“Tacoma,” Rigby corrects.
“What-ever.” Julia takes another drag from her cigarette, tips her head back, and blows a smoke ring in the air. She extinguishes her cigarette by flicking it into her teacup, grabs her purse, and stands. “I’m outta here. See ya, losers.”
We watch Julia walk away, her hips swiveling, the pointy heels of her stiletto booties stabbing the slate.
I only asked Julia’s advice to be inclusive. It’s not like I really expected her to step out of her tough, city-chick role and into the role of soft, caring big sister. Sagacity and empathy aren’t really her bag.
I turn to Gunthar, the stoic German, and ask him what he thinks about Gabriel’s vaguely worded answer.
“Does monogamy matter to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then vat does it matter vat I say?” Gunthar pops a piece of apple pastry into his mouth and swallows it without chewing. “Listen to your heart, Laney. You have good heart.”
“Thanks, Gunthar.”
He nods his blond head.
“I have an idea,” Rigby says. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“He gets home tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you meet him somewhere super casual, like that sandwich stand he took you to, and ask him if he believes in monogamy. Just be totally cool and matter of fact about it.”
“Ask him? To his face?”
“Yeah, why not?” Rigby shrugs.
“I don’t even know what I would say.”
“You practice with us, no?” Giorgio grins.
“Like, role-play?”
“That’s a great idea!” Rigby cries. “Giorgio can be Gabriel.”
“I am your love rat, Bella.” Giorgio pats his chest. “Ask me anything.”
“I don’t know—”
“Do it!” Gunthar commands.
“Yeah, do it,” Rigby says.
I puff my cheeks up like a chipmunk and exhale slowly, trying to think of the words to ask a flirty Italian pretending to be a flirty French man if he is monogamous.
“Giorgio, are you—”
“Giorgio?” he asks, looking around confused. “Who is this Giorgio? I am Gabriel.”
I sigh. “Fine. Gabriel.”
“Oui, ma fleur,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table and staring deep into my eyes. “What do you wish to ask me?”
“Are you—” Giorgio suddenly grabs my hands and brings it to his lips, kissing the fingertips one by one. I pull my hand away. “This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous, ma fleur? That I am making love to you with my eyes, my lips, my—”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”
I look at Rigby. She nods her head encouragingly.
“Gabriel,” I say, looking back at Giorgio, “are you interested in . . . I mean, do you think a man and a woman should—”
“Make love?”
“No!”
“No?”
“Yes.”
He winks. “Yes?”
I look into Giorgio’s chocolate-brown eyes, and my mind goes as blank as a chalkboard. I’ve got nothing. Nothing. If looking into Giorgio’s eyes wipes my slate clean, what is going to happen when I look into Gabriel’s eyes? I’ll go catatonic.
I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. Sensei says authenticity requires vulnerability and transparency. Be authentic. Be vulnerable. Be transparent. I open my eyes, take another deep breath, and tap into my deepest, most authentic stream of consciousness.
“Gabriel,” I say, my voice trembling, “we have only known each other for a month, but I am crazy about you, like, grab the hug-me jacket, one hundred percent certifiable crazy. Here’s the thing: I’m a virgin. I want to be with you, but not if you are a European love rat. I am one-man girl. So, how about it, will you be monogamous with me?”
Giorgio just stares at me, a horrified expression on his face.
“Absolument.”
My cheeks flush with a familiar flushy-crushy heat, and I know, without even turning around, that Gabriel is standing behind me. It was his deep, French-accented voice I heard, not Giorgio’s. This is not happening. This is not happening.
I look over at Rigby. Her expression confirms my fears. Her eyes are Rigby-wide, her mouth is hanging open, and she’s staring at a spot over my head.
A trickle of sweat beads and breaks, sliding between my breasts. I swivel in my seat.
Gabriel is standing behind me holding a big bouquet of daisies, a dangerous, sexy, dimple-punctuated smile on his handsome face, a battered duffle bag and heavy, silver camera case at his feet.
“Gabriel.” I stand up. “What are you doing here?”
He tosses the daisies on the table and pulls me into his arms, kissing me full on the mouth. He smells like the desert and heated flesh and exotic cologne. The world tilts, and I reach up, holding the lapels of his jacket so I don’t fall like some silly, flushing, swooning virgin. The stubble that normally shadows his jawline and upper lip is thicker, coarser, and it grazes my cheeks as we kiss, a deliciously, delightfully painful feeling that I know will linger long after we stop kissing.
Gabriel pulls away just far enough to look into my eyes. His face is brown from the sun, and his dark hair is streaked with auburn. “I came here from the airport because I wanted ask you a question, but now it seems as if I must first answer your question.”
“M . . . my question?”
“Yes, ma fleur.” A smile curves his lips. “I would very much like to be monogamous with you.”
I feel like Samantha in Sixteen Candles, when she walks out of the church after her sister’s wedding to find super-sexy Jake leaning against his shiny red Porsche. I want to look around and mouth, “Me?” because I can’t believe Scoville-scale-hot Gabriel wants me—dorky, dyslexic Laney. Gabriel is a shiny red Porsche and I am a Mini Cooper.
“What was your question?”
“I wanted to know if you would come home with me and let me hold you in my arms until the night fades to day.”
My cheeks flush again.
“Yes,” I whisper, “I will.”
He kisses me again, long and deep, his tongue moving in and out of my mouth with slow, purposeful sensuality, as if we are already alone in his apartment, not standing in a crowded outdoor café surrounded by my friends and picture-snapping tourists.
It’s the kind of kiss that lets me know we aren’t just going get in his Porsche, drive to his house, sit cross-legged on his dining room table, and eat birthday cake.
Chapter 24
Laney’s Life Playlist
“Right Now” by Akon
“Let’s Spend the Night Together” by The Rolling Stones
“Let’s Wait Awhile” by Janet Jackson
When I arrive on Gabriel’s block, the sky is the color of a bruised plum, and the streetlights are casting golden halos on the rain-slick pavement. His apartment is located in one of the old limestone buildings bordering Parc Monceau, a green space famous for its English garden and romantic architectural follies.
We agreed to grab a bite to eat first, so Gabriel is waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of his building, the collar of his coat flipped up, a scarf around his neck.
I stop walking and stand beneath a tree, admiring his exciting masculine aura and dark beauty. His hair is wet from the rain, and my fingers itch to push it off his forehead, to feel the silkiness of it against my skin. His cheeks are clean-shaven, but his upper lip and jawline are shadowed with light stubble.
Stubble that will soon graze your lips, cheeks, breasts . . .
Gabriel notices me, and a look of relief crosses his face. He closes the distance between us in three powerful, long-legged strides, pulling me into his arms in a warm, wet hug.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I whisper against his ear.
I conside
r making a joke that being ten minutes late is really more like being on time in Laneyland, but the feel of his hard, manly body against mine is sobering and makes my joke sound girlish and unsophisticated.
“Ça ne fait rien,” he whispers.
It doesn’t matter.
“It does matter,” I say, kissing his smooth cheek. “It’s not respectful to keep you waiting.”
“I am just glad you are here, ma fleur.”
He brushes his lips over mine before wrapping his arm around my waist and leading me down the street. I am hyper-aware of the weight of his arm against the small of my back, the warmth of his hand on my hip, the wetness of his kiss still on my lips. It’s doing things to me, stoking a heat inside of me that is building, building. I hear a low, throbbing, backbeat in my head like the refrain of a nasty R&B song, sex-sex-sex. It’s the kind of song that would play as a backtrack for a down-and-dirty sex scene in a movie—not a sweet romantic-comedy pairing in a charming bed-and-breakfast, but an urgent hookup with a mysterious stranger in a subway car or some other shadowy, slightly illicit place. I suddenly imagine Gabriel pushing me up against the wall in a dark Metro tunnel, hiking my skirt up, and . . .
Gabriel squeezes my hip.
“Are you hungry?”
My cheeks flame with guilty heat, and I wonder if I am emitting some kind of horny virgin vibe.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you hungry? I haven’t eaten since my layover in Zurich last night, and I’m starving.”
Food. He’s asking me if I am hungry for food, not his hot body. Chill out, Laney. He can’t hear your nasty backbeat or see your nasty fantasies.
“Yes, I’m hungry.”
A new wave of heat flushes my cheeks, and I pretend to study the crosswalk signal as we wait for the traffic to cross the street.
“Bon,” he says, pulling me to his side. “I know a great Italian place about five minutes from here, just off boulevard de Courcelles. We will grab something and go back to my place.”
Back to my place. My place. My place. His words play in my head, mixing with the R&B refrain, sex-sex-sex. When we finally arrive at the restaurant, I am more amped up than a Viking warrior getting ready to enter the battlefield. My veins are coursing with sexual adrenaline. I am excited, sweaty and . . . scared.
A waiter shows us to a table by the window, tells us the specials—white lasagna with spring vegetables, black truffle pasta, and linguine alle vongole—and asks if we would like to order anything from the wine menu. Fanny told me Parisian waiters liked to be asked recommendations, especially when it comes to wine, so I ask our waiter to recommend a full-bodied red. I don’t know a lot about wine, but I assume a full-bodied wine is a more potent wine, and right now I need something potent to help me chillax. My legs are trembling, and my stomach is tied into a quintillion knots.
“We have a delicious, bold Touriga Nacional from Portugal with deep fresh blueberry and violet notes that pairs nicely with our savory mushroom pasta,” he says. “Would you like a glass or a bottle?”
I consider asking for une bouteille, but Gabriel is already staring at me quizzically and I have never managed to consume more than a glass of wine. I am what Fanny calls a lightweight.
“A glass will be fine,” I say, smiling. “Merci.”
When the waiter leaves, Gabriel leans forward, looks into my eyes, grabs my hand, and whispers, “Are you okay, ma fleur? You are acting strangely.”
“Am I?” My voice is unnaturally high and cracks, like a preteen boy. “Really?”
Gabriel nods.
I shrug. “I’m probably just . . . hungry.”
The image of Gabriel lifting my skirt while pushing me against a tunnel wall flashes in my mind again, and I look out the window until the heat fades from my cheeks. My nerves are causing me to act like a totally awkward turtle. I’m, like, kind of embarrassed for myself. I wonder what Vivia would think if she could teleport herself into this sad little scene?
Ever since she found out about my virginity, Vivia has become my dating dealer, dispensing unsolicited, unfiltered advice. She calls her texts Straight Dating Dope from a Love Addict. Truthfully? Her advice is funny, honest, helpful, and as addictive as Malted Moose Balls, this crazy-yummy candy I got hooked on when I lived in Sitka. She sent me a text this morning. “Get him talking about himself. People love attention, and they love to talk about themselves, especially male people. If that doesn’t work, pull out your phone and send him a naughty little sext that says something like, ‘I know I am being super quiet, but that’s only because I am doing super loud, naughty things to you in my head. Do you want to keep sitting here being quiet or go somewhere and get loud?’”
I laugh. Vivia is too much, way, way too much. The whole unapologetically bold and sexy vibe works with her, but . . . I laugh again.
“Laney?”
“Gabriel?”
Great. If my awkward turtle thing didn’t totally turn him off, my catatonic cackler thing will definitely give him the heebie-jeebies. He frowns, and I realize how crazy I must look staring out the window and laughing to myself.
“Are you sure you are all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I was just thinking about something a friend said that made me laugh.”
The waiter arrives with our wine, takes our dinner orders, and hurries back to the kitchen. I grab my glass of wine and hold it toward Gabriel.
“A ta santé, Gabriel!”
“Santé,” Gabriel gazes into my eyes and gently clinks his glass to mine. “May your life always be as sweet as your wine.”
Gabriel takes a sip of his wine. I drain my glass in one long swallow, lick the berry residue off my lips, and place my empty back on the table.
“Mmm,” I say, licking my lips again, “that was tasty good.”
Gabriel chuckles. “Would you like another glass?”
“Yes, please.” I sit back and enjoy the relaxing warmth of the wine spreading through my body. “I would like that very much.”
Gabriel nods his head at the waiter, and another glass of my full-bodied, limb-relaxing red appears on the table in front of me. I ask Gabriel to tell me about his trip, and the rest of the meal passes as smoothly as berry-flavored wine over the tongue. I feel chilled.
I am wrapped in a warm, hazy cocoon as I listen to Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot-Hot-Hot tell me about the shots he got in Damascus, his next assignment, and his plan to travel to the south of France later in the summer for a family gathering. Vivia is a genius. All I need to do is drink wine and keep Gabriel talking about himself.
I am about to order another glass of wine when Gabriel reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of euros, and tosses the bills on the table. He stands and slips his coat on.
“Shall we?” He walks around the table until he is standing behind me, bends down, kisses my neck, and whispers in my ear. “I have waited thirty days and eight hours to be alone with you, ma fleur. I am done waiting.”
And just like that, my warm, berry-wine cocoon unravels. My nerves return in a roiling wave of nauseous. It takes all of my energy and focus to keep from tossing my mushroom pasta all over Gabriel’s expensive leather boots.
We walk out of the restaurant hand in hand and stroll back to the brightly lit boulevard de Courcelles. I try to think of questions to get Gabriel talking again, but my tongue feels heavy in my mouth and tastes as bitter as the bile cresting and crashing against the walls of my tummy.
We are walking through the park, dark except for stepping-stones of light shining on the path from the street lamps, when Gabriel stops walking. He puts his hands on my waist and turns me to face him.
“There is something I need to say to you before we go into my apartment,” he says, focusing his intense gaze on my face. “I heard you this morning when you said you were a virgin. I believe that is why you have been acting so strangely tonight, because you are frightened of what will happen when we are alone tonight. Am I right?”
“Yes,�
�� I whisper, my cheeks flushing.
“Relax, ma fleur.” He kisses my lips softly, sweetly. “I have no expectations for tonight except to hold you in my arms, to talk to you until we fall asleep. I will not ask for anything that you do not wish to give. You have waited twenty-five years to give your virginity to someone—if I am lucky enough to be that man, I will receive it when you are ready, not when you are so nervous you have to drink wine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t mind waiting?”
He lifts his hand from my hip and presses it against my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb.
“Do you remember what I texted you when you said you were going to be late the night we were to meet at La Belle Hortense?”
I shake my head.
“I said, ‘Don’t worry. I will always wait for you.’” He lifts his other hand and cradles my face. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I will wait for you because I know you are worth the wait, ma fleur.”
“How? How can you know? We haven’t known each other that long, Gabriel. I could be one of those crazy American girls who comes to Paris to take a selfie at the Eiffel Tower and harmlessly flirt with a cute French boy. Aren’t you afraid I am just teasing you? That you, my French boy, are just my cute diversion?”
Gabriel drops his hands from my face, looks up at the dark sky, and laughs.
“Ma fleur innocente,” he says, chuckling. “It is true that in Paris American girls have a reputation, but it is not for being harmless flirts.”
“Really? Tell me.”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. Give it to me straight, Gabriel.”
He runs his hand through his hair and exhales.
“Parisian men think American girls are . . .”
“Oui?”
“Some Parisian men think American girls are des filles faciles.”
I frown as I try to translate his French words into English. Easy girls.
“Sluts? Parisian men think American girls are sluts?”
Gabriel’s cheeks flush red.
“You must understand. Parisian women are . . . sérieux.” He looks down at his feet, making an arc on the path with the toe of his boot. “Pay attention, ma fleur, the next time you are in a restaurant, bar, or club. French women do not smile. They do not approach strangers. They do not flirt. They do not drink to excess. Many American girls laugh out loud, talk to strangers, and draw attention to themselves in the way they dress, dance, walk, and smile.”
Owning It Page 17