Gabriel turns around.
“Laney!” Is it my imagination, or was his tone a little harsh, his expression a little angry? “You remember Giselle?”
“Yes,” I say, slipping my feet into my shoes and grabbing my coat and purse. “It’s nice to see you again, Giselle.”
A total lie, but even willowy, reptilian French female creatures bearing pastries for two deserve social niceties. It’s good karma to be friendly, especially when your inner snotty girl is screaming at you to stick your tongue out and say something super-snotty.
“I’m sorry, but have we met?” Giselle asks, all innocent tone and eyes.
“This is Laney,” Gabriel says. “I introduced you to her last month at La Belle Hortense. She is my . . .”
He stops talking and looks at me. There’s a question written all over his face, but I can’t decipher it. Great! Is he asking me to explain who I am to him—the girl who works in his family’s gallery, a flirty little American girl trying to sink her talons into a French boy? Is he asking me why I haven’t left yet? Is he asking me to play it cool and not let on that we spent the night together?
Fffftttth. Thud.
Another arrow impales my heart, and I gasp with pain. It is excruciatingly obvious that Giselle was right; they are more than friends, so much more, mon cher.
“I have to go,” I say, maneuvering around Gabriel. “Good-bye, Gabriel.”
“Laney, wait . . .”
I brush past Giselle and run down the stairs, taking them two at a time. It’s a total virgin move. An experienced woman, a badass, confident woman wouldn’t run away. She wouldn’t surrender her claim on her man to some willowy, lisping, pastry-toting woman with a serious case of anorexia. She would have stood her ground and engaged in a fierce, silent battle of wills until the other woman retreated.
But I am not a Giselle or a Vivia or a Fanny, so I keep running—down the stairs, out of the building, down the street, onto a bus—until I am slumped on a hard plastic seat, head against the cold window, tears streaming down my face.
By the time I make it to the gallery, I am a sniveling, mascara-streaked mess. My fears about Gabriel—that he is a major player—have returned with a vengeance and are devouring my confidence.
Rigby takes one look at me and pulls me into my room, closing the door behind us.
“What happened?”
I fall onto my bed, press my balled-up hands against my closed eyes, and sniffle out the whole humiliating tale.
“You shouldn’t have left before giving Gabriel a chance to explain. He might have had a perfectly logical explanation.”
“His horrified expression said it all, believe me.”
“I don’t know, Lane. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him, to hear what he has to say?
“No,” I sniff.
“Oh-kay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay what, what?”
“You might have only said okay, but your meta text said you don’t think it is okay.”
“It’s just”—she sits on the edge of my bed and pries my fists from my eyes, forcing me to look at her—“a player wouldn’t have said he was happy to wait until you were ready. He wouldn’t have respected your virginity. He would have pushed and pressured and massaged and manipulated. Then, when he was finished nailing you, he would have shown you to the door and said, ‘Next!’”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying, my sweet, naïve friend,” she says, brushing a tear-damp tendril from my cheek, “that you acted like an over-emotional virgin. You let your fears grab you by your skater skirt and yank you away from a situation that felt scary and overwhelming.”
She’s right, of course. Maybe I used Giselle’s appearance as a convenient excuse to end something that felt too grown-up and steady. I don’t do steady. I do flighty, unfocused, and unfettered. I am beginning to think holding onto my virginity was a way to push guys away and keep myself from going steady, from being steady. Whoa! That’s heavy. Like, way, way too heavy so early in the morning.
“You’re right.” I take a deep breath and exhale a shuddering breath. “What am I going to do now?”
She stands up, walks over to my sink, turns the water on, and sticks a washcloth under the stream. “You are going to wash your face and go to work, that’s what you are going to do right now. This afternoon, you will meditate on the situation, and the right words will come to you. Then, you will go to Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot, and you will tell him what’s in your heart.”
She hands me the washcloth and walks to the door.
“Rigby?”
She looks over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“No worries,” she says, grinning. “That’s what a PBFF is for, right?”
“Right.”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “I almost forgot. You got a package.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” She chuckles. “Unless you think there might be another Laney ‘Dude’ Brooks in Paris?”
“Theo!” I jump up. “It must be from Theo. He’s the only one who calls me Laney Dude. Where is it?”
“It’s downstairs in the warehouse because it was too big to carry up the stairs.”
I frown. “Serious?”
“As serious as a Frenchman promising to wait to take your virginity.”
“Ouch.”
“Too soon?”
I laugh. “Maybe just a little.”
Chapter 26
Laney’s Life Playlist
“The Way I Am” by Ingrid Michaelson
“Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies (Daniela Andrade cover)
“Count on Me” by Bruno Mars
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
You are beyond. I got your package today, and the timing couldn’t have been better. I love, love, like, crazy love the bike. The black-and-white striped seat, the red basket, the red spokes, the blingy bell. It is très chic. Thank you, Theo.
TEXT FROM THEO WILDE:
You’re welcome. What’s wrong?
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
What do you mean?
TEXT FROM THEO WILDE:
My Wonder Twins telepathic link is alerting me about a potentially dire situation. That, and you said my gift came at a good time, like you were bummed and needed a gift or something. Let’s hear it, Jayna. Are you homesick? Hating Paris? Wishing you were driving with me in the Bananarama to get FroYo?
I haven’t been homesick until now. Theo’s text makes my eyes fill with tears and a big old phlegmy lump form in my throat. I miss my best friend and the easy comradery we have always shared. If only all of my relationships could be as easy and straightforward as my friendship with Theo.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
I met a boy.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Ew. I get it. Boys are gross.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Ha. Ha.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
So, you met a boy. BFD. What’s the prob?
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
I like him.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
How much?
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Like, a lot. Like, I am thinking of *gulp* sleeping with him.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Duuuuuude. This is huge.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
IKR? Dorky Dookie Brooks has a man.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Shut up. You’re not dorky. You’ve never been dorky Dookie Brooks. You’ve always been amazing, intuitive, compassionate Delaney Lavender Brooks. You have to believe that, Lane. YOU. You have to own it.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
Okay, so what if I sleep with him and he breaks my heart? What if we date for years and he asks me to marry him and then one day he wakes up and says, “When did you turn into such a hipster geek?” What if my parents don’t like him?
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
What if you don’t trust him? What if you don�
�t sleep with him? What if you end something awesome before it has even had a chance to begin?
Theo is right. A net of fear has fallen over me and is keeping me from swimming freely in the sea of love, from finding my own special Nemo. Maybe sometimes you just have to venture forth and risk getting hopelessly lost.
TEXT TO THEO WILDE:
I am going to pretend like you didn’t even ask that last question because I refuse to believe my Wonder Twin still can’t break her ’rents’ mind control. You have the ability, Jayna, so break the influence.
Chapter 27
Laney’s Life Playlist
“A Love Like War” by All Time Low
“Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie
“Creep” by Radiohead
“This painting is titled Illumination, and it is by a brilliant, revolutionary artist named Nancy B. Randt. For this piece, she used pages from ancient texts to form the background, then added layers of acrylic paint, more text, and gold leaf. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”
The Japanese businessman nods his head. Mister Takazaki handed me his glossy black business card when he entered the gallery. The embossed letters spelled out HIROSHI TAKAZAKI, COLLECTOR OF ART. That was it. No e-mail address or telephone digits. He told me he visits Paris several times per year to acquire pieces for his collection. His aura hints at brilliance, imagination, discipline, and social awkwardness, so I am guessing he is probably some brainiac who earned his bazillions in the tech industry. Tokyo’s version of Bill Gates, maybe.
“This painting intrigues me. I would like to know more, Mademoiselle Brooks.”
I am about to tell him about the artist when the door opens and Gabriel strides into the gallery. My heart pulls a quick loop-de-loop.
“Mademoiselle Brooks?” Mister Takazaki frowns. “Are you unwell? The color has left your cheeks.”
I stand there like a wide-mouthed carp, my lips opening and closing, my eyes round and unblinking. Gabriel stands to the left of the door, his muscular arms crossed over his chest and a blank expression on his handsome face. I close my mouth and fix my wide-eyed gaze on Mister Takazaki.
“Although the artist refuses to explain the meaning behind any of her pieces, I believe the she was influenced by Dadaism,” I say, forcing myself to blink.
“Dadaism?”
“Yes.” I turn my back on Gabriel and focus on the painting. “Notice the rough, textural application of the acrylics combined with the simple text and the carefully placed rich gold leaf? It suggests a kind of artistic anarchy, doesn’t it?”
Mister Takazaki tilts his head, his obsidian eyes narrowing as he focuses solely on the artwork. He studies the image for several minutes before finally smiling and nodding his head.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Brooks,” he says. “I see it. How astute, very astute indeed.”
“The central figure is Saint Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers. See how the text and gold leaf seem to swirl around him, as if he is in the center of a gathering storm?” I wait for Mister Takazaki to nod his head before continuing with my hypothesis. “I believe Ms. Randt is making a statement about the duality of words, their divine and destructive nature.”
“I will take it.”
And like that, I make my first sale at the gallery. Mister Takazaki fills out the paperwork necessary for the sale and shipment of an expensive piece of artwork, thanks me kindly for my assistance, and departs with a nod of his head to Julia, who has been standing behind the desk scowling ever since Mister Takazaki entered the gallery and approached me.
Gabriel closes the distance between us in two strides. He offers Julia a perfunctory greeting and focuses his gaze on me.
“Laney,” he says, “we need to talk.”
“I know.” I move out from behind the desk. “Wanna go to the park? We can find an empty bench and pop a squat.”
“You can’t go,” Julia snaps.
“I won’t be gone long, I promise.”
“I know you won’t, because you’re not going. Your shift isn’t over for another fifteen minutes.”
Gabriel ignores Julia, puts his hand on the small of my back, and leads me out the door. I look over my shoulder at Julia, who pretends to flick something off her sleeve and mouths, “See ya, Flake.”
Flake. Julia said I am as flaky as a croissant because I was late for my shift this morning. She said I am not focused enough on my art, which is bogus. But what-ev. I forgive her because I believe, deep down, beneath the crackly crust, Julia is an ooey-gooey toasted marshmallow.
Gabriel leads me to an empty bench beneath the clipped branches of a lime tree. Several people are sprawled out on the grass squares, their shoes off, shirtsleeves rolled up, hoping to catch some midday rays before they return to their shops and offices nearby.
“What happened this morning? Why did you run away?”
“I was going to be late for my shift at the gallery. Besides, you were busy with your”—I pause and take a breath so I don’t sound like a sulky toddler—“Giselle.”
“She is not my Giselle,” he asserts. “She was my Giselle, once, but that ended last year.”
“So, she’s your ex-girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know she is your ex?”
“But of course.” He frowns at me. “Do you think I would ask you out on a date, send you flowers and texts, and invite you to stay the night if I were still involved with Giselle?”
I replay the morning’s events in my head and hear the urgent, persistent ring of the buzzer and Giselle referring to Gabriel as her dear.
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “She certainly acted like she had some kind of proprietary claim on you.”
“Judge me by my actions, not Giselle’s.” He stands up and squats down in front of me so we are facing each other. “You said you read auras. Have you read mine? Do my emanations tell you that I am a liar and a cheat?”
When I first read Gabriel’s aura, I likened it to Van Gogh’s Starry Night because it was swirling with mysterious colors. Now I realize it was also because he has a lot of devoted, loyal blue and joyful, loving yellow.
“You have a beautiful aura, Gabriel. It is not the aura of a liar or a cheat.” I smile sadly. “Even so, I don’t think this is going to work. We aren’t going to work.”
“We are working.”
“Now, but you can’t fight fate.”
He frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means the fates are against us.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Because you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“What?” He leans forward, looking deep into my eyes. “I’m what, Laney?”
“You’re French!”
“What does that mean?” he asks, softly.
Tears flood my eyes. “It means you’re handsome, charming, sophisticated, worldly, sexy and . . . and . . .”
“And what?”
“You’re, like, everything. Everything I am not. You belong with someone who is as sophisticated and beautiful as you are, someone like Giselle.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say, ma fleur.”
“Why? She is beautiful and chic.”
“It’s true. Giselle is physically beautiful, but she’s also faithless, heartless, manipulative, and dishonest.”
“Wow.” I sniff. “Harsh.”
“Not harsh, mademoiselle, accurate.” He sits back on the bench and runs his hand through his hair. “Harsh is cheating on your boyfriend with his brother.”
“Wait. What?” I turn to look at Gabriel. “Giselle cheated on you with your brother? Alexandre?”
He nods his head.
“When? Why?”
Gabriel shrugs. “Giselle is a vain flirt who . . .”
“Who?” I prompt.
“In French, we say dormir sur ses deux oreilles.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“The literal translation is sleeping on one’s two ears, but in this case it
means Giselle is someone who does things with little fear of getting caught.”
Wow. Wow. I mean, wow! I can’t even, right now. Monsieur Alexandre’s aura has a lot of competitive brown, like Brueghel’s The Land of Cockaigne, but I assumed he channeled that into his career as curator for one of the world’s most prestigious galleries, not against his brother. Poor Gabriel!
I hold his hand. “I am sorry, Gabriel. That must have hurt.”
“It did.”
“Did you love Giselle?”
“Mon dieu, non.” He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes gently. “I loved my brother, not Giselle.”
“You haven’t forgiven him, have you?”
“Not yet, no.” He exhales, and the hair partially hanging over his right eye lifts. “I am trying, but it doesn’t help that he never apologized. It would be easier, I think, if he showed some remorse for betraying his only brother.”
“You don’t forgive someone to release them from a net of guilt or remorse.” I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb. “You forgive them because it releases you from a net of bitterness and pain.”
“You are wise, ma fleur.”
“Me?” I chuckle. “Nah! I am just repeating something Sensei Roshi once said to me.”
“Who is Sensei Roshi?” he asks.
“He is a cosmically enlightened Zen master who teaches at the Welcome Ohm Wellness Center in Boulder. My mom signed me up for his Observe the Breath class when I was in fourth grade because she thought it might help with my reading disability.” I give a whatev shrug and roll my eyes. “It didn’t magically transform me into a fluent reader, but it gave me some insight. Sensei is, like, it. I don’t think I would have survived life without his lessons.”
“Then I am glad he was in your life.”
Owning It Page 19