French Kissing: Season Two

by Harper Bliss

  Maybe Nadia was too selfish. Maybe she was many things that society didn’t expect her to be, but she was who she was: content without needing to see her genes reproduced in a child of her own, perfectly happy without a son or daughter to clasp her eyes on at night when he or she lay sleeping peacefully, after all the chores of the day had been done—and they would multiply by a millionfold if they had a child—and all she could do was crawl into bed and sleep. Nadia was enough for herself. And she would choose herself over and over again.

  “Good god, babe,” Juliette groaned, “this is better than sex.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nadia gave her shoulders one last hard squeeze for good measure. “We’ll see about that.” She bent at the waist and kissed Juliette’s shoulders. “Your clothes are half off already, anyway.” She trailed her lips to Juliette’s neck. “Why don’t you take that skirt off as well.”

  “I’m like putty in your hands tonight, babe.” Juliette wiggled her shoulders in satisfaction and stood to slide her skirt and underwear off her.

  “Good.” Nadia unclasped her bra. “Go sit in the sofa.”

  “Sofa, huh?” Juliette grinned. “That’s been a while.”

  Nadia pushed all thoughts of children and becoming mothers and reconnecting with fathers to the deepest recesses of her brain and followed Juliette to the sofa.

  “Sit back and spread your legs,” she said. “Wide.”

  Juliette did as she was bid, an amused expression on her face.

  Nadia looked her over. They’d had a hell of a few weeks again, and this wouldn’t make it all go away, but it would at least calibrate them, bring them closer together and, hopefully, release the last ounce of tension from Juliette’s body.

  Nadia knelt between the coffee table and the sofa—Juliette as her altar. She started with dry kisses on her inner thigh, slowly working her way inwards. Always, when she did this, a feeling of homecoming washed over her. This was them reduced to their physical essence. Juliette with her legs spread wide, Nadia’s head buried between them. Something to always return to. And yes, that night with Dievart might have been satisfying in a completely different way, but the aftertaste was bitter, and the walk of shame out of that wretched hotel room doused in sentiments of regret and heartbreak. Nadia had slept with another woman, a fiercely dominant woman who had effortlessly coaxed her into a role she usually didn’t play in the bedroom, and it had aroused her, she wasn’t going to lie to herself about that, but nothing was more gratifying than coming home to this. Nothing. If she’d learned anything from that empty encounter, it was that.

  Nadia had reached Juliette’s pussy lips. They glistened in the dim light of the living room. She could tell Juliette was fully de-stressed. She didn’t even grab onto Nadia’s hair. Nadia licked along her fiancée’s lips and soon became intoxicated by the taste and smell and the intimacy of it. She lapped at her wife-to-be’s cunt, avoiding her clit for a while, until she felt Juliette melt into the cushions a bit more. She brought a hand below Juliette’s behind and spread her cheeks.

  When her tongue finally touched down on Juliette’s clit, she slid the tip of her forefinger between Juliette’s cheeks, not deep, just to apply some unexpected pressure and, as a result, Juliette did latch on to Nadia’s curls instantly.

  “Oh fuck,” she groaned, and curved her legs around Nadia’s back, chaining the two of them together.

  Nadia let her tongue go wild over and around Juliette’s clit, while increasing the pressure between her butt cheeks. She inhaled, and licked, and fingered, until she, too, felt the stress wash off her.

  “Christ,” Juliette whispered, and unclasped her legs from around Nadia.

  Nadia looked up at her, into the thin film of moistness covering her eyes, and the sated sneer on her lips. “What do you say now about the satisfaction level of a shoulder rub?” she asked.

  Juliette pulled her lips downward and titled her head. “About the same as this,” she said with a giggle in her voice, before hoisting Nadia towards her and kissing her for a long time.

  JULIETTE

  “Oh shit,” Juliette said. They’d borrowed Nadia’s mother’s car and were parked outside a nondescript house in a quiet street in a Lille suburb. Everything around them appeared tinged with grey. The streets, the sidewalks, the façades, the leaden sky, and even the four trees spread out thinly along the length of the street, with just naked, brown-grey branches to show for during autumn. “What the fuck have I done?”

  Beside her, Nadia gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, her knuckles nearly going white. “We can always turn back. There isn’t some script that says you have to go through with this. You don’t owe him anything. Remember that.”

  “Why am I so nervous?” She looked at Nadia, who shot her a comforting smile.

  “Probably not half as much as he is, babe.”

  “I’m not sure someone recovering from a heart attack should go through this. What if I kill him? What if the shock’s too much?” Juliette was being overly dramatic, and looking for a valid last minute excuse.

  “You know what I think?” Nadia turned towards her and brushed Juliette’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I think it won’t be half as bad as you’re probably thinking it’s going to be. We should put a stop to the thoughts going through your head and ring that bell. What’s the worst that could happen, Jules? He did his worst years ago.”

  “You’re right.” Determination grew within Juliette, as something that needed to be grasped right now, before it was won over by doubts again. She reached for the car door. Juliette hadn’t been in Lille for years. She always avoided the place—and living in Paris, it was an easy city to neglect.

  Together, they walked to the front door of number 42. Juliette took a deep breath and rang the bell. After that, she grabbed Nadia’s hand and held on for dear life. She was mainly afraid of what seeing her father after so many years would do to her. She wondered if it would strengthen the hate she had harboured for him for decades, or would chip away at the steely resolve she’d built around her heart. The latter frightened her the most.

  It didn’t take long for the door to open. In front of them appeared a woman in her late sixties, Juliette guessed. Hair un-dyed, but styled meticulously into the sort of wavy coiffure ladies above sixty seemed to just age into.

  “Juliette,” she exclaimed, her voice already breaking. She didn’t say anything for a while after uttering Juliette’s name, like this visit was entirely unplanned.

  “Betty, I assume,” Juliette said.

  “And this must be Nadia.” Betty opened her arms. Was she expecting a hug? How about that for jumping the gun?

  Juliette extended her hand and allowed Betty to grab it. Nadia did the same.

  “Please, come in. Thank you so much.”

  The house they walked into was painstakingly clean, everything shiny and without everyday items lingering on surfaces, but about as characterless as the street outside. Betty led the way to a sunken lounge with plush carpet and a set of beige sofas. In one of them a man looking twenty years older than her father ought to look sat upright, back straight, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pressed pair of trousers. Juliette was surprised he wasn’t wearing a tie.

  “Ma belle,” he mumbled, and pushed himself slowly out of his seat. He opened his arms as though an embrace was a possibility. It wasn’t. Not for Juliette. Bertrand looked like he had shrunk a few inches over the years, and his skin was grooved with deep wrinkles.

  “Bonjour,” Juliette said, because it really was the only word she could think of.

  “Hi, I’m Nadia.” Nadia extended her hand and Juliette watched how Bertrand took it meekly in both his own, as though meeting her was a great honour. It bloody well was.

  “Un petit café?” Betty asked.

  “Black for both of us,” Nadia said.

  “Please, sit, ladies.” Bertrand set the example and lowered himself into the sofa.

  Juliette took the spot next to Nadia in the two-seater
to his right.

  “I hear you’ve done very well for yourself.” Bertrand’s breath wheezed. “Even though I’ve been a shit father and I have nothing to do with your success, I’m very proud of you.”

  Juliette just sat there, watching this old man speak, waiting to feel something, a pang of recognition perhaps, a twinge of nostalgia, or a memory of when she’d admired her father, but it was all gone. Still, she’d come all this way for a reason. She had to at least try.

  “I don’t know if Betty told you, but Nadia and I are getting married four weeks from now.”

  He nodded and stroked the stubble on his chin. “Wonderful news.”

  “How are you doing, Monsieur Barbier?” Nadia asked. “Is your recovery going well?”

  “Please, call me Bertrand.” He shot her a smile Juliette recognised from seeing it on her brother. “As well as can be expected, but I won’t be running marathons any time soon.”

  Betty came in with a tray of cups, saucers and milk. She made a big display of distributing everything and making extra sure everyone was served exactly what they wanted—in Bertrand’s case, a cup of green tea because his doctor had instructed him to lay off the coffee.

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming,” Bertrand said after taking a sip. “I know it’s difficult, but most of all it’s long overdue.” He hung his head a little. “I won’t be the stupid connard I was twenty-five years ago and expect you to ever forgive me for what I did, Juliette, but at least now, if my heart decides to give up on me tomorrow, or next week, or in a few months or years, I will have seen your face; and I will have the memory of you sitting here, in my house, and I will cherish it until my mind goes.” He clasped his hands together. “Thank you for giving me that. I know I don’t deserve it.” The last words seemed to get stuck in the back of his throat. “I’ve wasted the biggest part of my life condemning something so beautiful as the two of you together, but believe me, I’ve been punished for it.” He stopped his speech to dab away a few tears that sprouted from his droopy eyes.

  “What your father means, Juliette, is that he had to suffer the pain of losing a daughter because of his own stupidity.”

  Juliette felt Nadia shuffle in her seat, her thigh shifting against hers. After François had first showed up, she had pushed away the possibility of contacting her family entirely. It was water under the bridge. Why upheave her life now? Then, because Juliette was the bargaining kind, she’d struck a deal with herself to come here if Margot made it. As some sort of penance for all her own mistakes, perhaps. Because if Juliette knew one thing very clearly, it was that she was not free of mistakes herself. No one was. Not in her blood-related family, and not in her adopted family of friends in Paris.

  Once she had made the decision to actually come here, though, her mind had blanked every time she’d tried to think of what to say. It was simply too much to even consider standing face-to-face with this man who had created her but with whom she had absolutely nothing in common except, perhaps, a tendency to make errors of judgement. She’d believed that on the day—today—the words would come when she needed them. She knew it would be an emotional affair, no matter how being confronted by her father would make her feel. More bitter, or maybe even relieved. But Juliette continued to feel nothing. She had done too good a job carving him out of her heart, expelling him from her emotions. It had been the only way for her to move forward, and now, there seemed no way back.

  The man sitting to her left might as well be anyone, that was how much he felt like family. She didn’t know him, didn’t care about him. And she certainly didn’t need his blessing to get married. Whether he had suffered or not because of his mistake didn’t interest her in the least.

  The only ones Juliette was remotely interested in were her nieces. Because she truly had nothing else to say, she asked, “How are Chloé and Iris?”

  Betty was clearly taken aback by her lack of direct response after what she and Bertrand had just said, but recovered quickly, while her father sat stroking his bushy brow. “They’re just darling.” A light chuckle. “Well, they’re getting to that age now when they dare to be flippant, sometimes even a bit crass, I daresay, but they’re sweet girls. Smart as well. Both of them. Sharp as knives.”

  “Do you have any pictures?”

  “Oh, of course, dear.” Betty shot up out of her seat and retrieved an old-fashioned photo-album from a sideboard. “Here you go.” When she handed it to Juliette she let her gaze linger for a split second, but Juliette couldn’t decipher what she was trying to make clear by doing so. This was not the house she grew up in, and these people were strangers to her.

  To buy herself some time from saving the faltering conversation, she opened the album and peered at carefully positioned pictures of two blonde girls. They looked in their early teens and one of them, the eldest Juliette guessed, was the spitting image of her. It was like looking in a mirror and having her teenage self staring back.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” her father said. “She has your character as well.”

  Juliette swallowed back the words rushing to the tip of her tongue. First of all, he had no idea what she was thinking, and second, if he meant she was stubborn, he should examine himself first because Bertrand Barbier certainly took the crown when it came to that particular personality trait.

  No, what Juliette was thinking, as she stared at what could be a mini-version of herself, was that this very moment might become a rather defining one in her life after all. She didn’t want to adopt. She wanted a child of her own. And if that was selfish, then most of her fellow human beings were just as self-centred as she was.

  It didn’t matter that she was sitting in her estranged father’s lounge, experiencing first-hand what parenting-gone-wrong could result in. Truth be told, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She’d kept her end of the bargain. She’d come here. She’d let him welcome her into his house, but the outcome wouldn’t be how he had perhaps hoped it would be—although Juliette had no idea what he had hoped for. If what he was saying was true, and just laying eyes on her was enough, then her job here was done. For herself, there were no benefits to be gotten from this visit, she’d known that from the instant she’d glanced at the old codger in his suit pants and starched shirt.

  “I bet they’d love to meet their Aunt Juliette,” Betty chimed in.

  Juliette remembered what Betty had said on the phone and she had no trouble believing her father’s compagne spoke the truth about Bertrand’s frail condition. So she didn’t say that she felt no connection to him. That any blood they might share had been watered down years ago. That she had no inclination to get to know him better. Instead, she stared at the pictures of her nieces a while longer, and let Nadia carry on the stunted, awkward conversation, until Betty started addressing her personally and Juliette had no choice but to give her an answer.

  So she talked a bit about Barbier & Cyr, and how she’d met Nadia, but her sentences were never more than measured, and her tone almost formal, biding her time until it could be considered polite for them to make an exit.

  “Juliette, erm,” her father started, when the conversation had reached a dead end, “do you think you might visit me again? Perhaps see your brother? Meet Chloé and Iris?”

  She inhaled deeply, still clutching the now closed album in her hands. “Frankly, I don’t think so.”

  Nadia put a hand on her knee and it gave Juliette at least a bit of satisfaction, having her do that in front of her father. Would his heart survive? She knew why the hand was really there. It served as a reminder to cage the sleeping beast inside of her that might now rear its head. But Juliette couldn’t leave without saying anything at all. She couldn’t give the impression that a clean slate was a possibility.

  “Your cruelty towards me knew no bounds, and because of that, I lost all respect for you a long time ago. I have no time to spend on people whom I don’t respect. I’m glad you’re on the mend, and if you want, you can consider my visit a
s me granting you your dying wish, but I won’t be back. There’s no happy ending here. I know that now.”

  Juliette stood and Nadia’s hand slipped off her knee. Nadia quickly rose as well, while Bertrand and Betty just sat there looking at them with their mouths slightly agape.

  “Well,” Betty, the more alert one of the two, sprang up as well. “We really can’t thank you enough for coming, either way.”

  How gracious of her, Juliette thought. Perhaps something of her had rubbed off on Bertrand, who still just sat there, a fresh bunch of tears gathering in his eyes. He possibly didn’t have the strength to get up for her twice.

  More awkward handshakes were exchanged and when Juliette said goodbye to her father, he didn’t dare look her in the eye. Always a coward, was all she could think.

  When she slid back in the passenger seat, a weight had lifted from her shoulders. This trip had not been in vain. She knew what she wanted now; she just didn’t know how to tell Nadia.

  “How do you feel?” Nadia asked.

  “When it comes to him, it’s all empty here.” She tapped a hand to her chest. “It’s just… gone.”

  Nadia nodded, an understanding expression on her face. “You’re so brave to have come here.”

  “I think we might come back to Lille sooner than you might think, babe.” Juliette pursed her lips. “I think it’s time Chloé and Iris met their aunty.” Because Juliette couldn’t be bothered spending any time with her father—or her brother for that matter—but she was dying to discover what these girls were like, and perhaps, in the process, make Nadia fall in love with a tiny version of her.

  STEPH

  Steph, Dominique, Juliette and Claire sat huddled around Steph’s desk. She hoped she would be upgraded to a larger office soon. Four people squeezed into what was really nothing more than a glorified cubicle should make that clear to her bosses.