by Hazel Parker
“Yeah, I may be working, but go take care of her.”
“Of course, thanks, sis.”
Him calling me sis, weird as it sounds, was a bit more comforting and touching than his usual greetings and departures. We slung around expletives like they were compliments, and I was not afraid to punch him when he acted up. It was our way of keeping each other more or less “in check.”
The call made me feel better. It reminded me that no matter how shitty these few days in Paris might go, I still had my family to depend upon. Even if Grandpa would make quips about me finding a gentleman, even if Dad stressed dealing with a bitter widowed parent, even if Nick and Brett had to focus on their kids more than on their siblings, the Ferraris were still a tight-knit, cohesive rock I could always rest my weary head upon.
But there was just one problem that I finally let myself admit when I got on the elevator.
Brett’s not the one you need to have this spill-your-guts conversation with.
The elevator doors opened. I had to get going, I had to get to my next meeting, I had to move. But I had to do one thing first.
I headed over to the restaurant. Pierre had not moved. He was sipping on his coffee with a look of a zombie on his face. I cleared my throat and walked over to him.
“I have to go to work,” I said as he slowly shifted his gaze to me. “But I’ll be back here at eight p.m.”
Now or never.
“Come to room three-one-one-eight. We’re going to talk. No more hints. No more dancing around and saying you have your reasons. I want to know everything.”
I didn’t wait for Pierre to respond. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what his response was to such a bold move, anyway. I whirled around and made my way for the front door without another word or a glance back.
No doubt, I had just taken probably the biggest risk of my life. I was letting a man who had not just hurt me but had left an indelible scar on me back into my world, my hotel room, within mere feet of my bed. For as much as I felt like there was so much left unsaid, I could have been enormously wrong.
But for the sake of understanding, of forgiving myself, of allowing myself to stop being the victim and to stop using self-defenses of spiciness and savagery, I had to do this.
This was not about “getting Pierre back” or “rekindling a romance” or “reliving five years ago.” It was about the truth.
But I understood the risk. I understood that the truth did not come in a vacuum. And that was especially true with someone as handsome, mysterious, and troublesome as Pierre.
* * *
The day went by without a hitch. I put thoughts of Pierre, the evening, and the previous twelve hours behind me, met with multiple hotel owners, had lunch with Helene and two of her business partners, and managed to procure scheduled phone calls for wine distribution. By any professional standard, the day was a success, perhaps arguably the most successful one of all.
But here I was, five minutes before eight, in my hotel room, with a glass of Ferrari Wine in front of me, my shoes off but my dress still on, sitting on the couch in my room, wondering just what the hell I was about to get myself into.
I went back and forth on whether or not to change into something simpler, something more casual, like something you’d see, say, a twenty-year-old on a Tuesday night in her dorm room wearing. But I knew Pierre would never show up dressed so poorly or so ratty. If I was going to get as much out of him as I could, I had to show some respect.
But I wasn’t going to project false humility. This dress made me look damn good. And if there was one thing I knew about Pierre, it was that when the sex drive got turned on, its zero to sixty time was all but nonexistent.
There was enough space on the couch such that we could sit on opposite ends and talk to each other but not feel so close that we had no choice but to touch each other. The whole thing was a delicate dance; I wanted to show an openness and listening ear to him, but I had to protect myself from getting hurt. I knew Pierre, just by this morning, would not try to seduce me as he had five years ago, but to pretend the possibility was non-existent was naive.
I told myself not to touch him until he was already on the way out. I told myself to let him say whatever but to not touch him. I told myself that I could reconsider if I would want him later, as remote and slim as those odds were, but whatever happened, I could not touch him.
And then a knock came at the door, and I felt like all of my well-laid plans were suddenly exposed as the folly of someone who thought they could box a professional, only to realize this was not a simulation or a game of the mind, but the real deal. Each knock was like the ding-ding-ding that signaled the start of a match, and I was without a referee to protect me.
I went to the front door, told myself I could do this, and opened it. And sure enough, as tall, limber, and lithe as he always was, Pierre Perocheau stood.
But as he entered, there was something noticeably different about him. Gone was the man who walked up to me, whispered something French in my ear, and didn’t hope it would work so much as he just knew. Gone was the man who could walk toward me in the middle of a nightclub, irrespective of anyone around him, and know that somehow, even with all of my anger, I’d let him ride in the cab.
Instead, now, I was staring at a man who looked like he had no idea how to even look at a woman, let alone charm and seduce her. The nervous energy radiating from him was something I would have expected from a high school crush, not a forty-something Frenchman.
“Wine?” I asked.
“Sure, sure,” he said, following me in as he took a seat on the opposite end of the couch.
I gave him the glass of wine and sat down.
“Well, Pierre…” I said.
He said nothing. I sighed.
“Pierre, I brought you here because I knew there were things you weren’t saying this morning,” I said. “I’m probably a fucking idiot for having you here in the first place, but I guess you could say I need this for myself as much as I need it for you or whatever. But that entails you talking. If you’re not going to say anything, then, well, that’ll be it. So, Pierre, start talking.”
“OK,” he said, pausing for several seconds. “This is very difficult.”
I tried my best not to be judgmental, not to tell him to hurry it the hell up, but this was frustrating. I’d spent five years in agony, and he couldn’t have spent that time thinking about how a conversation like this would go?
“What I did was embarrassing. A day has not gone by where I have not felt the kind of regret that a man would carry with him to the grave.”
It was a little bit of the Pierre I’d felt myself so attracted to. But now, instead of being directed toward courtship, it was directed toward introspection. Perhaps an old dog could learn some new tricks.
“Truth be told, before I did what I did, those two days in Paris were two of the happiest days I had experienced in years. They reminded me…”
He trailed off and looked at the wall, obviously in an attempt to avoid me seeing the tears form in his eyes. I would give him some time. Some.
“Layla, I had a family.”
The fuck?
Maybe that was the wrong reaction, but in the silence that followed those words, my initial reaction was to think his home life had sucked, that he had cheated on his wife with me, and that his regret stemmed from an ugly divorce. I tried my best not to jump to conclusions, but perhaps jumping to conclusions was all I had gotten good at in the last several years.
“I had a family,” he repeated as if he couldn’t believe the words were finally being said. “And that family...look, Layla.”
Finally, he stared right at me. His eyes were still watery, but it was like he’d finally reached the point where he didn’t care if I saw his true vulnerability. The look he gave me...it was touching and vulnerable and painful.
And it was sweet.
“The reason why I left you like I did was because you were the first woman I had any real feelings
for since my family. Since my wife and two boys were killed in a car accident.”
Oh, shit…
Suddenly, I felt like an enormous bitch.
I’d always viewed Pierre as selfish, arrogant, and distant. In a strange way, maybe those descriptors weren’t wrong. But I had always seen them as just inherent to who Pierre was. I hadn’t ever bothered to think about if maybe, just as I used wit and scathing remarks as a shield for wounds, he had used them as a defense against his own.
If I’d just stopped to consider it for all of two seconds…
Maybe the last five years wouldn’t have been so nightmarish for me.
“I will never forget what you said. You said, ‘I just feel so connected to you, Pierre.’ And let me be clear, this is not me blaming you. I was flattered and touched you said that. But those words, as you Americans say, triggered me. I didn’t know what to do. I was confused. I felt guilt. Had I betrayed my wife and kids by finding someone like her in you? Had I somehow betrayed their legacy with such a connection?”
He shook his head.
“If you think me an ass, I understand and will leave.”
“No, Pierre,” I said.
I found myself literally reaching forward as if trying to pull him in close. He was not close enough to actually touch, but the lean meant that when I righted myself, the space between us had closed just a smidge. It was not purposeful by any means, but it was something that became more noticeable as the conversation continued.
“So many emotions were going through my head, and they just flooded in. Your words—and again, not your fault—they unlocked the dam that was holding everything back. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I worried about how it would look. I worried about how you’d think of me if you knew the truth. So...rather than do something or say something, I did nothing. I fled. Without a word. And I regret it so much, I can’t even begin to describe.”
He chuckled, but it was not a humorous chuckle. It was a chuckle done because there was literally nothing else he could do. It was a chuckle of disgust at how he likely viewed himself falling so short in such an important moment.
“To be very honest with you, this is my first time back in Paris since then.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Of all the things he’d said, that was the one that seemed the most impossible, like someone who lived in Northern California who hadn’t been to San Francisco in five years.
“It’s true,” he said. “I live in Nantes, a few hours west of here. I got calls and requests all the time to come here, but I just never did. I got convinced, because I was turning forty, that it was worth my while.”
“And has it been?”
I couldn’t believe the words slipped out of my mouth like that. What did it matter?
“I’ve still got another forty-eight hours here, so ask me at the end of that,” he said with a gentle smile.
Huh. And all this time, in all of these trips back, I was always living in fear that he’d pop up out of nowhere and try to hurt me again. And he was never any closer than a few hours away.
Guess I really did let things get to my head a little bit.
“I just can’t believe…” I said. “Pierre, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, scooting forward as he adjusted his legs. “I never explained anything to you. Why would you have any idea?”
I wouldn’t have. But that didn’t mean…
By now, I was certain of how things should have progressed. Five days later, I should still have the fury of Satan himself. Five weeks later, I still should have been royally pissed off. Five months later, I should have felt a lingering anger at him and France.
But five years? That was not Pierre. That was not France. That was me choosing to hold on to a narrative because it was just so “perfect.”
I shook my head.
“I’m realizing quite a bit right now.”
He smiled back at me. The awkward Pierre that had entered the room had already left. In his place was someone I hadn’t seen before. Not the courting Pierre. Not the awkward, apologetic, turtling Pierre. Just…
Pierre.
No descriptor, no adjective, no words were needed. It was just him. It was finally, truly, just him.
“I don’t know...I don’t know what to say,” I said with a laugh. “Other than I’m sorry.”
“Why do you have to apologize?” he said.
“Because,” I said, biting my lip. “I judged you so hard. I knew that if I stepped back, maybe I would still fault you for what happened—”
“And you still should.”
“Sure, but I could have let it go, I could have made life for myself much easier,” I said. “But I didn’t. I was so convinced that I was right that I didn’t allow myself to think in gray zones. My mind’s not great at that to begin with, which I guess is good for sales, but…”
“It is not ideal for relationships.”
I shook my head. I smiled.
And then I felt a welling of emotion forming in my throat. All this time...I didn’t know. I had made Pierre an asshole...but really, he was just a broken man…
I covered my eyes and started to sob. I had treated him—and myself—so harshly, so cruelly. Why hadn’t I at least considered the possibility? Why wasn’t I at least considerate of the idea that Pierre was running from his past as much as me?
I felt Pierre’s long arms wrap around me, and I did not fight it. In fact, I embraced it. I never wanted to see the asshole Pierre again, but the good news was, that wasn’t dependent on the man in front of me; it was only dependent on what my mind conjured up. I just hated that I’d let him exist in the first place.
Don’t let him totally off the hook. He did do a terrible thing.
He’s just not a terrible person.
I sobbed some more, leaning my head against his chest. I bit my lip, listening to his rapidly accelerating heart. He kissed me on top of the head and squeezed harder. And then he said something that brought me back five years—but to a happier place five years ago.
“Tu sens incroyable.”
I burst out loud laughing, but that only made me cry more.
“Goddamnit, Pierre,” I said in between sobs as I sat up and looked at him, now no more than a couple feet away. “All this wasted time. Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t…”
“I didn’t know how,” he said, preventing me from finishing the trailed-off thought. “No one, I guess, evoked such passion and joy in me as you did, so no one else would have made me aware. I only started to deal with this truly after I left. I needed that space to heal. But I regretted and still regret that I had to break your heart in order to consider mending mine.”
Just like I had to yell at him and curse at him and call him an asshole the past few days in order for me to start to realize I needed to work on myself.
He put his hand in mine and squeezed. I curled my fingers around. I had something I was going to say in response, but the words died in the back of my throat. I was instead caught up in the way he was looking at me.
It was sensuous, but not enthralled. It was loving and tender, but not fiery. It was a cool burn, the kind of gentle look that...that two lovers who had been together for years and years might have given each other. I had to imagine it was the look that he had given his family.
I found myself drawn to that look. I found myself pulled to that look. To those eyes. To this man.
I leaned forward. My eyes closed as I stopped looking at Pierre, the man, and tried to sense Pierre, the soul. I...I had never even come close to anything like this in the last five years. But now…
I kissed him.
Chapter 10: Pierre
I could scarcely believe this was happening.
After all of this time, after everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong, after nights of embarrassment, tears, and fury, I was back with the only woman besides my deceased wife to make me feel so...alive. I had no ri
ght to be here, no reason for her to be here. Everything in life should have made it such that either we had never met again in the first place or she never would have approached me this morning for conversation.
But now, not only was she here, she was kissing me. She was connected to me. She was...with me. Not against me. Not away from me. Not ignoring me.
But with me.
And as our kiss continued, “with me” took on a much deeper meaning.
I, at first, did not do anything, not wanting to press my luck any further than it had already gotten me. It wasn’t even so much that I thought I was “lucky” as if fate had decided this as it was I didn’t think Layla would just want to dive so quickly into more sexual action. Just because we’d had this great conversation did not mean all of the negative associations had gotten removed with the snap of a finger.
But Layla, to my surprise, was the one to encourage me to go forward. She was the one that pushed me for more. She was the one that took my hand and pressed it against her body, a move that could not have been less subtle if she tried.
I had to admit, when she first did it, there was a part of me that wondered how much wine she had drunk. Surely, she could not possibly have wanted this so quickly. I wanted it, yes; my interest in Layla had never dissipated in the years since. I had just embarrassed and shamed myself so much that I had never given myself the chance to believe I would have it.
But when her hands went into the creases of my pants and pulled me off the couch and toward the bed, I stopped thinking. It was clear that the best way to give Layla what she wanted, to atone for the disgusting, shameful act I had done five years ago, was to return to that act precipitating it—and this time, to stick around.
The last real moment of hesitation I had before I decided to carry through and do what Layla was asking for was only to make sure there was nothing that could make me get up and leave before dawn.