Love Me in the Dark

by Mia Asher

  “Come here, Jack,” his father orders. “Leave the lady alone.”

  “It’s okay.” She smiles at my family members and then focuses all of her attention on little Jack who’s eyeing her with curiosity. “I’m Valentina and I’m your Uncle Sebs’s friend. How do you do?”

  “Good. I lost a tooth, and I didn’t cry when Daddy pull it out. There was blood everywhere.” He grins, showing her the gap. “See. Do you know the Tooth Fairy? She left me five Euros.”

  “What a brave boy you are.”

  “Yep.” He turns to Sophie who’s watching him with a motherly pride. “Mommy, per’aps you can invite her for dinner at our house instead of the other ladies that Uncle Sebs didn’t like.”

  The matchmaking wheels set in motion, Sophie claps in excitement. “But what a splendid idea!”

  Jack snorts. “You’re in trouble, man.” He looks at Valentina and mouths the word “run,” which makes her laugh.

  “Really … How many have there been?” Valentina asks laughingly, joining the let’s-roast-Uncle-Sebs-party.

  “Tons.” He scrunches up his nose in dislike. “And one pinched my cheek very hard. I didn’t like it.”

  Isabella, the little minx, joins in. “Oh, and the lady with the red shoes who hated men.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, that one was doomed from the beginning.”

  Everyone bursts out laughing, and the kitchen once devoid of life is now bursting with it. My eyes find Valentina, like they always do. My family members fade into the meaningless background as we stare at each other.

  She smiles at me.

  And there it is again …

  The light.

  Hope.

  IN A HAZE, I make it back to my place after staying for breakfast at Sébastien’s. I go to the bathroom, turn the shower on. The clothes kiss my skin as they fall to the marble floor, and I jump in. I tilt my head back and close my eyes. The hot water covers me from head to toe, the steam rising around me.

  My movements are methodical, but my mind is somewhere else, bursting with memories. The night and morning tangle together like a never-ending loop. Going to his apartment after he fled the balcony. Seeing the grief, the desolation, the utter hopelessness in his eyes as he opened the door. He wanted to push me away, but I wasn’t going to let him. I didn’t know what to do, but the necessity to shield him from his own pain, to be there for him in his moment of need, became vital to me. Therefore I offered myself to his ravaging agony. I thought, take this body. Punch it with your words. Scar it with your hands. But come back to me. Bring back the Sébastien I’ve come to know.

  The anger vibrating in his arms as I held him should have scared me. However, my only thoughts were that he was hurting, that he needed me. A flood of questions inundated my mind, but I knew he wasn’t ready to share answers with me just yet, so I just held him through it all.

  When sleep came for him at last, I thought about leaving but I took one glance at his hand entwined with mine, and I knew I couldn’t. Just like I know something changed in our relationship. A nameless moment that filled the never-ending quiet—the kind of small moment life is made out of.

  I reach for the shampoo, pour some into my hand, enjoying its fruity smell of berries, before massaging it into my scalp. I smile as I think of this morning.

  The laughter … the banter … the companionship … his lips on my skin … what I saw in his eyes, a direct reflection of mine, right before we were interrupted … his lovely family as they tried to make me feel welcome.

  It should have been too much. Too overwhelming. Red flags should have been waved. Sirens heard. But all I could think was that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy or when I’d had such a good time.

  Sébastien’s parting words as we stood outside his apartment intrude my mind like a midnight robber, sobering me up.

  “There’s a party tomorrow night at Plaza Athénée. I’d like you to come with me.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know how to do this, Sébastien.” I point a finger between the two of us, thinking of a million reasons why I shouldn’t even contemplate the idea of going. “When you’re around …” I find myself wanting you more and more. I bite my lower lip. “I’m afraid I’ll come to regret all of this.”

  He chuckles. “You know, regrets aren’t such a bad thing. Sometimes giving fear the middle finger can feel fucking good.” He taps my nose gently. “I’ll be at the party until eleven.”

  “What happens if I don’t go?”

  “But, ma petite chouette, what if you do?”

  It’s just an invitation.

  But, somehow, it seems more than that.

  IT’S SO EASY TO blame others for one’s mistakes. That way we don’t have to be held accountable for whatever part, big or small, we’ve played. I could place the blame on William’s shoulders as to why I’m here, standing outside the famous hotel. I could blame his disloyalty for each step I make that brings me closer to a man who isn’t him—my husband.

  But deep down, I will always know I’m here because I want to be.

  All day yesterday and today, I tried to come up with empty excuses that would stop me from coming. It will give Sébastien the wrong idea. It will be very unwise and foolish of me. I want him, and I shouldn’t. Nothing good will come from it. However, none of those excuses stopped me from checking the time, from counting down the hours.

  And as I got ready, choosing a form-fitting muted silver dress with spaghetti straps and a plunging back, I deliberately thought about everything with the exception of whom I was dressing for and where I was going. Seems like I’ve gotten really good at lying to myself.

  I am now standing at the entrance of the hall searching for him, and that’s when I can’t continue pretending anymore. Truth of the matter is that I never had any intention of not coming.

  Dry throat. Sweaty palms. Excitement runs rampant through my veins with each step I take. The room pulses with life and music and the buzz of conversation. The smell of flowers coats the air like a cocoon. Expensive champagne and wine fuel the licentious behavior of people around me. It’s all the more thrilling because I know he’s here and because I shouldn’t be.

  I spot him standing by the bar surrounded by a group of people. Mesmerized, I pause to take him in. Sébastien. A thief amongst kings. And how he shines against a backdrop that is already blinding in its splendor. He’s laughing at something when his eyes connect with mine. Instantly, the room disappears, dissolving to dust, except for the two of us. He smiles a smile that could melt gold, one that I know is only for me. He slowly raises the flute in a silent toast before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip as he watches me over the rim of the glass. My ears begin to buzz. I lick my lips almost expecting to taste the champagne on mine—to taste him.

  My feet begin to move of their own accord. As the space between us disappears, so does my guilt. Tomorrow when I’m no longer under his spell, when the truth is staring at me right in the face and I can’t deny it anymore, I’ll deal with the consequences.

  But not tonight.

  Without taking his eyes off of me, Sébastien excuses himself from the group as he signals me with a barely perceptible nod of his head to follow him. He walks toward an empty balcony to the left of the bar, far away from all the hubbub and the guests. While I silently trail after him, I observe both women and men hungrily watching his every step while moving to the side to let him through.

  He reaches the balcony first. With less than five steps separating us, I pause to take a deep breath while gathering my courage, and step out into the night. Sébastien glances back, and our eyes lock until I come to stand next to him.

  “I feel like I should say, ‘Surprise, I came!’ or something like that, but you always knew I’d come, didn’t you?”Sébastien turns his body toward mine, leans down and places a kiss on each of my cheeks. He’s deliberately slow, taking his time as his lips make contact
with my skin, setting a massive amount of butterflies loose in my stomach. And they turn from butterflies to lions roaring inside me. “I didn’t, but I hoped you would.”

  Dizzy, I place my hands on the iron railing for support. Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, I focus on the Eiffel Tower shining brightly and illuminating the night sky as its beam lights up the city. I try to make sense of the inner turmoil this maddening man causes inside me, but it’s of no use. There’s no logic to it. No reason. How can I put down into words what he awakens in me with his mere proximity when I can barely understand it?

  “I love the way the Eiffel Tower sparkles.”

  “They are golden lights that go on every night, every hour on the hour.”

  “It’s beautiful. Makes me think that it’s covered in stars. Great party, by the way.”

  “It is now.”

  Blushing, I pretend I didn’t hear him even though my legs suddenly don’t feel strong enough. A smile crosses my lips as I trace the railing with my fingertip, secretly loving his words. How can Sébastien be so absurd and yet so endearing at the same time?

  He bumps my shoulder with his. “Did I say something amusing?”

  I shake my head, thinking that now would be the perfect time to change the subject. “How was your day?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile as though he knows what I just did and why. “Really, Valentina? You’re asking me about my day? Next, you’ll talk about the weather.”

  I laugh. “Seemed the polite thing to do.”

  A couple steps outside onto the balcony next to ours. She has blond hair and long red nails. I frown. Something about her seems familiar. The man and woman don’t waste any time, losing themselves in their embrace.

  “So … Paris. How’s it treating you?” I hear Sébastien ask, drawing back my attention to him.

  “Who’s being polite now?”

  “Trying to behave here.”

  “Really?” I arch an eyebrow, teasing him. “You? Behave? Do you ever?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Like you’re doing right now?”

  Spellbound, I watch Sébastien raise a hand to caress the arc of my cheek with the back of his fingers as a strand of hair falls across his forehead. His lips curve sinfully. His heavy-lidded eyes fall upon my mouth. “Oui, ma petite chouette, even though good behavior is the last thing on my mind at the moment.”

  I laugh as his words send a current of excitement and shivers shooting right through me, coating my body in heat. I want him. I want him inside of me. I want to know the taste of his seed on my tongue. The force of his thrusts. And most of all, I want this. The laughter. The butterflies. Him. I stare at the skyline and its timeless architecture, taking a deep breath, trying to smother the hunger of my body and my heart. I clear my throat. “So. Paris. I was walking around the city the other day. Rediscovering it, really.”

  “Funny that. I’d assumed this was your first time.”

  “No.” I shake my head, meeting his gaze again. “My first on my own, though.”

  “I see.” A shadow crosses over his face, darkening his eyes and dimming their light fleetingly. But he blinks, and it’s gone. “And has it changed since?”

  “Not really. But the way I view it has. Ever watch Runaway Bride?”

  “Can’t say that I have.” He pulls a packet of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his tuxedo, offers me one, but I politely decline. After a short nod, he lights one, takes a drag, blowing out the smoke through his mouth and nose. “Any good?”

  As the smoke curls like a snake in the air, I’m tempted to ask him for a drag, just so I can place my lips where his have been …

  Focus. Movie. Right.

  “Well, I think so, but then again, romantic movies are right in my wheelhouse.” I throw him a conspiratorial glance, grinning. “Especially the cheesy holiday ones.”

  He grins back. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hallmark sucker, here. Anyway … Julia. Runaway Bride. There’s this scene in the movie where Richard Gere asks Julia’s character what kind of eggs she likes. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of, ‘Whatever you like or whatever you’re having.’ You see, she didn’t know how she liked her eggs because she always ate them the same way the man she happened to be with at the time preferred them.”

  Cigarette back to his lips. Inhales. Exhales. “Sounds like she didn’t know her mind.”

  “Exactly. So then, Gere’s character asks her, ‘No, what kind of eggs do you like?’” I pause, worrying my lip. God, I’d really kill for that cigarette now. “I’ve done a lot of thinking since I got here. Soul-searching, I guess. And like Julia’s character, I’ve realized I don’t know how I like my eggs either. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I forgot who I am, what I like and what I don’t. I’ve been so focused on pleasing my husband, fitting in his world, that I forgot about me.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not his fault. He never forced me to change. I did it all because I wanted to.”

  My aunt once told me that women marry men hoping that they can change them, but they can’t. And men marry women hoping they’ll never change, but they always do. But when I met William, I didn’t see a man who I wanted to change to fit me. I didn’t want to tame him. He was perfect the way he was. Instead, I wanted to change so I could be worthy of him.

  Shaking my head, I smile sadly. “I’m sorry … I’m unloading all of my emotional BS with you, and it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. The baggage of a bored, messed-up housewife.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re all fucked up in our own little ways. Besides, love can be like that. Make one fly so damn high, you’re blind to the fall. And, sometimes, even if you see it—know that there’s no way you’ll survive it—you just don’t give a damn because it feels damn fucking good.”

  I clear my throat, looking away, and stare down at the street. I focus on a black car driving away—it’s less risky for my peace of mind and heart. Just when I think the storm has passed and I’ve made it out alive, he reaches for my hand tentatively, softly, and the touch is more intimate than a kiss could ever be, more devastating. Every atom in my body attuned to him, begging him silently to never let me go, to stay right here with me just holding my hand. He turns it over, so my palm is facing up, and he covers it with his. No words are spoken. There’s no need for them. The silence is comfortable like the warm breeze kissing my skin.

  “Where do you go from here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One must live. Fall. Fail. Get up. Try again and again until we get it right. Life is too short to not know how you like your eggs, Valentina.”

  “I don’t know.” I pause, watching people walk by, trying to guess their destinations, thinking of Guillaume and the flower shop and how good it felt to get the job, to have a purpose. “Maybe … Maybe find out if I like to dance in the rain. What it feels like to stay up all night and watch the sunrise. Pretend to be someone else for a day for kicks and giggles.”

  “Look at me, Valentina,” he orders gently.

  Hesitantly, always hesitantly when it comes to him, I will myself to meet his eyes.

  “You’re more than what you give yourself credit for.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I scoff, trying to hide my glass-thin vulnerability behind a beat-up armor.

  “You know what I see when I look at you?”

  I give my head a tiny shake.

  “When I look at you I see a woman who might’ve lost her way, but I know she’s brave enough to find it back. She knows it too. She just needs a little push in the right direction.”

  Silence grows and matures like a tree around us. He raises his hand, as though in slow motion or a dream, sliding it under my hair. He molds his palm along the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking my hot skin, replacing the blood in my veins with liquid lava.

  “What are you thinking about?” I whisper.

  Sébastie
n leans forward until our faces are dangerously close. My mind shouts at me to move, but I unwisely ignore it while drowning in an ocean of blue. Every part of my body tingles.

  “That I’ve never wanted to kiss someone like I want to kiss you right now.”

  A pause that tastes bitter like betrayal.

  “I’m married.”

  Another pause. This one tastes like regret, hopelessness.

  He rubs his thumb over my jawline, my bottom lip. “Why did you come then, Valentina?”

  “Because I wanted to. Because I need to be where you are. Because when I’m with you, I’m happy.”

  Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I register the sound of people laughing, the honking of a car, the siren of an ambulance—life moving around us as though nothing is out of the ordinary. It all fades to a meaningless nothing because of a man who holds me as though I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

  Breathing hard, I grab him by the wrist. His skin is smooth and hard, warm and inviting. And I never want to let go even though I should.

  “Say something,” I whisper.

  “Your husband is a fool. If you were mine …” He takes me by surprise when he lowers his face and kisses each of my fingers. His demanding lips send shockwaves running through me. “Jesus Christ, Valentina, you make me feel things I never thought would be possible to feel again,” he croaks, kissing my forehead. The laughing man has been replaced by a somber stranger, one whose eyes are full of pain and desperation. I want to pull him into my arms and hold onto him through the pain once again. “I look at you and I dare to hope even though—”

  “Valentina? Is that you?” I hear a familiar voice ask, breaking the spell of the moment.

  No. No. No! I curse the gods who keep interrupting us as I guiltily step away from Sébastien and put some space between us, turning in the direction of the woman’s voice.

  “Gigi?” Shock slices through me as I watch my friend step into the light. Soul Cycled legs. Cherry red lips. She’s wearing a mini red dress that leaves very little to the imagination. Georgiana “Gigi” Stanhope. A sex bomb. A fixture in social magazines and fundraisers. And who happens to be married to one of William’s best friends and partners. “What are you doing here?”