It’s a long couple of minutes, but eventually Serena appears.
“What the hell was that?” she hisses.
“I am sorry —”
“No! No …” She stomps down the steps to the sidewalk. Her cheeks are a little rosy, and it’s not to do with the winter chill. She’s furious. “None of your ‘Iyam sorreee’ bullshit. You don’t get to accent your way out of this! You left me in there — I was so embarrassed, I actually paid for the food that we didn’t eat. Jean-Luc, you knew how much I wanted to eat here, how … shit!”
“What is it?”
“Shut up.” She’s turning around and walking back toward the restaurant. “I left my bag inside. My sister’s scarf’s in that bag.”
The tension in my chest is back. I’ve really ruined this part of Serena’s trip, but if she had seen how my breakup with Martine had played out, I am sure she would agree I could not have sat there and had her wait on me. It would also have been terribly unfair to Martine — even if she didn’t spit on or poison our blanquettes de veau, it would have been terrible for her to have to “make nice” with her ex-boyfriend and the random American stranger he is suddenly spending the day with.
Serena takes so long to come back out that I start to worry about her. When she reappears, carrying her bag, she is silent.
“I’ll treat you,” I tell her. “I know just the place. My favorite bistro, in real Paris. You’ll love it, and it’ll be yours — you’ll have your own memory of your Paris. Trust me …”
I can feel the eagerness on my face, can hear the pitch of my voice. I really am trying to sell this to her. Maybe all of this awkwardness is actually leading us to something better, more worthwhile, more memorable?
Serena takes out her phone to check the time. “Well, I already turned down Ethan’s offer … but I’m still going to have to eat something, I guess.”
Satisfied, I lead Serena back down Abbesses toward the Metro station.
I did it. I got us away from Martine!
And yet, all the way there, I wonder why I feel so wretched.
~ CHAPTER NINE ~
SERENA
6:17 p.m.
I’ve hated Paris Metro stations since the very first time I used one — which, admittedly, was just this morning, but still! — and that hate is only increasing. At least the grime of the New York subway has some character. Anvers station in Paris is just white corridors that feel endless — so cramped that the echoes of footsteps and conversation, and the hiss and whine of the trains passing through make me feel like I’m drowning in a soup of sound.
But then, maybe everything is getting on my nerves because I can’t figure out this French guy I’ve somehow ended up spending all day with. First, he makes a big show about how he’s happy to eat both of our meals if I wanted to leave and meet up with Ethan. Then, just a few minutes later, he’s basically dragging me out of Maison d’angle, because he forgot it was where his ex now worked. I would have totally been within my rights to say, to hell with him, and stay to eat by myself. But I couldn’t have done that because, unlike Jean-Luc, I felt an appropriate amount of mortification at what was happening.
He leads me down a flight of stairs onto a platform, taking a seat on a plastic bench beside a vending machine. I take the seat next to him, even though I kind of wish I were sitting an ocean away — the opposite platform would do. Since the moment we walked away from the bistro, he’s been talking about how “great” his favorite place is and how I will be craving it as soon as I’m back home, and the more he talks, the angrier I feel.
Because, for all that stuff about his grandfather, he still doesn’t really know loss. He doesn’t know what it’s like to toss and turn all night because you’re imagining what you would have said to your dad that morning, if you’d known it was going to be his last day on this earth.
Real loss is something I’ve been feeling for two years, what I’ve come to Paris to fix, if I possibly can. But today is close to being over, and Paris is slowly going to sleep — if the damned fog doesn’t choke it out first — so all the hopes I had for this trip are slipping away. And why am I surprised by how this day has gone? If Mom and Lara couldn’t understand why this trip was important to me, why did I expect this French stranger to get it?
If I’m honest, this tour was as much for me as it was for Mom. I’ve come here because I’m supposed to be putting together a scrapbook for my mother, so that she can remember Dad, but did she really need to travel to Europe to remember him? What good would it have done her to come back to this city without the man she loved, the man she associated with Paris?
But — and this is what makes me feel really silly — it makes sense that I would totally not get that. Because what would I know about real love? I’ve never had an actual boyfriend. I’ve never even felt anything romantic — not really. This whole mission is really just the “brain wave” of a girl who’s trying to figure out what love is.
There were moments today where I felt like I was getting it. Jean-Luc would touch my hand, and for just a second, I felt like a girl in the first scenes of a great romantic story, her own lovely Paris tale, that she would tell people in the future. Just moments, just wisps — then Jean-Luc would say something annoying or something crazy would happen, and we’d be arguing again.
But the wisps were there. For just a second, I felt something.
But now I know Jean-Luc couldn’t have felt that way. If he did … he wouldn’t have dragged me out of that bistro.
“My friends and me, we go there all the time.” I tune in to Jean-Luc long enough to find out that he’s still babbling on about his bistro, in “real” Paris. Why is he trying so hard to convince me the rest of this night won’t totally suck?
I tune back out, start asking myself, what did I really want out of this trip? Did I really think that remaking the most romantic story I’ve ever heard was going to show me what love was? How did I think that was going to work?
I can’t answer my own question, and if I wasn’t in a public place, I feel like I could start crying. Because this is just a perfectly ridiculous kick in the shins from Life. “Oh, Serena,” it’s saying, in what I’m imagining is a reedy, nasally voice, “you convinced yourself that if you could figure out what love was, it would come to you? Oh, honey … What gave you the idea that I was going to be fair to you? In fact, to punish you for even being optimistic, I’m going to end your very first trip to one of the greatest cities in the world with you sitting in a subway station, trying not to cry while a Very Serious French Boy rambles on and on about some restaurant to distract you from the fact that he doesn’t care about you.”
I’ve played this all wrong, right from the beginning. I came here hoping that, somehow, being in Paris would flip a switch in my head … and that if I could understand love, maybe that would bring me one step closer to experiencing it.
But I still just … don’t get it. What if I can’t get it? What if there’s something wrong with me?
As much as I want to believe that everyone has a soul mate out in the world, that everyone is destined to be with one special person who is meant only for them, I grew up in New York. I’ve seen the blank stares of people lost in huge crowds, constantly surrounded by others while being totally alone at the same time. Some people just end up alone.
Because life is not kind to everybody.
I might have been a fool to think that Paris was going to bring me closer to the “one.” Instead, it has brought me a snooty, moody French boy who is occasionally fun (when he tries to be), and is kind of talented (I think). Not that I was thinking that he was going to be the love of my life or anything, but I was kind of enjoying hanging out with him, at least — even if he has serious unresolved issues with Americans.
But Jean-Luc cannot be the “one,” because no “one” would ever corner me into leaving the bistro, when he knew that it was one of the majo
r stops on the Romance Tour.
And this is who Paris has delivered — some French photographer who probably doesn’t like me all that much.
“… and the sole meunière is incredible. You like fish, right?”
I glance at Jean-Luc sideways. His hands are gesticulating, talking up the chef as if the man’s an artist, going on about his “specialty” like the dish is something on display in the Louvre.
“Are you still talking?” I ask him, my voice echoing through the platform. One or two commuters briefly look in our direction, then turn away.
Jean-Luc’s smile doesn’t waver. “What is the problem?”
“The problem? Maison d’angle was my one shot at getting the Romance Tour back on track, and you made me leave.”
His smile is faltering. “I did not want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I was fine!” A few heads turn in our direction, then away again — although, this time, I can tell at least some people are now actively eavesdropping. “It was you who was freaking out.”
He turns his whole body to me, and for a split second, I think he’s going to take my hands. But he doesn’t. He just gives me a wide-eyed look that begs for understanding.
“If you knew her, you would know why I was so …” He trails off, and I wonder if he can’t find the English. Either that, or he’s stalling, until he can pull an excuse out of his butt. “Martine is … intense, she is emotional … She likes the drama of a breakup. If we had stayed there, your whole trip would have been ruined.”
Like it hasn’t been already!
“Martine would have made a scene,” he goes on. “And it may not have been me she was unhappy with. She might have made a scene with you.”
“No one is that dramatic,” I mumble, as our audience seems to tune out again, now that there’s less yelling.
“You don’t know her,” he says. “She is not happy unless there is conflict. She needs to be worried about something, all the time. When I suggested that perhaps it would be a good idea for us to spend less time together, so that we could focus on our studies, on our art, she couldn’t accept it — she assumed I was preparing to break up with her. So, do you know what she did? She said we should move in together. We are not even twenty years old yet! Surely you can see — it was better for us not to be around Mart —”
“That’s not how Martine said it happened.” The words are out before I can stop them. But I’m tired of Jean-Luc trying to justify acting like kind of a jerk. “She said she bent over backward trying to get close to you, and all you did was run away — just like you ran out of that restaurant. And, actually, she told me she’s over it. She’s not mad at you anymore. You’d have found that out … you know, if you hadn’t run away.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he stares across at the opposite platform. “So, that is what took you so long to get your bag.”
“She was worried about you,” I tell him. “She said, when you ended it, you weren’t really making sense. She thinks this whole thing with your grandfather has you all —”
“This is none of your goddamned business!” He’s leaning away from me, glaring. And that’s the loudest I’ve heard him yell all day.
I’d be taken aback, if I wasn’t so pissed at him.
He’s shaking his head at me. “What happened between me and Martine is between us. You should not have spoken with her about —”
“Oh, you know what? Screw you, Jean-Luc.” I stand up from the seat. “You involved me in this by making me a part of that embarrassing scene. Also, you ruined a major part of my trip — so, honestly, I don’t give a damn about your feelings right now, you selfish jackass.”
Now it’s him standing up from his seat. “I’m not keeping you hostage. You can leave anytime you like. And you’ve obviously wanted to leave ever since you ran into your American friend, so why not go to him, huh? Go to him and talk about your Kardashians or whatever you think is so important.”
I don’t respond. I just push past him, heading for the exit — or, sortie.
Jean-Luc’s voice follows me. “Okay, then, go. Go to Ethan. I hope you have a wonderful time talking about … about … about what guns you will buy when you go back to college!”
I can’t believe I wasted a whole day on this guy. I can’t believe I was actually starting to enjoy having him around, even though he was always one snooty comment away from driving me totally nuts.
Once I’m out of Anvers station and onto a road called Boulevard de Rochechouart, I have to take a second not to freak out. The fog seems to have gotten thicker, and when other pedestrians walk by me, I feel like I’m being stalked by dozens of Grim Reapers. I turn in a circle and figure out that I’m on an island, on a strip separating two busy roads that seem to have been designed to test the drivers, to see who’s really concentrating. They just branch off in all directions, and I’m in such a bad mood after walking away from Jean-Luc that I kind of want to scream at all of Paris: Do you not see why New York thought a grid system was a sensible idea?
Calm down, Fuentes. I repeat this a couple times in my head, like a little mantra. I have Google Maps, so I know I’m not truly lost. I just … have to figure out where I’m going to go first. I’m still hungry, so I take out my phone and check what’s close and what has at least a three-star rating. The words “Le cygne rouge” seem to float up from my phone’s screen. It’s the bistro where Ethan said he was eating tonight, and it’s close by.
I text him.
Hey! Are you still there?
Before I can put my phone back in my pocket, I see the three-dots-of-typing, so I keep it out as I wait for his reply. It takes a while, and my fingers start to go numb from the cold.
Yeah — where are you? x
I’m a little annoyed at almost losing my fingers to frostbite for four words. I wonder how okay it will be to ask the question I’m ramping up to asking him. But then I figure that a) seeing the Eiffel Tower might just save the Romance Tour and make all of this worthwhile, and b) Ethan will know why I’m asking, won’t get the wrong idea … and c) the worst he can do is say no, if he’s offended at my asking.
Stranded on an island — literally! But I’m not far from you. Is that ticket still available?
I think about adding a hopeful face emoji, but it feels like it would be silly, like I know that I’m possibly overstepping by asking. I could add an “x” at the end, but that seems all wrong, too, after the kisstastrophe. So I just send the message, faceless and kissless.
The reply is almost instant.
It is, indeed! :) x
My shoulders sag with relief. Finally, a bit of luck! I follow my phone’s directions, walking straight ahead, along the strip that divides the lanes of Boulevard de Rochechouart. The trees form a kind of canopy over my head, like cracks in the fog, and I think that maybe I should get myself to one of the sidewalks, which are better lit and where I will at least feel less lost. But the traffic is terrible on both lanes, and I can’t see any crosswalks, so I forget that and keep walking, into the fog.
Even though so many things have gone wrong today, how this trip ends is in my hands. Coming to Paris might yet prove to be worth it, because I can still complete the Romance Tour.
And that is exactly what I am going to do.
*
After another five minutes of walking, the noises of Boulevard de Rochechouart become almost unbearable. Even though it’s loud, and the sharp air is thick with exhaust fumes that are probably like steroids to this damned fog, I find it oddly comforting. This little corner of Paris feels a bit more like New York, and as I follow the directions on my phone to Le cygne rouge, the restaurant looks bright and welcoming, like a lighthouse offering refuge to stranded tourists. I wonder, could this be because I’m meeting up with Ethan?
Is that why I’m in a better mood?
I find him sitting at a tabl
e outside, beneath one of those heater lamps, which bathes him in a red glow that looks either gaudy or romantic, I can’t really decide. He’s looking, like, actually sophisticated with a carafe of red wine in front of him and an empty plate. I’ve missed dinner. When he sees me, he does a double take, then breaks out in the biggest smile — which, I have to say, is a very nice contrast from some of the expressions I saw on my other companion today.
“Serena!”
I point to the empty chair at his table. “This seat taken?”
“It is now,” he says, his smile widening, getting a waiter’s attention and saying something in French. When he points at me, I figure he’s asking for an extra menu and wineglass.
“Oh, no,” I tell him. “I don’t have to eat.” Why am I lying?
“We have time,” Ethan says, as the waiter goes back inside. When he pushes open the door, a blast of smooth jazz escapes into the street.
The moment I collapse into the empty chair, I feel like I could pass out, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m running on about three hours’ sleep, which I guess I got while in a different time zone. But I can’t stop now — not when I still have the last remaining scrap of the Romance Tour to get through. Not when Ethan is gazing at me the way that he is.
“I’m so glad you could make it.”
I can feel the smile beaming from my face. I’m going to get to have a great dinner, with a nice guy, right before we head to the Eiffel Tower — for which fate has miraculously brought me tickets. Finally, something in this day is going right.
~ CHAPTER TEN ~
JEAN-LUC
18H54
A train — the third since Serena stormed off — pulls into the station, and a pair of drunk guys in suits stagger onto the platform, looking like they’ve had quite a night. One of them has a bottle of beer in one hand and is holding a mistletoe over his head with the other, looking for someone to kiss, even though there’s nobody in range. His friend doubles over with his hands on his knees, like he’s about to throw up. The first guy sees this and offers him the bottle, like it is some kind of medicine. It’s the kind of tableau that I would normally try to photograph, but my hands don’t even twitch, much less reach for my camera.
Kiss Me in Paris Page 11