It was only once he was outside that I realized that I was in pain. I rubbed my cheek, wincing and hoping I wasn’t going to get some kind of “shiner,” and then went back into the party to find something to add to my Diet Coke. I had earned it by now.
I found Charlotte in the kitchen. She was sitting on a countertop next to Anthony, showing him pictures of London on her cell phone — part of her mission to convince him to go home with her in the summer.
Charlotte hopped off the counter when she noticed I was back. She clasped both my hands excitedly. “How did it go?”
“I head-butted him in the face.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You could have just turned him down!”
I laughed ruefully. “You know what? I really don’t think Ethan’s right for me.”
Charlotte stared at me for a second, then shrugged to signal: I’m done trying to convince you that you’re wrong.
I changed the subject by asking Anthony and her about their summer plans, then zoned out as I wondered how a smart, practical, mature guy like Ethan could feel so wrong to a smart, practical, mature girl like me. I wondered, was it because he didn’t get why I wanted to walk in my parents’ footsteps this Christmas? His confusion — the look on his face that kind of asked, was I for real? — made me, briefly, question if the Romance Tour was kind of lame, kind of silly.
The fact that Ethan couldn’t get that made me wonder, was there any poetry — romance — in Ethan’s soul?
Because I want to have poetry and romance in mine. I just have to figure out where to find it.
*
That was the last I thought about Ethan until he suddenly appeared: this new, confident, cosmopolitan version of himself. Here in Paris, I’m looking at Ethan 2.0 and wondering if I was too hasty after the kisstastrophe. He’s not fidgeting with his glasses when he talks to me. I always thought that was his thing.
“You seem weirded out that I’m here,” he says.
I flap a hand dismissively. “Jet lag. Plus, it’s been a crazy morning.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I really, really do not.” We laugh. “So, how’s your trip going?”
“It’s been kind of awesome so far.” He gestures with his eyes: Do I want to go over to the bench just off the last market stall? I shrug yes, and we both walk over and sit down, facing each other. I have a view of the Seine and Notre-Dame to my right and have to force myself not to keep looking for Jean-Luc. I can’t decide if I’m worried that he ditched me or worried that he might think I ditched him — but if Ethan 2.0 is still a little sensitive, a little shy, I worry how he’ll react if some cool, good-looking French guy suddenly shows up.
“I was so efficient with my route yesterday,” Ethan says, “that I even got through half of what I had planned for today. That means, I have only five things to do to meet today’s schedule — I can actually take my time,” he says.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous. I’ve had a total failure of efficiency on my trip. Due to a series of disasters beyond my control, I’ve only seen one thing on my itinerary so far. Plus, the whole Big Finish to my trip went out the window when I found out that I left my Eiffel Tower tickets on the plane.”
He makes a sympathetic face. “Oh, man, that must have sucked. I know how long that online queue was — it took me an hour and thirty-seven minutes to get my tickets.”
I’ve grabbed his arm before I’ve had time to really think if it’s a good idea. “You have tickets? To the Eiffel Tower? Tonight, you have tickets?”
He’s leaning back, and I cringe. I’m so excited, I’ve actually gotten Ethan to recoil from me! “Um, yeah,” he says, through a nervous chuckle. “When I was researching what I was going to do, I saw that the display was tonight, so …”
“You said ‘tickets’ — plural, right?”
He’s making a face, like he doesn’t like where this is going. Of course he doesn’t like it — why would he want the kisstastrophe-girl tagging along? “I’m so sorry, but … I kind of told my buddy Jesse that he could have the other ticket. I’ve known him since boarding school, and he’s letting me crash in his dorm while I’m here, so I thought I’d better offer it to him.”
“Oh.” I force myself not to lean back and turn away from him too quickly, too decisively. I’m a little bummed out, but I’m not an asshole. Even if Ethan did have a spare ticket, it’s not like I’d have any real claim to it. “Well, that should be fun.”
“Yeah, it should be real romantic.”
“Oh …” I say again. I didn’t know Ethan was bi.
Then I see him smiling at me. Sarcasm! I didn’t know Ethan did sarcasm.
His face gets serious. “Listen, I know you, uh, got this whole … family thing going on, but if that itinerary of yours really is flexible, maybe we could meet up for coffee before you go to London. I expect to be free between six thirty and eight tonight.”
I’m kind of impressed he doesn’t even need to consult his schedule. Just as I’m reaching into my bag to find mine — trying not to laugh too bitterly at the fact that I’m even still consulting it — he’s handing me a piece of paper.
“My cell works here,” he says. “Here’s my number, just in case you … lost it.”
I hope my face doesn’t show that I did seriously consider deleting it after the kisstastrophe.
“In case there’s any problems with cell coverage,” he says, “I’ve put Jesse’s number on there, too.”
I accept the offer. “You think of everything,” I say. I mean it as a compliment.
He smiles back at me. A few weeks ago, that pale complexion would have turned rose red, but now he’s in Paris, traveling alone, bunking with friends, seeing the sights and haggling in French.
Was I wrong about the lack of poetry?
Ethan stands up and says that he really ought to get going, because he needs to be at the Musée d’Orsay in — he checks his watch — twenty-seven minutes. “Can’t wait to see an actual Van Gogh!”
“Okay.” I stand up, too, putting the paper with the phone numbers into my cross-body bag. “It was good to see you.”
“It was good to see you, too.” And now his left hand is lightly on my upper right arm, just the fingertips for a second, before he takes a firmer grip. His eyes are on mine, and I wonder if we have another kisstastrophe coming.
But it’s just one of those European kisses — right cheek, then left. I guess Ethan’s subscribing to the when-in-Rome philosophy. Except, you know, in Paris.
And then Ethan — or some confident, assured Europhile wearing his face — is gone, weaving his way through the street market toward the river.
“You found a friend.”
Jean-Luc is suddenly beside me — standing very still, as if he’s been there awhile. He’s watching Ethan go, and because Jean-Luc’s in profile, I can’t tell if he’s curious or upset. He may have a right to be, as I kind of ditched him just now. No, what am I saying? He just wandered off, while I was getting yelled at by some street vendor.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I snap. “I don’t want to get spooked and hit you over the head, or something. Think of the medical bills.”
“In France, we have universal healthcare. I’d be well looked after.” He turns his face to me now, and there’s a gleam in his brown eyes. “Unlike in America.”
“Just don’t startle me like that, please. And I didn’t ‘find’ a friend — that’s actually someone I know from school back home.”
Jean-Luc points to the bench where Ethan and I had been sitting. “Do not forget the scarf he bought you.”
“He didn’t buy it for me,” I say, leaning down to scoop it up. I wrap it around my neck. “But he did make sure I had to pay only ten euros, when the lady wanted thirty.”
Jean-Luc chuckles as he turns to walk away from the market. “Good for him,” he
says. “But it is not worth more than five.”
~ CHAPTER SIX ~
JEAN-LUC
14H23
Once we’re walking away from the stalls, I start to feel a bit bad about how I just treated Serena. As much as I’m trying to show her the real Paris, this is her trip, and I maybe shouldn’t be getting in the way. But something happened when I turned back from taking a photo of a couple walking a dog that was almost as big as the two of them. I called out to Serena, to show her the photo, only to find that she was distracted, chatting up some American boy.
Now, I turn back to apologize for that, but — again — she is not with me. She is walking down a stone stairway toward the riverbank. I follow.
She’s heading toward a kiosk selling tickets for the tour boats that crawl up and down the Seine. She stops at the bottom of the steps, pointing to them as I draw up alongside her. “Do you have to prebook these boat tours, or can you just buy tickets on the day of?” she asks.
“If they are not full, you can get on,” I tell her, as she pulls out that crumpled ball of paper from her bag. It looks like it belongs in the trash can. (“Trash can”? Mon dieu, I’m starting to think American, too!) She smooths it out, looks from it to the board outside the kiosk and back again. Puts the paper in front of my face.
“Do these boats go to all these places?”
I quickly check. “Most of them.”
She gives a happy gasp. “So, if we take one of these boats, we can cross off lots of the sights I had planned …”
I look at the river, then at the wall of gray hanging over the water. It’s as if a great chunk of the cloudy sky has fallen to the earth. How much is she going to see? But she’s walking to the kiosk now, so … I guess I’m going on a boat tour.
Inside, she greets the clerk behind the counter. “Bonjourno! Wait, no — that’s Italian. I mean, Bonjour!” I see her embarrassed expression reflected in the glass, superimposed on the clerk’s scowl. Is she scowling because of Serena’s mistake, or because of the Santa hat and reindeer sweater she’s wearing? I’m guessing this outfit was not her choice, but her manager’s. Probably catering to tourists, from America or England, trying to make them feel a bit more at home at Christmas.
Because she has exhausted what French she has, Serena holds up two fingers and says “Tickets” while trying to drag her accent over the Atlantic. The price flashes up on the digital display over the cash register, and Serena hands over some euros. I’m about to repeat my earlier question, will she really get to experience Paris from a boat? And does she have X-ray glasses that will allow her to see through the fog? But the way she’s thanking the clerk as she takes the tickets strikes me as pure and honest. I take another photograph of her eager expression: she’s excited just to be here. Plus, there will be lots of people on board, which will surely satisfy Monsieur Deschamps, so maybe this isn’t the worst thing that could have happened.
Serena turns away from the booth, putting the tickets into her bag as we head back outside. “Well,” she says, “we now know what we’re doing at three thirty! We just missed the two thirty, apparently.”
I check my watch, see that we have fifty-seven minutes to kill. I’m about to ask Serena what she wants to do, but — from the way she is looking at me — I can tell that she has an idea.
“Can we please go to Shakespeare and Company now?”
*
“I gotta say …” Serena laughs as we walk past the bistro on rue de la Bûcherie. “I sort of admire your country’s commitment to smoking.”
She gestures to the patrons dining on the sidewalk, some of their faces lit a lurid red by the glow of the heater lamps placed outside. Row after row of them — empty plates on the table, half-full wineglasses in one hand, cigarettes in the other. I want to take a photo, but their very serious looks are kind of intimidating, in a very “French” way — even to me.
We pass the bistro and come upon the dark green façade of Shakespeare and Company. Serena stops to take a picture on her phone.
“This place is about a hundred years old, right?” she asks.
“Yes and no,” I say, as we go inside. It is pleasantly warm, compared to the street, but the first blast of the musty old book smell always makes my stomach flip. “The original Shakespeare and Company was over in the 6th arrondissement, but it was forced to close when France was occupied during the Second World War. This store opened after the war, in the fifties. I believe it was first called something else but later changed its name. In tribute, I think.”
I have always had a soft spot for this place. I know some
people chafe at its cramped layout and find the way you constantly bump into strangers quite irritating. But to me, this is a fair trade for the silence inside. It’s so peaceful — more like a library than a store.
Until Serena goes stomping through the store in her orange sneakers. I follow her. “Are you looking for something in particular?” I ask. She nods. “Was there not a bookstore at the airport?”
“I have to get it here.”
We walk up the stairs to the first floor, and I have to press myself against one wall to allow a middle-aged couple to pass me on their way down. When we get up there, Serena goes straight to the poetry section, which lines three of the four walls around the landing.
I leave her to it, drifting over to the only wall not lined with books. Instead, there is a noticeboard covered in scraps of paper, cards and Post-it notes. A small tray with a sign that says — in English — “Lonely Hearts and Missed Connections.” A few Sharpies and pencils, some Scotch tape and thumbtacks, for anyone who wants to … what? Profess their love to nobody? Let store patrons know how much their hearts are hurting?
I take a step closer, skimming the notes. They are pinned chaotically, occasionally on top of each other — sentiments fighting for space.
Christina: My education began too late …
My heart is punctured, Mary …
Danielle: Your smile saved my life …
There’s even a whole poem, and when I see a line that says, “I now try not to think of you, lest I drain the well of my memory,” I check that no one is looking at me, and that my camera’s flash is off — because Shakespeare and Company has many signs saying “No Photos” — then steal a few shots of the whole board. I want to read through it later.
I turn back to Serena, when suddenly I feel the wall and the noticeboard behind me. I am remembering one of the last times I was here, with Martine, how she spent at least half an hour reading note after note. We had each other at the time, so I couldn’t understand why she seemed so keen to take a walk in other people’s sad shoes, but she told me she found it enchanting: “Just so romantic …”
I wonder if she might have returned here after our breakup and left a note of her own. A note for me.
I don’t trust myself not to look, so I tell Serena I am going downstairs to browse.
*
After I’ve looked through the philosophy section, I turn to go back up, only to see Serena on the ground floor, too, thanking the sales clerk for something. I assume she’s asking after whatever book it is she came here to find. When she returns to the poetry section, I follow.
She reaches up to the top shelf to move books aside, cursing out loud at the cloud of dust that settles on her face. She grimaces, coughs … then she goes back to scanning the titles, actually getting down on her hands and knees, slowly crawling backward, her face very close to the spines.
“You were looking at the H–J books before,” I say. “Now, you are in the Ts … Do you not know the author?”
“Yes, I do, but sometimes people are assholes.”
What do the two have to do with each other? “I do not understand.”
She crawls backward two steps, looking again at books she’s already passed. I hope she is being careful — she came very close to falling down the
stairs just now. “Sometimes people put books back in the wrong place,” she explains. “So, I’m just making extra-sure it isn’t here.”
“Making sure what isn’t here?”
She sighs, straightening up and sitting back on her heels. Her hair has started to come loose, arcing off at the sides like exploding fireworks. “Death of a Naturalist by Seamus Heaney. I was hoping this store would have a copy.”
“You cannot get this book in New York?”
“Probably, but … getting it from here would have been more special.”
“Why is that?”
She starts to answer, but then my eyes stray to a clock on the wall. It is 3:25 p.m. …
“The boat!” I blurt out. “We only have five minutes before it leaves.”
“Damn it …” She scrambles to her feet, and we hurry back outside. After the warmth of the bookstore, the Christmas chill is like a giant knife, scraping at my skin. I turn up the collar of my jacket, then take Serena’s hand and lead her off in a run.
It’s only after we’ve turned the corner onto Quai de Montebello that I realize we’re holding hands.
And there is not a tour boat in sight. I check my watch and see that it is now 3:32 p.m. The dock is empty, and even though the boat can’t have gone far in two minutes, the veil of fog looks to have swallowed it already. I’m almost outraged that it left on time. Serena’s grip on my hand tightens, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. I don’t want to see her disappointment.
When I finally steal a glance, she is staring out at the Seine, tears like sparkling crystals in her eyes. My fingers twitch, and I wrestle with the urge to reach for my camera again. As beautiful as the moment is, I know I would be crossing a line by gathering up all of her sadness for myself.
“I am sorry that we missed the boat,” I tell her.
She looks at the ground, sniffles. “It’s not just that … I’m upset about not finding the book.”
“But you said you would be able to find it in New York.”
She lets her bag drop to the floor, runs her hands through her hair. Makes it wilder, if that is possible. “That’s not the point. It was my dad’s favorite book of poetry, and he told me once that, when he saw this old, beat-up edition in Shakespeare and Company, he couldn’t not buy it for Mom. And Mom always told me, she didn’t really get the poems in it, but she loved it anyway, because it meant so much to Dad …” Her voice cracks, and I see her clench her teeth, trying not to cry. “It’s a special book. I don’t know how it happened, but … a few years ago, Mom realized she had lost it. I thought, if I could replace it for her …”
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