Silk

by Heidi McLaughlin

  ***

  The next morning, I wake up, bandaged and with my arm back inside my shirt. I’m not certain how either of this happened, and I’m not asking.

  We take the train to get near Bouillon in the Ardennes. At the train station, Adam rents a car to drive us the rest of the way. We take a long, winding two-lane road most of the way. It’s mainly farmland with wide expanses of green dotted with cows and clusters of modern-looking windmills.

  Adam is quiet. It’s not that he talks a lot in general, but the silence feels strange. We’ve been together for five days now. I thought it would be easier by now.

  We’re staying in the summer cottage belonging to the parents of one of Adam’s photographer friends. The driveway is hidden from the main road. We pass it twice before we find it. It’s small but quaint. The cottage has been visited off and on all summer, so there’s at least enough food to throw lunch together. Adam makes caprese salad that we eat with bread.

  After lunch, we head into town. We visit the Castle Bouillon. It sits high on a hill with the Semois River curving around it. Adam is still inside taking pictures when I walk outside. From the entrance to the right, there’s a path I take.

  This is where I meet Godfrey of Bouillon or his statue. He’s an opposing figure, carrying his signals. Not far from him is a shade tree.

  I know, looking around, that this is where Ally would want to be. I sit next to the tree, like I did in London, only there is no mulch around this tree. I push some dirt aside, near the base of the tree. I look around quickly for Adam or anyone else. I’m not sure if scattering ashes is allowed here, so I empty the container quickly and slip it back in my purse.

  I smooth dirt over her ashes and close my eyes. When I open them, I see Adam walking toward me. I stand, brushing the dirt off my hands.

  “Want to go to a Belgian wedding?” He’s tilting his head to a group of people waving at me from behind him.

  I laugh, giving them a half wave. “Whose wedding?”

  He points out an older gentleman. “That’s the father of the groom.”

  I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. “We aren’t dressed for a wedding.”

  He shrugs. “Did you pack a dress? We can run back and change.”

  I shake my head as I agree, and then I follow Adam up the hill. I assume he’s finding out where and when we need to meet them as I stand awkwardly next to him.

  I’ve heard him speak French since we’ve been here but only one-off sentences, not full-on conversations. Another thing I did not know about Adam, he’s clearly fluent in French. I blink when I realize he’s staring at me.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod, and we make our way back to the car. He pulls into the driveway on the first try.

  Since we have almost no time to get ready, I skip taking another shower and change into a simple boatneck-style print dress. It’s still overcast. I frown while slipping on my sandals, knowing my feet will be cold, but they’re the only shoes I packed that match the dress.

  Adam is telling me to hurry as I do my hair and makeup as fast as I can. If I had more time, I’d curl my hair, but instead, I sweep it to the side with a simple silver clip. Adam knocks on my door as I dig in my backpack for my black scarf, thinking I can use it as a wrap.

  “Come in.”

  I hear the door creak open.

  “We need to get…” He pauses. “That dress is short.”

  I glance back at him. He knows how to wear a suit.

  I cringe, turning around. “Is it too short?”

  I have a hard time buying dresses because I have a long torso. This dress hits only a couple of inches above my knee. I tug at the hem in an effort to lengthen it while I wait for him to answer. His eyes start at my feet before drifting slowly up my body. When they finally rest on my face, I gulp.

  He scratches the back of his head. “I guess it’s okay,” he says before turning and walking out of my room. “Let’s go,” he says from the hallway.

  “Just okay,” I grumble, turning back to finish looking for my wrap.

  Once I have it, I put some euros and my passport into my clutch, and I hurry after Adam. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door. When he sees me, he straightens and opens the front door for me. I slip past him, forcing myself not to linger and breathe in his cologne.

  It’s a short drive to the government center. In the car, Adam explains that in Belgium, you have to be legally married before the church ceremony.

  When we get there, I feel self-conscious. I know we were invited, but it still feels like we’re crashing.

  The legal ceremony is standing-room only. A woman with a sash, not unlike Miss America, says a whole bunch of stuff I don’t understand before having the bride and groom sign something. After that, everyone claps, and we all walk a block to the church.

  The ceremony seems similar to weddings I’ve been to in the States. There’s a bit of a laugh when a young boy who’s part of the wedding party steps on the bride’s veil. Her head jerks back, and I’m amazed the veil doesn’t rip.

  From the church, we follow them to a chateau for the dinner and reception. It’s a beautiful stone building with dark wood floors and a large courtyard. I’m happy to stay inside where it’s warm, but the sun comes out.

  “Come, come. Il faut qu’on aille au jardin,” the father of the bride says, pulling us toward the courtyard.

  “Why are we going outside? It’s cold,” I ask Adam.

  “You must taste the Belgian sun,” the father of the bride answers for Adam.

  Adam raises his eyebrows and puts his elbow out for me to take. “Can’t not taste the Belgian sun, Aubrey.”

  I’m from California. It’s less of a big deal to me when the sun comes out. Even though it’s much more comfortable inside, everyone is outside, enjoying the sunshine—except for me. I’m freezing my ass off.

  When my teeth start to chatter, Adam decides we’ve tasted enough sun, and he takes me back inside. He stays with me, but I can tell by the way he absentmindedly strokes his camera that he’d rather be outside, taking pictures.

  “Go.”

  His eyes snap to mine.

  I give him a halfhearted push toward the door. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get a drink. How do I order a beer?”

  “I’ll get you one first.” He turns to the bar.

  “Adam, I can get my own beer. Now, go outside and eat some sun.”

  He almost smiles.

  I make my way to the bar and manage to order my own drink. I wander around the main floor. There’s a large dining room with an area for dancing by the DJ.

  I’m looking for the restroom when people start filing back inside. I’ve just found it when I catch a glimpse of Adam.

  I can’t figure him out. Back in New York, those things he said about me, when he thought I couldn’t hear him. He seemed like a jerk. Then, in London, he was so bossy. After he spoke with my dad, he seemed to relax, but I can tell he wants to hover.

  As random last-minute guests, our table is far from the wedding party. It turns out two guests fell ill and were unable to make it. That’s the only reason we’re here.

  The meal is served in multiple courses—the first being soup followed by a salad and a salmon plate. Great. I eat the salad, except for the chunks of blue cheese. Adam watches me eat, but thankfully, he doesn’t say a word. The next course is a filet mignon with potatoes and asparagus. The filet is melt-on-your-tongue good.

  During the meal, toasts are made from the attendants and then the parents of the bride and groom. It’s all in French, so Adam leans into me, his hushed breath on my ear, as he translates for me. I shiver and pick at my nail polish, hoping he doesn’t notice.

  A sorbet is served next to cleanse our palates before the cake. Before the cake is served, the DJ changes the ambient background music to dance music. The tables empty as guests get up to dance.

  Is Adam going to ask me to dance with him? Before he can, a tall dark-haired young man with an impish grin
does. I start to shake my head, but that doesn’t seem to be an acceptable response. The man grasps my hand and pulls me to the dance floor anyway. I shoot a panicked look to Adam, who just shrugs.

  At least the music is familiar, all American Top 40 hits. I haven’t been dancing in forever. I’m awkward, especially in the arms of a man whom I can’t understand. When the song ends, I go to make my escape, only to end up in the grasp of another man.

  He’s not as tall as the man I danced with before, and he speaks broken English. His name is Cedric. To speak over the music, he brings his face really close to mine. I give him a confused look when he asks if I can rap.

  “Like sing?” I ask.

  He bobs his head up and down, smiling widely.

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t rap.”

  He looks so disappointed that I almost feel bad.

  Then, he asks if Adam is my boyfriend. I glance back to where Adam is sitting. A stunning brunette woman is now occupying my seat. Adam’s eyes flash to mine before I quickly turn my head back to Cedric.

  “No, he isn’t.”

  When the song ends, I start to leave the dance floor in search of water when an arm circles my waist. I start to turn to decline whoever it is, and I freeze when I see it’s Adam. I should have known. A moment’s reflection is all it takes to recognize his scent around me. My eyes flick to his hand. His palm is flat against my stomach with my back to his chest.

  He lifts one of my hands and wraps it around his neck, pulling me closer to him. I lean back on him, my hips matching the sway of his. His breath is hot on my neck as his other hand drifts down my side to grip my hip. Instinctively, my fingers thread their way into his hair and tug.

  “Careful,” he growls in my ear.

  I ignore him and rest my head on his shoulder as his hips grind against me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been this turned-on. There is something about him, even when I feel like kicking him, that pulls me to him.

  The song ends before I’m ready for it to. I start to pull away, more for the sake of pride than anything else. His grip briefly tightens around my waist before he lets me go.

  “I need water,” I explain, turning to face him, my fingers gesturing toward my throat in case he couldn’t hear me over the music.

  He nods and walks with me, his hand scorching me through the thin material of my dress as he rests it on the small of my back. He orders for me and gets a beer for himself. Then, he laughs when I drain my water and ask for another.

  “We leave tomorrow. You haven’t had a Belgian beer yet.”

  I shake my head. “I had one earlier when I got cold and came inside.”

  “So?” He tilts his head.

  I shrug. “It was good. I’m just more of a water girl. I haven’t been dancing in…” I trail off.

  “Come on, you’re young. I bet you’re out partying every weekend.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t seem like he’ll believe me either way.

  We find the bride and groom to congratulate them, and then we thank the bride’s father for inviting us before we leave. We could have stayed longer, but the plan is to drive to Paris in the morning.

  I’ve just changed out of my dress when Adam knocks on my door.

  “Yes?” I ask, opening the door.

  He holds up a bar of chocolate with an elephant on a red wrapper. “Belgian chocolate time.”

  I follow him out to the living room and sit next to him on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. He breaks a piece off for each of us and passes one to me.

  “Côte-d’Or,” I say out loud, reading it off of the piece.

  “My favorite,” he replies solemnly.

  “There’s an elephant on it.” I look back at him. “How is that Belgian?”

  He slowly chews his piece before answering me. “I think the cocoa comes from Africa.”

  I take a bite and let it melt on my tongue. My eyes close, and my head falls back as the most perfect piece of chocolate crashes my senses like a tidal wave. It’s smooth and rich without being overly sweet.

  “You look like you might need a private moment,” Adam jokes.

  I stare at the piece still in my hand and look back at him. “This is the best piece of chocolate I’ve ever had.”

  He almost smiles before popping another piece into his mouth.

  Chapter 13

  I sleep most of the way to Paris. I awake to Adam shaking my shoulder. I blink my eyes open and glance around. We’re in a parking garage. When I don’t immediately move to get out of the car, Adam shakes my shoulder again.

  “Mmmkay,” I grumble, getting out.

  “It’s Paris. Aren’t you excited?”

  I raise one arm above my head and stretch. “There’s only so much excitement I can muster within five minutes of waking up.”

  He opens the trunk and pulls out his camera case. “Should we go to a café first?”

  I have always wanted to sit at a sidewalk café in Paris with a coffee and some french bread. I grin as I nod, already feeling more awake.

  As we walk out of the underground parking lot, my jaw drops. In front of us is the Arc de Triomphe. I can see people standing around and underneath it, but it’s in the center of a busy roundabout.

  “How do we get over there?” I ask, eyeing the traffic.

  He laughs and points to what looks like an underground subway entrance. “No need to run across the street. There’s a tunnel.”

  “What’s that line for?” I ask, looking at the swell of people queued up for something.

  “To stand on top.”

  My mouth drops. “No way! I didn’t know you could do that.”

  Our flight to Africa leaves in the morning. We decided ahead of time that we would skip some things if the lines were long.

  I pout and look back at the line. I didn’t know you could stand on top of the Arc de Triomphe.

  When we exit the tunnel, we are right under it. From up close, the stonework is amazing.

  “What are all the names for?” I ask, tilting my head and shading my eyes from the sun.

  “To commemorate those who fought in a battle.”

  I’m not hip on French history. “Which one?”

  He pauses his camera raised just halfway to his face before he shrugs. “Not sure.”

  I laugh and follow him as he takes shot after shot. I pull out my phone and take a couple for myself.

  “Did you want to go up top?”

  I shake my head. “The line is too long. Since we parked near here, can we check it out again before we head to the hotel?”

  “Sure.”

  We go back into the tunnel and take the underground pathway to the other side of the street, away from where we came, and we sit down at a sidewalk café.

  “Once the food is out, will you take my picture?”

  Adam nods as he glances at the menu. The tables are tiny and set stadium-style, facing the sidewalk. After he reads the menu to me, I tell him what I’d like, and he orders.

  Once our food comes, he has to push our table forward and slide past me to take my picture. I feel very Parisian once I put my sunglasses on and sip my coffee for the picture.

  As appealing as it would be, we don’t linger. There are too many things to see. We have tickets for a double-decker red tour bus that we can hop on and off of at each of its stops. When we’re ready to go to the next stop, we just board any available bus in its fleet.

  When we board, we’re given earbuds, so we can listen to an audio tour between each stop. Adam smirks at me when I offer to plug his in. Our first stop is the Paris Opera house. As pretty as it is, we decide to stay on the bus until the Eiffel Tower.

  “What? Too good for the audio tour?” I tease.

  He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Not my first go-around on the big red bus.”

  Part of me feels bad that he’s stuck with me, going to places he’s already seen. I know he’s excited about Africa. He’s never been to Victoria Falls or on a safari.

  We
exit the bus at the Eiffel Tower. The line is awful, but this is one thing I am willing to wait for. There are gardens across the street that Adam explores while I hold our place in line. He isn’t gone long and seems happy with some of the pictures he was able to take of people sunbathing and strolling through the greenery. He clicks through them, holding his camera up, so I can see a few.

  We buy tickets and take the stairs to the first level. At first, I argue that I want to take the lift, but Adam has done it before, and once I see the line difference, it makes sense.

  Standing there, holding on to the railing of the Eiffel Tower, is surreal, like something out of a movie. I glance back at Adam. He’s taking a picture of the bottom of the lift as it moves upward toward the next level. I’ve noticed he likes taking pictures of things more than people.

  He focuses his lens on the intersection of two pieces of metal. Behind him, I can see a couple kissing. I turn to look around and see two more couples embracing. I’m in the most romantic city in the world with a gorgeous man who doesn’t seem interested in me at all.

  I turn my back to him and walk away. I try to picture Ally here. Would she have taken her trip alone or gone with a boyfriend? I remember her always having a date for family barbeques. Would she be here right now, being kissed, if she had gotten better?

  I jump when someone taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to see a handsome blond man with his arm around a petite brunette woman.

  He holds his camera out toward me in the universally translatable gesture of, Will you take our picture?

  They don’t speak English. If I had to guess, I think they’re speaking Russian. I have them lined up in the viewfinder when the camera is plucked out of my hands.

  “Hey!”

  Adam shrugs and takes a few pictures of them from different angles rather than my boring straight-on stance. I’m annoyed. It was rude of him to just take the camera from me. As Adam returns the camera to the blond man, the look of sympathy in my direction from the petite woman embarrasses me.

  Adam picks up on my mood change. “What’s wrong?”

  I lie, “I’m just ready to go to the next place.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod, looking everywhere but in his eyes.