You Turn

by Marion Croslydon

  “I’ve missed you,” he says his voice lower than before. My eyes widen. His are dark and burn through me. “I knew I missed you before you came to Paris. I just didn’t know how much.” A tremor flickers in my heart. “I’ve often looked back at that summer five years ago. The summer I lost my mother, I lost myself… the summer I found you. What I did about it—about you—was without doubt the worst decision of my life.”

  “Spare me the word ‘sorry,’ will you?”

  “I don’t believe in ‘sorry.’ I believe in the truth and the truth is that you were the first friend I ever had. You believed in me, you supported me.” The faintest shadow of a smile emerges at the corner of his mouth. “You kicked my ass … and you loved me.”

  My throat constricts. “But you didn’t love me back.”

  “Not the way you wanted me to, but more than I had ever loved anyone before.”

  Alcohol has taken dozens of points off my I.Q. so I struggle to make sense of his admission. I got annoyed. “You either love someone or you don’t.”

  “That’s my girl.” A generous grin brightens his face. “At last, I can see a glimmer of the real you.”

  “It’s been the real me all along.”

  “No, the Lenor I’ve met in Paris is hurt, bitter, with no sense of herself anymore.”

  I run my fingers through my wet hair as anger flares up inside my chest. “What can I say? The Lenor you’ve met here was dumped by her fiancé last month after he decided to share a teeny tiny detail about his own life: that he was already married and had a kid. So, yes, this Lenor,” I wave my hands along my body, “is bitter, hurt and has absolutely no idea what the hell she’s doing anymore.”

  “Lenor—”

  “Plus this Lenor’s pill-popping mother decided to swallow a bottle of Xanax because her daughter didn’t answer the phone in the middle of the night.” My voice breaks. “And you know what? This Lenor didn’t take those calls because she was having sex with a guy she hardly knew and certainly didn’t care about.”

  Zach clenches his jaw. In one swift movement, I place the plate on the balcony floor and jump to my feet.

  “I’ll call a cab and get back to my place.”

  I launch myself towards the balcony door when his fingers circle around my wrist and stop me mid-flight. “Don’t.”

  I try to yank my arm free, but he refuses to let me go. “I’m fine now. Don’t worry about my mom seeing me—”

  “You’re going to stay here and we’re going to spend tomorrow together.”

  The order startles me. “Don’t you have a life, Zachary? Parties to plan? Women to schmooze?”

  “Don’t do this, Duchess.” He stands up opposite me. His fingers relax their grip on my wrist, only to brush along it and turn my palm up. His thumb caresses the center of it, his touch as light as a feather. He stares down at our joined hands while I try to tidy my emotions. “Let me be there for you the way you were there for me. Let me be your friend like you were mine.”

  “I. Was. Never. Your. Friend.” His face rises and the hurt I see etched in every fiber of it feels like a slap. I continue nonetheless, “I was the little girl who loved you from afar. I was the woman who gave herself away for you and ended up losing a lot of who she was.”

  He studies me without a word, then takes hold of my other hand to intertwine his fingers with mine. I hear a short intake of air before he speaks, “Then allow me to give you back some of what I stole.”

  I should say ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ But I don’t. “I’m a mess, a complete mess, and I have no idea where to start.”

  “By having a good night’s sleep.”

  I’m done avoiding his gaze. I’m not the naïve girl from five years ago. Or even from a month ago. Zach’s gaze doesn’t waver when I meet it. It’s as if he knows I’m gauging him, as if he’s baring his soul to me, beseeching me to make up my mind. I’ve never seen Zachary Murdoch like this before.

  Vulnerable.

  “Sleep sounds good,” I admit.

  With my hand in his, Zach shows me the way to a bedroom. We have to climb a spiral staircase to reach it. The room is one of those attic bedrooms you imagine everyone in Paris sleeping in. The ceiling falls steeply on either side and it has only one window with shutters on the outside, but it’s perfect.

  He opens the shutters so that they frame the window. “I’ll close them later in the night. But, right now, you need all the fresh air you can get.” The inside of the room is warmer than the rest of the apartment. “I hate air-conditioning” he adds as an apology.

  “Don’t worry.” I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands joined on my lap. “It’s very cozy. I’ll sleep well here.”

  The walls of the room are bare but for a niche built inside the wall on the other side of the bed. A replica of a yacht is lodged in it. The royal blue of its body and the burgundy of the sails are printed in my memory.

  “Renegade.” My voice trails off.

  Zach buries his hands in his jean pockets and I don’t miss the longing in the look he attaches to the small boat.

  “She’s like an old friend who owns my best memories.”

  Mine too. My fingers tighten over my knees.

  He points at the mineral water standing on the bedside table. “In case you get thirsty. But now get into bed.”

  I do and let out a relieved breath when the back of my head hits the pillow. I pull the bed linen up to my chin, enjoy the soft feeling of the material against my skin. Zach is hovering by the door.

  I turn my face sideways so that my cheek rests on the pillow. A familiar scent drifts up my nostrils.

  “It’s your bed,” I whisper.

  “Yeah. The linen was changed yesterday, so you should be spared most of my germs.”

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  “There’s a study downstairs.” He lifts his hand to stop me from arguing. “The sofa-bed is comfortable so, please, there’s no need for a guilt trip.”

  “A big apartment like this and you have only one bedroom? A real bachelor pad…”

  “When I bought it, I wasn’t really thinking of ever having a family.”

  Is he now?

  I let myself relax once again and fight the unsettling knowledge that Zach has been in this bed only the night before. He turns off the lights and my eyes gently grow accustomed to the faint glow of the city’s lights.

  Zach has become a silhouette in the darkness of the doorway and I miss the sight of him already.

  “Call me if you need anything.” The creaking of the door signals he’s on his way out.

  “Wait!” I say through a sharp intake of breath.

  He doesn’t say anything but the halo filtering through the cracked door tells me he’s still there.

  “Can you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep.”

  There’s no answer, but soon the mattress sags as he sits on the edge of the bed and I feel his fingertips gently brushing my forehead. Warmth seeps into me through his touch.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  His lips briefly touch my forehead. “Good night, Duchess.”

  Chapter 9

  Splish. Splash.

  For a while, I let the sound of the rain lap at the door of my consciousness.

  Splish. Splash.

  Before I even open my eyes, I breathe in his scent, take comfort from it and let it soothe the scattered memories of the night before. It’s his scent left behind on the pillow, but it’s not him.

  I groan, roll on my back and spread my arms like a starfish. I feel surprisingly fine. No headache. No nausea. As if last night was spent watching Reality TV with a mug of cocoa warming my hands. Hardly.

  The shutters are closed. I address a secret prayer to God: Hopefully I wasn’t snoring when he checked on me.

  I get out of bed and go over to the window to open the shutters. I’ve not dreamed up last night’s view. It’s the same this morning, only with the Eiffel Tower piercing the low hanging clouds. Last night
’s humidity has been replaced by a chilly breeze, which makes goose bumps break over my arms. I retreat inside the room and consider, for a whole minute, hiding under the duvet.

  There’s no point chickening out. I’ve displayed the full extent of my immaturity last night by losing it—again—in front of Zach and having to be rescued. This morning, I’ll walk downstairs, all nice and dignified.

  I do exactly that, but when I pass the bathroom door, I stall. There’s nothing dignified in bad breath. I rush inside and diligently apply myself to brushing my teeth. I splash some water on my face and use the edge of a towel to wipe the last remnants of smeared make-up from under my eyes.

  I check myself in the mirror. I’m not exactly glowing, but I don’t look like a wreck either. So, with all the confidence of a child on her first day at kindergarten, I peer into the living room. It’s empty. The balcony doors are closed. Maybe he’s still sleeping. There are two doors I have not opened yet. Very slowly, I turn the doorknob of one and push it. It’s the study. An empty study. He’s nowhere to be seen, but I step inside anyway. The sight of the desk is familiar. It was his grandfather’s and I wonder what else he has taken from the Murdoch’s East Hampton home.

  My fingers caress the surface of the desk. The wood is smooth under my fingertips. On top of it lies a laptop, which is turned on, with the titles of a dozen emails in bold, visible across the screen, all of which unread. I resist checking them too closely. I’m a lot of things, but a Nosey Nelly isn’t one of them.

  I catch sight of a photograph in a silver frame. Renegade once again. In her full yacht glory with Zach behind the wheel. He’s in full glory too, with the brightest smile he has ever graced the world with.

  I’m familiar with that picture. I took it. It was my first outing on Renegade and—more importantly—my first kiss. I can still feel the sun warming my skin and the wind against my hair. How hard I worked at hiding my seasickness that day. I sigh and don’t fight the smile that makes my lips tremble. Despite the heartache that soon followed, I’m glad Zachary Murdoch was my first kiss. That afternoon on Renegade was well worth saving myself for eighteen long years.

  It strikes me that there’s no other pictures in the entire apartment, at least not that I can see. I forge on in my exploration of the flat, closing the door of the study behind me and moving onto the room next door. Again, I turn the door knob and peep my head through the opening.

  “Good morning.”

  His greeting startles me and, without any warning, heat fires up my cheeks. I stumble into the kitchen, my fingers pulling down the hem of my shirt, my toes curling on the antique-looking tiles.

  “Good morning,” I finally answer back.

  He folds up his newspaper—Le Monde—, stands up and pulls out a chair from under the table. He gestures for me to sit down. I obey, making sure my legs are neatly crossed. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself to spare flashing my undies on top of everything else.

  “Tea with a dash of milk?” he asks.

  “Please.”

  He fills a kettle and lights the fire on the range cooker. The kitchen isn’t big, more a galley, with a door at the end of it which opens onto the balcony. It smells of cinnamon, garlic and herbs. Or maybe none of the above, but it definitely smells like a kitchen where some real cooking happens. Unlike the one in my mother’s home.

  He busies himself slicing a baguette and slides both halves in the toaster. He opens the fridge, which is filled with some yummy-looking goodies, takes out five jars and lays them in the center of the table.

  “Blueberry, strawberry, plum, orange and raspberry,” he lists. “And some Brittany butter.”

  “You’ve turned into a local.” I point at the folded French newspaper. “You put me to shame. I had no idea you were so fluent.”

  He relaxes against the back of his chair. His ripped jeans and grey sweater makes him look younger. He links his fingers behind his head and says, “I’m glad I still have the ability to surprise you.”

  Damn, Zachary Murdoch being cheeky? A clear departure from his signature intense brooding. Surprise steals whatever clever comeback I have but, thankfully, the pop of the toaster saves me. Zach puts the slices of baguette on a plate and butters them generously. “Which flavor would you like?” he finally asks, pointing at the jars.

  “Raspberry, please.”

  “My favorite too. Sorry for giving you the same thing as last night.” He covers the baguette with a generous layer of jam and places the plate in front of me. “Eat, but keep some space for lunch. It’s only in a couple of hours away.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “A little after ten.”

  It’s been a short sleep, but I feel rested. I bite into the baguette and savor how the butter mixes with the sweetness of the jam. I concentrate on chewing, not minding the silence—silence which is soon broken when Zach switches on the radio. The voice of a French journalist fills the air and I focus on his brief broadcast. My concentration quickly lapses.

  Zach doesn’t say anything as he fills a teapot with boiling water. Once I have finished with the slices of baguette, he fills a cup with the amber-colored liquid and adds some milk. I take one sip and let out a sigh. The warmth of the cup between my hands makes me realize that the rest of me is actually quite cold. I shiver. Without a word, Zach stands and closes the balcony door. On his way back to the table, he takes off his sweater—in that totally masculine way that has no regard for hairstyle—and wraps it around my shoulders, tying the sleeves around my neck. His knuckles brush the parcel of skin above the crease between my breasts. His touch and his scent—flowing from the soft wool of the sweater—warm me instantly. I want to say ‘thank you,’ but the way our gazes meet, just for a split second, steals the words.

  I go back to drinking my tea and he goes back to reading his newspaper. The journalist on the radio switches to discussing the latest round of peace talks in the Middle East. From the outside, the scene must look like a typical morning of domestic bliss. But it’s one where the truth hasn’t been spoken for five years.

  The news finish and is replaced by the sound of Edith Piaf’s husky voice. I wish I could be more like her. She sings about having no regrets, and regrets are something I have quite a few of. Things I should have done. Things I shouldn’t have.

  I shake my head—again—and drink the rest of my tea, savoring its smoky taste. Carefully, I lower the cup back onto the saucer. All the food and tea is finished. The sound from the radio has switched again, to a French pop singer I’ve never heard before. Zach is still engrossed in his reading, so my eyes scan around the kitchen. After a few broad glances I have noticed every single detail from the Provençal tiles to the stainless steel of the cooker and fridge.

  I start to drum my fingers on the table. I wedge my lower-lip under my front teeth and give it a series of tiny bites.

  “Relax.” Zach folds the newspaper. “It’s only breakfast.”

  It isn’t. Last night, I needed him, someone to keep me safe. This morning, all my faculties have returned and every extra minute spent in his home is a risk I can’t afford.

  “I should go now,” I say, almost under my breath.

  “You can go if you like, but there’s really no need.” Zach’s voice is soft. “I’ve taken the day off.” At that moment, the rain outside intensifies and starts pounding against the glass of the balcony door like marbles. The light that filters through mellows.

  “Listen, Zach,” I stand, then shuffle on my feet. “I really appreciate what you did for me last night… and for my mother, but I don’t think we should spend any more time together.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why… The whole ‘friend’ thing, I don’t think it can work.”

  “Why not?” he repeats.

  I have another bout of fidgeting. “It’d be awkward.”

  “I don’t feel awkward. Do you?”

  The man can do stubborn like nobody else I know. But I can do proud just as well.
“I don’t feel awkward either,” I state. “But how are we going to spend our time as friends? We have nothing in common anymore.”

  “We could start by making up for what we didn’t do the first time around.”

  Sex?

  “Like what?” I ask instead.

  “Watching Casablanca.” I feel my eyes spring wide open in surprise. “I cancelled our DVD-night, remember?”

  I do remember. I found him in a club instead, being tongue-raped by the infamous Megan Alistair.

  He stands slowly, but makes no attempt to move towards me. I’m grateful for the space he leaves between us. My height means I look down at most people, even men, but Zach is almost a head taller than me. However, right then, he tilts his face forward to level his eyes with mine.

  “I’ve become acquainted with Rick and Ilsa over the past years. They’ve become good friends of mine actually.”

  “Really?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Really. You’ll be glad to know I almost named Le Duke, Zach’s Café Americain.”

  I can’t help the twisting of my lips, as they threaten to look like a smile. “But you named it after me instead.”

  “Not quite. I named it after what I would have liked to be one day.”

  I take a raspy breath followed by a frenzied rush of emotion. What on earth does would-have-liked mean?

  No, no, no. I’m not going to analyze his use of tense. “You’re such a smooth talker.” His eyebrows grow closer together. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

  “I’ll reward you with a home-cooked lunch.”

  That promise almost makes me choke. “Since when do you cook?”

  Zach waves his hands as if I’ve wrongly accused him of mass murder. “Have some faith, Duchess. There are a few things you still don’t know about me.”

  “Things I have no desire to find out.”

  I don’t miss the shadow that falls across his face. He takes hold of my hand, his palm flat on mine, and my skin tingles. We’re holding hands like two children on the road to school and my stomach flutters. I swallow a growl of frustration at my own weakness, but let him lead me to the living room anyway.