Kissed in Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  “Sophie, seriously, I’ll tell you guys everything that happened. Just put my stuff back.”

  “Fine.” She put the bra back in the bag and plopped it down at her feet. “So, answer the question. How did you buy the lingerie?”

  “Someone gave it to me,” I said, feeling my face flush as I remembered Julien pressed up against me in the dressing room of the lingerie store.

  “Who?” Lily screeched, leaning over Sophie’s shoulder.

  “A guy named Julien.”

  “You let a random French man buy you lingerie?” Magali asked, her hazel eyes widening to the size of quarters in the rear-view mirror.

  “No, he wasn’t a random French man. He was the brother of the guy who stole my things.”

  “Oh my God,” Lily said. “He’s a thief too though, isn’t he? You let a French thief buy you lingerie?”

  “Why are your cheeks turning red?” Magali asked as she stared me down in the mirror.

  “They’re not red,” I replied as calmly as I could, feeling my skin heat up to the temperature of the broiling sun.

  I floored the gas, wishing I could jump out of the car and avoid all of their questions. God, this was much worse than I thought it would be.

  “They’re totally red,” Lily said.

  “Did you like this guy?” Sophie asked.

  “I needed some clean underwear,” I snapped. “Remember? All of my things were stolen?”

  “Is he cute?” Magali asked.

  “Okay! Enough. Can you all just calm down and stop firing questions at me? I just got off a plane from France, I’m exhausted, my life is a mess, and the three of you aren’t helping!”

  Silence comforted me for about ten seconds before Magali piped up again from the back seat. “But we don’t understand what’s going on. Can you just explain it to us?”

  With my head spinning and my eyes trying desperately to focus on the highway, I sighed. “Fine. But no more questions. Just listen, okay?”

  “Okay,” my sisters said in unison.

  It didn’t matter how old they were now, when they were all together, they still reminded me of the same little girls they were after my mom had died.

  I told them the whole story, just as I’d told it to Paul, leaving out the details that were still reeling in the forefront of my mind—like the way Julien had kissed me the night before, the way I’d felt when I’d walked away from him this morning, as if I was leaving a part of myself in that car with him, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get it back. I also left out the details about our mom, and thankfully Sophie had stopped looking through my shopping bag before she’d found the letters or the photo.

  I focused on the facts. Claude stole my passport. I followed Julien—the supposed undercover agent—to get it back. I found out Julien was really Claude’s brother and an ex-con himself, then I called the police after Claude showed up. Julien’s other brother—the real government agent—got me off the hook, and now everything was going to be fine.

  But as I pulled into my driveway, turned off the car and swiveled around to look at my three sisters, they just stared at me, their eyes agog, their mouths hanging open.

  “What?” I asked. “Stop looking at me like that. I told you all what happened. Now let’s go inside and move on. We have a wedding to deal with.”

  “Move on?” Sophie’s dark blue eyes fixated on me. “Are you serious? You have a bag full of French lingerie from the guy you’ve just spent the past four days with, and just the mention of his name, Julien, makes your cheeks blush. You didn’t give us any of the details. The juicy details. Come on, Chloe, this is the first time, like ever, that you’ve had something interesting happen to you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Just that your life is really . . . you know.”

  “Oh just spit it out, Sophie,” Lily chimed in from the back seat. “It’s boring!”

  I flipped my head around and glared at my pale, blond sister, her blue eyes suddenly not so innocent.

  “So give us the rest of the story,” Sophie prodded.

  “There is no rest of the story. I told you everything that happened, and now it’s time to go inside, back to what you all apparently think is my boring life.”

  Sophie grabbed my arm. “You’ve always been a horrible liar. What happened with this guy?”

  “Nothing happened, Sophie. Let go of me.”

  “Are you and Paul going to be okay?”

  Before I had a chance to come up with an answer, her cell phone rang.

  I snatched my bag from Sophie’s hands and climbed out of the car, my feet heavy on the pavement, my body limp and exhausted from all of the arguing, all of the lying. Things were usually the other way around with my sisters and me. They were the ones calling me with their dramatic episodes, and I was the one asking the questions, offering advice, fixing whatever needed to be fixed.

  They weren’t used to being in the position of caretaker because they’d never had to be. I’d taken over for my mom right where she left off, determined not to let our little family disintegrate into a million pieces after our lifeline, our strong post, our mother, was taken from us so suddenly.

  I stopped on the walkway and stared up at the faded red brick townhouse where I’d lived with Paul for the past year, watching as a massive black rain cloud loomed over the roof, threatening to heave pellets of cold water on the place I’d thought I would call home for a long time to come. Closing my eyes, I realized that I was right back where I’d been when I was twelve. At the cusp of another family disintegration. Except this time, even at twenty-nine years old, after years of counseling, fixing and planning everyone else’s lives, I hadn’t a clue what to do to prevent my life from spiraling into oblivion.

  “Chloe,” Sophie called out just as I had convinced myself to unlock the front door. “It was Dad on the phone. He’s at Maggiano’s up on Wisconsin Avenue with Paul and his parents. They’re waiting for us for dinner.”

  ***

  “Don’t say a word about anything I told you in the car or about what you found in my bag,” I instructed my sisters as the four of us bounded into Maggiano’s, the massive, family-style Italian restaurant where Paul’s parents always insisted on taking us each time they came into town.

  “Obviously. We’re not idiots, Chloe,” Magali said. I could tell by her teenage, know-it-all tone that she’d probably just rolled her eyes at me, but I couldn’t deal with her right now. I couldn’t deal with any of them. I was about as hyped up as a cat being ported off to the vet for its yearly vaccinations, except that in this case, I’d rather take the needles. Anything would be better than facing Paul for the first time in this huge, sterile restaurant in front of my dad, my sisters, and much, much worse—in front of my future in-laws. Well, my potential future in-laws. Ugh.

  The smell of lasagna and tomato sauce should’ve come as a comfort to my empty stomach, but instead it made me feel nauseous. We trailed behind the overly-bubbly hostess as she weaved us through swarms of crowded tables, the laughing and the banter shooting through my ears like a car alarm in the middle of the night. I needed to talk to Paul in the quiet of our home. Alone. Not in this zoo of a restaurant where I felt as if time was barreling toward me like a giant steam roller on high speed.

  And before I could stop it, there he was. There was Paul.

  He stood when he saw us approaching and a generic, tight smile washed over his pale face. I tried to smile, tried to appear normal, but as Julien’s warm goofy grin, his dimple, and his smiling big brown eyes flashed through my mind, the corners of my mouth just wouldn’t budge.

  Paul, being the polite, well-mannered man he’d always been, walked up to me and kissed me on the cheek, though I couldn’t help but notice the way his chilly gaze avoided mine and the awkward manner in which he held his hands at his sides, not sure if he even wanted to touch me.

  Julien’s words from the night before made an unwelcome appearance in my already dizzy head as I circled
the table to greet Paul’s parents.

  You always have a choice.

  I’d made my choice. So why didn’t this feel right?

  “So how’s our bride-to-be holding up?” Paul’s father, James, bellowed above the restaurant clatter.

  “Oh, just fine,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady as I leaned down to hug Patricia, Paul’s mother.

  She gave me her usual air peck before smiling awkwardly, the way she always did when anyone, even her own son, embraced her.

  I sat down in between Paul and my big bear of a father, his gray hair in desperate need of a haircut, his belly a little larger than the last time I saw him. “Hi, Dad,” I said wearily, trying to ignore the way the lines on his forehead pressed together, a tell-tale sign of the anxiety he’d carried around with him ever since my mother had died, which was no doubt flaring up in full force this week.

  He leaned toward me, the smell of his Old Spice aftershave too strong for my weak stomach. “Jesus, Chloe. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he whispered in my ear.

  I placed my hand on his and squeezed it with a pleading smile. “It’s great to see you too, Dad.”

  I prayed that both he and my sisters would be capable of acting normal and keeping their mouths shut for this one night in front of Paul’s parents. I knew for certain that Paul would never have told them what was going on, so if we could just get through this dinner—.

  “So, Chloe, Paul was just telling us that your business trip to France was extended,” James said as he cut off a slice of bread and slathered a knife-full of butter onto it.

  “Mmhmm,” I nodded, hoping he and Patricia hadn’t seen the nervous glances my sisters were exchanging across the table.

  “Horrible timing with the wedding coming up this weekend,” James said. “That boss of yours sounds like a real slave driver. Good thing you won’t have to put up with her for much longer.”

  I was just about to change the subject when I realized what James had said. I turned to Paul to find his eyes darting around the table, looking anywhere but at me.

  “You quit your job?” Sophie asked as three servers arrived at our table and began setting down giant platters of fresh mozzarella, pasta and salad.

  My eyes were still glued to Paul, my words caught in my throat. But finally, I willed them to come out. “Paul, what is your dad talking about?”

  He turned to me, his eyes cold. “You know, Chloe. The Pennsylvania job.” Then he reached forward and dished a heaping spoonful of spaghetti onto his plate.

  “You took it?” I asked, certain he would tell me that no, of course he hadn’t taken the job without waiting for me to come home and talk things through. That his dad was just jumping the gun, as usual.

  But instead, he nodded.

  “What Pennsylvania job?” Lily asked through a mouthful of salad.

  “You’re moving to Pennsylvania?” Magali added, not hiding the disgust in her voice.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?” My Dad’s gruff voice overpowered the servers singing an obnoxious version of Happy Birthday at the table next to us.

  And Paul just sat there, chewing his spaghetti and slurping his ice water, like nothing had happened. Like his fiancée hadn’t just returned from an insane chase through France, like he hadn’t just told me the day before that he wasn’t sure if he still wanted to marry me, like I hadn’t just found out through his father that he’d taken the job in that remote town in Pennsylvania.

  Suddenly my sisters, my father, and Paul’s parents all began talking at once. A firing squad of questions shooting straight at my head.

  And for once in my life, I didn’t have the answers. I couldn’t fix the problem. It was all I could do to push myself up from that table and walk blindly through the dining room and down the hallway, knocking over a tall vase of red gladiolas on my way out the door, and not stopping to apologize.

  I sucked the humid evening air into my lungs as I raced down the busy sidewalk, trying desperately to find that comforting scent of lavender and rosemary I’d smelled at the vineyard.

  But I couldn’t. It was gone.

  Twenty-four

  The cab dropped me off at the only place where I knew I could find her.

  I ran my hands, wet from wiping the stream of tears off my cheeks, over the engraving.

  Claire Marie Turner

  Beloved Mother and Wife

  March 20, 1953 – September 1, 1993

  My shaky fingers hovered over the date we lost her, and I realized that tomorrow of all days was the first of September. It was the anniversary of the day we’d lost my mother. I’d been so consumed with my own problems that I hadn’t remembered.

  I didn’t even feel my legs folding beneath me until my hands met the cold, wet ground. I wished the earth would swallow me whole, take me to wherever my mom was, so I could see her again. So I could tell her I was sorry I’d forgotten.

  And so I could ask her why.

  Why had the life I’d planned out so perfectly, so precisely, flipped upside down in a matter of days?

  And why didn’t I know what to do about it?

  My back plummeted to the ground, my weary eyes gazing up at the looming, dark clouds moving swiftly overhead, still threatening to unload their heavy rain, but not willing to give in quite yet.

  Was I being stubborn like those clouds, holding onto something that it was time to let go of? Hovering over those closest to me, as if I knew what was best for all of them, when I clearly didn’t even know what was best for myself?

  A big, cool drop of rain splattered on my cheek, followed by another, and another, until the drops transformed into a full-on downpour.

  My heavy body sank deeper into the earth next to my mother, the water washing over my face, pooling in my eyes. And I knew then, deep down, that I had been holding on too tightly. I’d been planning, controlling, and fixing everyone else’s lives for so long that I hadn’t stopped to evaluate my own. Instead, my life plan was to play it safe. Never rock the boat. Stay in control.

  Paul had been part of that plan. Even back in college, when we’d first started dating, he’d been the safe bet. He’d been there to comfort me when I’d found out my boyfriend of two years had been cheating on me, and from one look at Paul—the way he combed his jet black hair neatly to the side and always carried a ballpoint pen in his front pocket—I knew he would never cheat. He was stable, and after the years I’d spent steering my family to shore after the loss of my mother, I needed stability. I craved it.

  And suddenly there it was. The voice I needed to hear so badly, so desperately—the voice of my mother—asking me the one question I’d been avoiding all along. The same question Julien had asked me just one night and an ocean ago.

  Do you love him?

  I knew the answer to that question. I used to love Paul. I did.

  But I also knew that I wasn’t in love with him anymore.

  With the rain drenching me and my back sinking further into the cold, wet ground, I gripped my mother’s headstone and sat up.

  I’d known for years that I hadn’t been in love with Paul.

  But he was stable. And I’d clung to that stability like a life vest, thinking that without it, I would drown.

  But here I was, drowning anyway.

  And it was time to swim back up to the surface.

  ***

  I stood in the doorway of Paul’s office back in our townhouse in DC, my hair and my clothes sopping wet as shivers wracked my body.

  Paul sat alone at his desk, staring straight ahead at the wall, his framed degree from Georgetown Law perched just above his gaze.

  “We need to talk,” I said as I gingerly took a seat on the couch, my body still trembling with chills.

  “Where were you?” He turned to me, his expression numb, his black eyes a deep, bottomless void.

  “I had to get away to think. I went to see my mom.”

  When he didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge my words, I pressed
on. “Paul, are you happy with the life we have together?” I knew it was a loaded question, but it was one that I desperately needed to hear the truth on.

  Paul shook his head at me, his passive expression turning to frustration as he slammed his fist down on the desk. “Not right now, I’m not. No. What the hell were you thinking storming out of dinner on my parents like that? You know I didn’t tell them anything about what happened this week. The least you and your family could’ve done was act normal and keep your mouths shut for one fucking night.”

  “I’m sorry my family isn’t picture perfect like yours,” I snapped, unable to mask the bitterness in my voice. “And why exactly were we even having dinner with your parents on my first night back when there are obviously bigger things we need to be dealing with, like do you even want to marry me on Saturday?”

  Paul crumpled up a piece of paper in his fist and threw it at the trash can, missing by about an inch. Then he lifted his eyes to mine, a mixture of anger, hurt, and sadness passing through them. But he didn’t answer me.

  “Before all of this happened, before this past week, were you happy with our life together?” I pushed.

  “What exactly are you getting at?”

  I wrapped my arms around my chilled body, goose bumps still prickling my skin, and summoned up the courage to keep going. “Just answer me, Paul. Was this the life you’ve always wanted? The two of us working non-stop, doing project after project on this townhouse—”

  “I thought you loved the townhouse.”

  “I do, Paul. But you’re missing my point. I know we’ve been together eight years, and I know it’s normal for some of the passion, or the romance so to speak, to die down.” I locked eyes with him then, wanting to be sure he really heard me. “But, was it ever really there to begin with?”

  “That’s what this is about? Passion? Romance? What do you think this is, Chloe? A goddamn romance novel?”

  “No, Paul. I don’t think our lives are supposed to mirror a romance novel. I just think that . . . well, we’ve been living like we’re business partners for years now! All we do is work, fix up the house, talk about work and talk about fixing up the house.”