Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

  And then suddenly, I’m bigger than Dad.

  Like many Parisian anglers, Dad took to street fishing after the Seine became clean enough for dozens of species to return. Eel, catfish, perch, zander—you name it. Even the Atlantic salmon made a comeback. The catfish are the biggest and arguably easiest to catch, so they’re extremely popular among locals.

  The whole thing has become somewhat of a fad in town. Hundreds, maybe thousands of amateurs show up rain or shine, knowing even if they draw a blank, at least they’ll spend their Sunday morning gazing at the Pont Neuf, Le Louvre, or the Eiffel Tower. Hipster anglers practice catch and release with plastic bait. Not my father, though. He and I have our permits, and we eat what we catch… once Mom cooks it.

  No sushi for my parents, thank you very much.

  “We don’t see you enough these days,” Dad says.

  I give him an apologetic smile. “It’s just that time of year again—playoffs and all.”

  “I know, I know.” He smiles back. “Don’t get me wrong, son. Your mother and I are happy and proud to see what you’ve achieved.”

  His eyes water as he says this. And even though he means every word, it’s impossible not to sense the smothered “but” at the end of his comment.

  “But?” I say.

  “It’s just… Your mother almost regrets the days you were still recovering at our place.”

  I bunch my brows.

  There’s no way Mom would regret the “good old days” when I needed Dad’s help to use the bathroom and wash and her help for everything else.

  I can only imagine how it feels for a parent to almost lose their only son and to “raise” him all over again, helping him progress from baby-like dependency to self-sufficiency in the space of two years. My capacity for speech was intact, but my motor skills were completely fucked up. Mom and Dad looked after me while I relearned to walk, feed myself, write, ride a bus, use a computer, and navigate the modern world with all its gizmos and complexities.

  Except driving, which requires too much motor coordination, and is still out of my reach.

  With endless patience, they showed me photos and told me everything they knew about every single person in my life. They did that repeatedly with as much detail as they could provide in the hopes I’d remember something and recover my lost sense of self.

  Or, failing that, rebuild a new one.

  “I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” Dad says. “Your mother is over the moon about how completely you’ve recovered and how well you’re doing without our assistance. She really is.”

  I point at our fishing rods. “You and I will do this every Sunday as soon as the season is over, OK? And I’ll be sure to come by for dinner at least once a week.”

  “Sounds good,” Dad says.

  Suddenly, I’m ready to ask him the tough question that’s been bugging me for a while now. A long while.

  “Was I a better son before?” I drop the bait and turn to Dad. “Are you guys worried I don’t love you as much as I used to, that I can’t love you for real because my memories have been erased?”

  He knits his eyebrows. “They haven’t been erased. You know as well as I do amnesia is a problem of retrieval, not loss.”

  “I do,” I say. “Of course.”

  We stare at each other.

  “I don’t think you love us less,” Dad says. “I think you love us differently.”

  “Because I’ve changed?”

  He nods.

  I get this a lot from everyone who knew me before, and they all agree I’m different now. Whether it’s in a good or a bad way depends on who you ask. Some say I’m more responsible and reliable. Others regret that I’m less fun. All concur I’m a lot less interested in dating glamorous models.

  Like, not interested at all.

  Which reminds me to ask Dad another question that’s been gnawing at me. “Did I ever say anything about Isabelle that would suggest she and I were more than friends?”

  “No.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Your mother and I always liked her—much more than that Angela woman you were seeing. You and Isabelle were very close at one point. But as far as I know, you were never into her.”

  “Was she ever into me?” I ask, my heart quickening.

  He pulls his bait out of the water and casts farther upstream. “Here’s what I know. That girl called all the time to ask after you and visited often while you were in a coma… despite your falling-out.”

  “It doesn’t mean she had feelings for me,” I say. “It just proves she’s a good person.”

  “She certainly is,” Dad says.

  I give him a theatrically smug smile. “I love it when I’m right.”

  Except, this time I wish I wasn’t.

  Not that I’d rather Isabelle was a bad person, but I wish she’d open up more, figuratively and literally. Last week I dreamed I’d made love to her, again. Twice. The disappointment when I awoke and realized I couldn’t pull her closer and enter her again was staggering.

  Why don’t I get those kinds of dreams about Angie? Is it simply because I didn’t get a chance to see her in real life after the coma? Would I crave her like I crave Isabelle if I did?

  Would her skin smell as yummy as Isabelle’s? Would touching her hand make my cock just as hard? Would her smile make my heart flip?

  It should, right?

  Given how beautiful she is, and that I was dating her and not Isabelle before the attack.

  I stare at the south side of Notre-Dame’s ancient towers and spikes and refocus my attention on spending time with Dad. Trying to catch the biggest catfish in the Seine. Hoping to pull myself together enough so I can lead my team to European gold for France.

  An hour and zero catfish later, Dad concludes they must be spawning. When catfish spawn, they aren’t interested in feeding, he explains. We may as well pack up and go home.

  In the evening, a Google Alert arrives in my inbox. I set it up to ping me whenever Angie’s name pops up in relation to a fashion show in Europe.

  A year ago, she did one in Milan and another in Vienna, but I couldn’t go to either place because of the game schedule. Last August, the quietest month for water polo, I almost bought my ticket to New York. Luckily, I called her first. She said she would love to see me, but she was spending the whole month sailing in some exotic sea with her boyfriend.

  I didn’t bother asking who he was. I really don’t care.

  What I do care about is Angie just might be the missing link, my best shot at remembering something from my past. I don’t expect to recall everything, or even a big chunk. But maybe she could help me retrieve the smallest thing, a tiny insignificant nugget. It could trigger a chain reaction of other nuggets, other memories coming back.

  Anyway, that’s what my doctors say.

  I click the link in the alert and discover Angie is in Paris right now for a Chanel show.

  This is my chance.

  I pick up my phone and dial her number.

  She doesn’t pick up.

  I text her.

  Angie, I know you’re in Paris. Please give me one good reason you can’t give me thirty minutes of your time tonight or another time that suits you. All I’m asking for is a chat, and then I’ll leave you in peace. Lucas

  Five minutes later, she texts back.

  Good to hear from you, Lucas. I’m at a party now in the 7th, but I can sneak out for fifteen minutes. Can you meet me at the Chérie-Chérie in half an hour? A.

  I look up the place. It’s on my métro line, which means if I leave straightaway, I can be there in thirty minutes. I message her back, grab my keys, phone, and wallet, and bolt out the door.

  When I enter the trendy bar, Angie is already there. She greets me with an airy cheek kiss, visibly nervous. We sit down across from each other at a small table by the window, and I survey her discreetly.

  Angie is every bit as gorgeous as she is in the photos of
us six years ago.

  “Looking good,” I say with a smile, hoping to establish a better rapport than we had during our first—and only—post-coma conversation.

  She looks me over, appreciation in her eyes. “You, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  “Do you like New York?” I ask.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “What about modeling? Still as fun as it was six years ago?”

  As far as smooth transitions go, this one is as level as the Alps, but I don’t have time to do it better. She’ll be out of here in less than twenty minutes.

  “Oh yes,” she says, “I still enjoy it.”

  I smile, hoping she’ll add something, but she raises her cocktail to her mouth instead.

  Her eyes dart to the door.

  Great.

  Clearly, Angie isn’t trying to help me. She isn’t even trying to pretend she’s trying to help me.

  Fine.

  I lean in. “What’s the one thing that stayed with you from our time together?”

  “Um…” She taps her lips with her elegant finger and gives me a toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. “You were good in bed.”

  My lips curl. “Anything else?”

  “Let me see…” More lip tapping. “You were all about water polo. I couldn’t understand your passion or the rules of that game to save my life.”

  I peer into her eyes. “My parents tell me I was serious about you… as in thinking about proposing.”

  “Oh.” Her perfect eyebrows go up. “I had no idea.”

  “Is that why you never visited or called while I was recovering—because you had no idea?”

  I hate how reproachful and resentful my question sounds. Then again, I guess that’s how I feel about Angie’s cutting me off. That’s how I’ve felt about her for the last six years.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “You must think I’m an awful person.”

  There’s genuine contrition and shame in her eyes.

  Weird. For someone who feels so guilty about her lack of solicitude, why hasn’t she made the tiniest gesture in all these years? What kept her from calling, or emailing me? What… or who?

  “Your boyfriend,” I say, surprising myself. “The one you mentioned last time, is it your bestie from when we dated?”

  Color drains from her face. “You… you remember him?”

  I smirk. “No Angie, I don’t remember Clément or anyone else. My friends told me about him. Besides, he’s in most of our pictures.”

  She lets out a long, ragged breath.

  Relief?

  “So, is it him?” I ask again.

  “No,” she says without hesitation. “I’m dating someone else now.”

  The second those words are out, her eyes widen in panic, as if she just realized she’s said too much.

  I cock my head. “So, you did date him at one point?”

  “I…” She shifts in her seat. “Very briefly. We weren’t well suited as lovers.”

  “When was it?”

  “Um… Let me see…” She rubs her chin, her ear, and her chin again. “Maybe three years ago?”

  Why do I have the feeling she’s lying?

  Or, if she isn’t, there’s something she isn’t telling me.

  I narrow my eyes. “So, you didn’t dump me while I was in a coma to be with him?”

  She gives me a wounded-Bambi look. “Of course not!”

  “OK,” I say, no longer bothering to smile. “So, you dumped me for another reason. I’m just trying to get my timeline straight.”

  She reaches for her glass again, lifts it, and sets it back on the table. “I really have to go now. It was nice catching up, and… seeing how well you’ve recovered.”

  I don’t try to stop her.

  Even her physical flawlessness now seems cold and off-putting. For the life of me, I don’t understand why I was into this woman.

  8

  Isabelle

  This afternoon’s practice for the guys consists of conditioning, some shooting drills, and a lot of strategy.

  Only four of them will be traveling to Cologne with the national team, but all show up for the season’s last workout together as a club.

  From my favorite bench, I watch them finish the final segment, but instead of getting out of the pool, they hang around.

  Lucas has been staring at me all day.

  It’s not like you think, I tell my racing heart as I do my best to avoid his eyes. It can’t be like that.

  Maybe he simply has a burning idea he wants to discuss with me. Hence all the glancing at his watch and staring in my direction. Mystery solved.

  Over the last two weeks, Lucas and I excelled at being paragons of non-fraternization. The both of us became shining examples of professional behavior and not mixing business with pleasure. Then, on Sunday, he went street fishing with his dad—something I’d overheard him mention to Eric—and he came back… different.

  I can’t explain exactly in what way, but there’s a new quality to him that makes me think of a rubber band stretched and ready to snap.

  Oh. My. God.

  What if that je ne sais quoi is suppressed anger? Have I overstepped? In my eagerness to land a big sponsor, have I gone too far and done something that rubbed him the wrong way?

  I guess I’m about to find out once the workout is over.

  There’s noise behind me, and I turn around. Leanne’s girls rush in and jump into the water.

  Ah, I see she got her way.

  Leanne believes women improve their game when practicing against men. She’s been bugging Lucas for a joint scrimmage session since January.

  It makes sense, so he agreed to do it now. For the guys, time has run out. Lucas doesn’t believe they can get in better shape for the quarterfinals, which start in two days. He has driven them hard for months and gotten them where he wants them. No more ten-hour workouts. The purpose of their quick workouts at this stage is just to retain the base.

  I check my watch. My official work day is over. I could just up and leave while everyone is around or inside the pool. I should up and leave. Having spent the whole day trying and failing to get a grip, the last thing I need now is a tête-à-tête with Lucas.

  I stand and walk toward the exit.

  “Isabelle, wait!” Lucas calls out.

  I stop.

  “Please, can you stay a few minutes longer? I need to talk to you.”

  Slowly I turn around and plaster a smile on my face. “Sure.”

  He waves me over.

  When I get to the edge of the pool where he and Leanne are standing, he whistles a time-out.

  “You know how we’re shopping for an official sponsor, right?” he says, addressing everyone.

  The players nod.

  He points to me. “Isabelle, Leanne, Eric, and I have been discussing possible logo placement, and we wanted to ask you ladies if it’s OK to put it on your suits.”

  “No problem,” several of them holler.

  “As long as you’re not putting one on each nipple,” Nat says.

  A few of the women boo, a couple of men cheer, and the rest laugh.

  “One logo, centered, just beneath the collarbone,” I say.

  They nod and give me a thumbs-up.

  “What about the men?” Jean-Michel asks. “Where will you put ours?”

  Everybody stares at me expectantly.

  “On the caps,” I say.

  More laughing.

  “After Martin’s calendar last year,” Zach says, “we were prepared for the worst.”

  Denis raises his hand. “I have an idea. Why not use our skin?” He points to the five or six tattoos on his chest and arms. “I could get another one.”

  His biggest tattoo is a stylized text that reads, This body is too hot for clothes. Clearly, he doesn’t see getting a logo inked as a big deal.

  The idea is completely outrageous, but three or four of the men shrug a why not.


  “No way.” Julien, the hole defender, shakes his head, unsmiling. “No tattoos for me.”

  “You can have it removed later, if you hate it,” Denis offers.

  Julien glares at him. “I know. I’ve had one lasered off my back. It hurt like hell, and it left scars.”

  Several women paddle behind him to study his back.

  “Looks like it was huge.” Corinne spreads her hands to show the size to the others. “What was it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Julien says drily.

  “A girl’s name?” Jean-Michel asks.

  Julien says nothing.

  “A heart with an arrow through it, and a girl’s name?” Jean-Michel insists. “Who’s the girl? Have we seen her? Are you still in luuurve with her?”

  Silence.

  “Leave him alone, will you?” Lucas says to Jean-Michel.

  If he hadn’t intervened, I would have.

  I can’t stand the man, probably as much as he can’t stand Julien. I suspect it’s because Julien was picked for the national team and Jean-Michel wasn’t. Or because Jean-Michel is on the substitute set. Their rivalry may also be caused by something else entirely, but whatever it is, Jean-Michel has envy issues. And Julien is the source of that envy.

  “No one is going to ask anyone to get a tattoo,” I say. “There are limits.”

  And with that, Lucas sends the players back into the water.

  “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?” I ask Lucas.

  He shakes his head. “Can you wait another half hour?”

  “Yes,” I mutter and fish out my phone, so I have something to stare at.

  “Thank you,” Lucas says softly.

  Eric leaves.

  The two remaining coaches oversee the scrimmage while I pretend to be engrossed in my newsfeed.

  When everyone is gone, I follow Lucas to his office.

  “I remembered something from my past,” he says, opening two blonde ales.

  My heart racing, I take one from him.

  “Let me rephrase that.” He settles his gaze on my lips. “I remembered something from our past.”