at her.

  She fidgets with her necklace. “You know, the normal panic that people get before making a serious commitment?”

  “You could’ve just said no if you weren’t ready.”

  “I loved you.” She plays with her wristwatch. “I still do, even more than before! But becoming your wife, a vet’s wife, meant saying goodbye to my dreams of luxury, private jets, wood-paneled yachts, of never having to work again…”

  I close my eyes momentarily, trying to wrap my mind around what she’s trying to say. It was just a case of cold feet.

  “There was no abduction.” I open my eyes and give her a long, hard look. “You made it up.”

  She wrings her hands. “It wasn’t planned or anything, I swear! Do you believe me?”

  I nod once to encourage her to continue.

  She gives me a hopeful smile. “I was passing by Le Comptoir at Odéon. There was this man. An older man. His suit, his shoes… everything about him screamed bespoke. He was talking to someone over the phone, leaning on his Lamborghini. He looked rattled.”

  I should be seething. Hell, I should be livid hearing this, but all I feel is a strange, wooly apathy.

  “He hung up as I passed him and checked me out,” Armelle continues. “Then I heard him say, ‘I just got stood up by a woman far less pretty than you.’ Naturally, I turned around to see if he was talking to me.”