Watch Me Fall

by Nora Flite

  If I left now... was I abandoning him? Wasn't that selfish of me?

  Mom is gone, but the plan and the promise are still in effect.

  Go to Paris, experience what she had and become the sort of dancer—the sort of person—that she was.

  My dad would have no one there with him. I despised that. I loved him, loved both of them. But I have to respect my own dreams. I didn't know how else to reach them. This was the path my mother took. Wasn't it the path for me as well?

  I caught his lips moving. There was a moment, a second, where I knew he was about to tell me I didn't have to leave. I could feel it, I knew him too well. But, if he got it out, it couldn't be unsaid. And if he got that far, I'd break and turn around, go back to my classes in New York and forget this dream. I'd see if the last ballet company who'd offered me a position would take me after I'd turned them down. It could work.

  Except... that wasn't the plan, so I interrupted him with a hug. “I love you, Dad. I have to do this. I need to go.”

  “I know,” he whispered, like that had been what he was planning to say all along; not a plea, but his support. Hugging me tight, he held me in the embrace of a man who'd lost too much.

  Pulling away was torture.

  Grabbing my bags, I ran towards the check-in desk and willed myself not to look back. I was worried I'd see his eyes—see them wet with tears.

  That would be too much.

  I wasn't strong enough for that.

  I might never be that strong.

  - Chapter Three -

  Noel Addison

  Six words punched against the inside of my skull over and over.

  “I'm sorry, we lost your luggage.”

  My luggage. Everything I'd packed so carefully, everything I needed for the next five months. Like I could decrypt the code that would release my belongings, I held the tiny, fragile slip of paper towards the woman behind the desk. “But, you see, I have the receipt here for when I dropped them off at the airport.”

  She took the paper, not once looking at it. “I am very sorry, really. The delay back in New York meant lots of luggage didn't get shifted to where it needed to go.” Her accent was decidedly French and definitely as impatient as any Lost Baggage claims worker around the world.

  Lots of luggage, I thought doubtfully. It was clearly just me standing at the desk. Again, I gestured with my little bit of paper, my flag of surrender. “But I need my luggage!”

  Turning away, the woman tapped at her keyboard. “Where will you be staying? We'll make sure to send it to you when we locate it. Really, this happens quite often.”

  Her words weren't reassuring. Deflated, I tucked the ticket stub away in my jeans and pulled out the slip with the address for Lavender House. I was fighting to stay optimistic. My dance program wasn't technically until tomorrow. The woman took the paper, typing and making it sound like my things would get to me by tonight.

  Just don't worry about it. It's out of my control. On the plus side, I didn't have to lug giant rolling cases around with me through the airport.

  Following the signs, my sneakers scuffed across the rugs, pointing me towards the pick-up area outside of the giant airport. Checking my watch for the time, I winced. Shit, I'm five hours past when the van was expecting me.

  In the fresh air, I tried to wish my transportation into existence. The street was lined with taxis. Not a single van was in sight, let alone one with the promised Rosella Ballet poster taped to the side.

  There was no question. I'd missed my ride.

  Tapping my toe nervously, I fingered my pocket and the few euros it contained that my Dad had gifted me. I'd planned to get more money after landing, thinking I'd be clever to get a better exchange rate at an ATM machine with my credit card. Flustered over my lost bags, I hadn't spotted a single machine in the airport.

  One of the taxi drivers caught my eye. Purposefully, I looked at my shoes and explored my brain for a plan. I'll have to do it. A taxi is expensive, but... I knew there were trains and buses from the airport, but without a map, I didn't have the guts—or energy after my long flight—to try and navigate them.

  Honestly, I just wanted to lie in a bed and sleep.

  Tilting my chin up, I found the driver still watching me. A moment passed between us, something unsaid that made it clear I wanted a ride. Motioning with his head, he opened the backdoor for me before I took a single step.

  I followed the cue, adjusting my purse on my shoulder. “Bonjour,” I started, instantly embarrassed by my clumsy pronunciation. “Um, I need to—je vais...” Dammit! I cursed myself. My French is awful!

  The driver chuckled, shutting me into the car before hopping behind the wheel. He rattled something off to me; I didn't catch a word of it. After a tense moment, I just blurted out, “Lavender House, s'il vous plait.”

  He tapped the GPS by the wheel.

  God, he wants the address. Reaching in my pocket, I prepared to hand him my slip of paper. Instead, I found nothing but lint. Stunned, I checked my purse, my pockets again, all while the driver stared. Shit. My heart dropped. I never got it back from the claims clerk! Rubbing the tops of my thighs nervously, I worked at conjuring the address from the back of my head. I should have memorized it, ugh. Okay. Think, Noel. You know this... How do I say fifteenth?

  His fingers drummed impatiently. He asked me something, but the only word I translated was 'where.'

  Licking my lips didn't help my language skills. “It's... well. Cinq...?” He narrowed his eyes. “Uh. Cinq-teen.” I knew that wasn't right, but pressed on. “Avenue de Germaine.”

  I must have been close enough; my heart thumped as he turned the rumbling taxi away from the curb. Sitting back in the seat, I stared out the window and made a mental note to actively work on my French. It really should have been better than it was. I blamed the jet lag, and the pressure. I should be excellent under pressure, I scolded myself. Lord knows I've had enough of it on me over the years.

  The highway wasn't much to look at. I could have been anywhere in the world. As we drove closer to the city, though, I got my first glimpse of Paris. The busy streets were flooded with people and cars, and soon, my nose was crushed on the glass.

  I'm here, I'm actually here!

  A little tingle ran up from my belly to my scalp. It was late in the day, the sun shining bright in spite of the time of year. I'd been told to expect grey skies and cold rains in January. I took it as my own, personal sign of good luck.

  The taxi pulled to a stop along a sidewalk. Glancing around, I tried to get an idea of where I was. The man was out of the car, opening my door impatiently. “C'est l'endroit, mademoiselle.”

  Stepping into the chill, for it was rather chilly—I was thankful for my thick jacket—I stared up at the buildings. None of them looked like my photo of Lavender House, but I couldn't be sure. “Merci,” I said, digging for my money. One glance at his meter told me the worst of it; thirty euros, leaving me with just five until I found an ATM.

  Nodding, he mumbled something and ducked into his taxi. In seconds, I was left alone on the street corner, quickly understanding the hard knot growing in my guts. This is the wrong address. Sweat clung to the back of my neck, in spite of my high ponytail and the brisk air. Oh God, where did he take me?

  Turning in place, I was shoved aside. I was in the way of pedestrians. Dazed, I stepped backwards, then finally crossed the street towards a small cafe. From there, I had a better view of the buildings. I looked for a street name.

  The tiny, blue rectangle no bigger than a brick showed the number five. Cinq. Of course. In a sudden burst, I recalled the number fifteen was pronounced as quinze. I covered my mouth, bit back a moan. I'm such an idiot! I'd given the driver the wrong number. How far was I from Lavender House?

  Needing to get oriented, I slipped into the cafe. It smelled wonderful, stabbing my hungry insides with delicious waves. It was tempting to buy something, but I wanted to hang onto my cash. I didn't know what I might need it for between now and
... whenever I found my way.

  Behind the counter, a tall, older man in an apron caught my eye. Waving a hand, I did my best to ask if he spoke English. His brief, sharp turn of his chin and slurred roll of French gave me my answer.

  Turning on my heel, I spun back instead of leaving. My translation ability was poor, but some words are universal. “Metro?” I asked gently; hopefully. A metro station would surely have a street map.

  His eyes squinted, a thick finger gesturing out the door and towards the left.

  Gushing my thanks, I abandoned the cozy warmth. My steps were long, carrying me fast, then faster, the instant I spotted the big 'M' sign. Following the stairs underground, I felt my confidence growing.

  I hadn't fully realized how nervous I'd been, but when I saw that big street map, I breathed out so loudly it made me jump. I'd pushed down the fear of being lost, subconsciously knowing that the instant I acknowledged it, it'd become real. It'd consume me with panic.

  Pressing a finger to the map, I let calmness flood through my body. I was fine, I could handle this. Remember, you wanted to come here. It's all part of the adventure. Adventures were funner when they weren't full of lost luggage and wrong directions. This is fine. Look, you're off track, but not terribly.

  To be fair, I was in an entirely wrong district. I'd have to take the subway, though it seemed easy enough. I lived in New York City, I was familiar with subway systems. According to the map, I needed to take one line up a few stops, but that was all.

  Feeding the last of my euros into a machine, I gathered up my tickets. The gate happily chomped on one, spitting out the stamped version on the other side. Clutching it, I darted down more steps, hopping over the gap and onto the metro seconds after it pulled into place.

  People around me crowded in, making the cart far warmer than I was in the mood for. I was grateful when the trip ended. Good, that was quick enough.

  Except, well, for some reason the doors weren't opening automatically.

  I stood there, awkward and with increasing anxiety. Someone, an older woman with her head wrapped in a thick scarf, noticed me panicking. She reached out, pushing the green button I'd assumed wasn't meant to be touched except in an emergency. The doors slid apart loudly, the air welcome on my sweating face. Smiling in thanks, I hurried up and out of the metro.

  The sky was cloudy now, reminding me that it was January and that the sun was eager to vanish. Scanning the sidewalk, I tried to get my bearings. I knew from the map that I would need to cross over a few side streets before I would hit St. Germain. Clutching my purse tight, I jogged over the hard stones of the road. Traffic was denser here. I was shocked by the number of what appeared to be tourists, considering the time of year.

  Glancing upward, I admired the detailed, almost Gothic carvings on the edge of one of the buildings. It was beautiful, really reminding me, surprisingly, of my own downtown. But this wasn't New York, and to let myself become too comfortable would be a mistake.

  In my hurry to get to Lavender house, I nearly slammed right into someone when they bent in front of me in the middle of the sidewalk; I pulled up short. Light hair, a scruffy face, I didn't have much time to inspect the stranger in detail. He locked eyes, lifting a golden ring between us.

  My heart crawl upwards, clogging my throat and keeping me from making anything but a pathetic gasping sound. While the man himself wasn't some quintessential, attractive prince from a storybook, the scene certainly was. Me, standing there shocked in the middle of Paris; he, a stranger holding a ring up to me in proposal. It was everything from an old fairytale.

  “Here, miss,” he said, offering the ring to me. “I found it in the street. It looks like it's worth something. Why don't you take it?”

  I blinked. Then blinked again. I hadn't expected him to speak English after my day so far. Unsure what else to do, I gave a nervous laugh. He was quick, taking my wrist and forcing the jewelry into my palm. It was warm; that bothered me. Shouldn't it have been chilly, if it had been sitting in the winter street?

  He flashed me a wide grin. “You keep it, a pretty ring for a pretty girl.”

  I made a very not pretty sound, knowing that I was blushing furiously. “Thanks, I mean, merci. Um, this...uh.”

  Wiping the back of his neck, the man shrugged into his ears. “It's nothing.” Something glimmered in his smile, then went stale. Around me, I felt the crowd tighten.

  “How very kind of him!” someone called out. “That ring looks very expensive!”

  “You should give him a reward,” someone else suggested.

  He was standing too close, expectant. Something was definitely wrong here. My hand with the ring fell to my side. His palm hovered between us—a fly buzzing, refusing to leave. “Anything you have to offer would be fine,” he said.

  The ring was becoming a shackle. “A reward!” People shouted, I couldn't pick their voices apart.

  I shook my head, reached into my pocket. “Sorry, I don't have anything. I spent the last of my money on tickets for the metro. I'm sorry—” I was pushed roughly, so surprised that I bit my tongue.

  “Give him something! You must have something!”

  “Yes, just give him something! It's such a beautiful ring! It's expensive!”

  I turned in a circle, feeling claustrophobic. There were so many faces, I didn't know any of them. What was happening, why were they all telling me to give this man money? Thrown off guard, I offered the ring back to him. “Just take this, I don't need it. You can have it!”

  The smiles had all vanished. “You wanted the ring, you have it now, so you should give me something in exchange.”

  I was starting to breathe faster. What am I supposed to do? “I guess I could...” I looked around, wondering if there was anyway out of this mess. Why was everyone ignoring this? I was being ganged up on! “Maybe, if someone could show me where I could take out some cash...”

  “Leave her alone.” The voice was sharp, cutting into the crowd. Elegant as a hawk in a dive, the approaching man lacked any fear. The way his narrowed eyes fell on everyone, especially the stranger who had given me the ring, I had the oddest idea he had never felt fear in his life. “Just take this, you greedy rat.”

  Taking a step back, I saw his long fingers slip some coins to the man. The rat, for that was all I could see him as now, took the euros without a word. Amazingly, the crowd melted away in a flash, leaving me stunned. “What the heck just happened?” I asked.

  Sighing, he adjusted the front of the long, navy blue jacket he had on. The color caught the shimmer on the edges of his dark hair; made them impossible sapphires. “Sorry about that, just a silly scam the locals run on unsuspecting foreigners.”

  Flushing, I cleared my throat. “Thanks for stepping in. I was about to let them point me to an ATM.”

  “You weren't really, were you?”

  I hoped my laugh sound light, convincing. “No no, of course not! I just figured it'd give me time to slip away, or find a cop.” Yes, he'll believe that, Noel. Good job. He had a warm heat in the centers of his eyes. If he didn't buy my lie, he was being polite to not call me on it. “How much did you give him? I should really pay you back.”

  Shaking his head, I saw a puff of air leave his lips in the chilly temperature. “I gave him my change, maybe six euros. Certainly more than the ring was worth.”

  Clutching the tiny accessory, I fought the urge to chuck it away. “Right, the scam.” There goes plan B; just give this guy the ring if he won't take money. “Well, now I feel pretty dumb.”

  “Don't,” he chuckled. “It's an easy trick to fall for. Those people rely on guilt and social pressure to make the scam work. It catches a lot of unsuspecting travelers off guard.”

  He's already decided I'm some lost tourist. Sizing him up, I noted he lacked any hint of an accent. Was he a tourist himself? He stood comfortably, a natural grace in his pose. Long neck, longer legs, he didn't appear much older than I was. But, then, how could I really know? I'd only just met him, an
d... “Sorry, I don't know your name,” I said. Slipping the ring into my pocket, I offered my hand. “I'm Noel, for the record.”

  I was startled that such a sweet, welcoming hazel color could be so piercing. He shook my hand, engulfing it it in a brief squeeze. “I'm Carter. I'm also, unfortunately, in a hurry.”

  “Oh, ah, right.” It was a reminder that even if we exchanged names, we were strangers. We didn't know each other, what our plans were or where we were going. That did remind me, though. “Before you run off,” I blurted, “I'm looking for Saint Germaine street. Could you point me that way?”

  His chin dipped down, I saw he had a dimple there. “Head up that way,” he pointed, “then take a hard right. You won't miss it.” With hardly a wave, Carter spun around and strode off in great, wide steps. From behind, with his sharp corners, he was a perfectly cut diamond.

  I gave myself a shake, then slapped my cheeks. I had more important things to do than ogle a strange man, regardless of how he'd come to my rescue, or how strong his handshake had been.

  True to Carter's word, I spotted the street I was after. It was mere minutes later that I saw the familiar, pale yellow of the tall apartment building that was Lavender House. Mom had shown me old, faded photos. The place looked like it hadn't been touched since those pictures were taken.

  Hopping the stone steps, I tapped the rough wood of the front door. No one answered; I knocked harder. It had become cold enough that my adrenaline from my 'adventure' wasn't helping anymore. Shivering, I gave up and tried the knob. Amazingly—to me, living as I did in downtown New York—it was open.

  Pushing through, I gazed around the small front room. “Hello? Anyone here?” It was warm inside, smelling like sawdust and oranges. That threw me off; I'd predicted flower scents. Down the skinny hall, I found a tiny kitchen on my left. A set of stairs carried me up, and it was there that I heard my first sign of life.

  There were girls laughing, speaking further in the building. The second floor wasn't well lit, lampshades ancient and most bare of light bulbs. There, though, at the end of the bannistered walk... I saw my roommates.