The Summer of Him

by Stacy Travis

  “Merci,” I said when he handed me a refilled glass, generously poured. It went down easily, and I remembered that I hadn’t really hydrated after my hour on the treadmill. In fact, I’d gone straight into a steam shower. No wonder I was thirsty. But instead of being smart and asking for water—un carafe d’eau, as Guillaume had instructed me to request—I finished the second glass of champagne and started on a third.

  I wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, I looked up and noticed that Chris was halfway across the room, holding court amid a group of admirers who were hanging on his every word. I looked around the room at the attractive crowd of actors, producers, and who knew who else, and it hit me hard.

  I didn’t belong in this room.

  Chris had thought he wanted a date to take to his premiere, but now that he was busy being swept along in congratulations and expensive festivities, he just needed to be what he was: a celebrity. Maybe it was because the bartender reminded me of Johnny, but I was suddenly transported back to the high school reunion more than a month earlier, when I’d felt like a lame hanger-on while Johnny “had a lot of catching up to do.”

  This wasn’t Chris’s fault. I shouldn’t have come. And with my head starting to throb thanks to the fourth glass of champagne I’d grabbed from a waitress, I desperately wanted to leave before Chris had a chance to realize what a big mistake he’d made inviting me here—before he saw me differently, like dead weight at a party where he’d rather be having fun than having to introduce me to everyone.

  Or explain who I was. Or what we were. Because we were nothing.

  Feeling drunker than I wanted to be, I pushed my way through the crowd and tapped Chris on the shoulder. He turned, and I could tell he didn’t expect it to be me. He thought I’d be another admiring fan.

  “I’m gonna go back. To the hotel,” I said.

  “What? Why? Are you… okay?”

  I wasn’t going to lie, so I said nothing. Because of the crowd of people already jockeying for his attention, he couldn’t have a conversation with me or do much to try to stop me. He seemed to understand that.

  So he nodded. And I left.

  I didn’t even know which hotel we were staying in that night, but I knew Laur could get me there. Halfway down the now-empty carpet, I moved quickly in my stupid four-inch heels, which I’d been doing my best to ignore until that point. They were killing me, and I tried to run toward the row of town cars, not certain in my blurred state which one was ours. Fortunately, a woman in a floor-length cerulean blue dress is easy to spot.

  Laur looked up from where he’d been reading a book and hurried over. “Mademoiselle, ça va?”

  “Ça va, but I want to go to the hotel. Can you take me?”

  He didn’t ask questions or check with Chris. He just nodded, the kind of guy who was apparently familiar with the wayward desires of women at fancy parties where they didn’t belong. It was a short drive to the Five Seas Hotel—two blocks, actually—but I’d never have made it in those shoes.

  He made a quick phone call while he drove, saying something I didn’t understand. When we arrived at the hotel, a bellman was waiting to open the car door and escort me straight to our penthouse suite, where our luggage had already been delivered and a plate of chocolates sat on a table. Félicitations was handwritten on the edge of the plate in chocolate scrawl. As soon as the bellman wished me a “bonne soirée” and closed the door, I picked up two of the chocolates and threw them at the door.

  I looked at the time and calculated the hour in San Francisco, dialing Annie to FaceTime her before I’d done the math to be certain she’d be awake. It didn’t matter. Whether it was day or night, we’d always been there for each other.

  “Hey!” she answered in seconds. “How’s the life of the rich and famous?” Whether it was the champagne or the sound of her voice, I couldn’t have said, but the tears started rolling down my cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” I really didn’t. And I was too drunk and upset to sort through it all.

  “Hang on, back up a second. Lemme look at that dress,” she said. Priorities. I obliged, holding up the phone. “No, I want to see the whole thing.”

  “How can I do that? Okay, hang on,” I said, the distraction drying my eyes out for a second. I went to the full-length mirror and showed her the head-to-toe version.

  “That is ah-mazing!” she said. I told her where I’d just been, and I could hear my media-savvy friend typing on her computer. “Okay, wait… now I see it all.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “On social. There are pics. Oh my God, you’re such a gorgeous couple.”

  “Where are you looking?” I asked. It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be pictures of Chris and me that my friend across the world—and apparently, lots of other people—could see.

  “All over. Lots of great pics of you guys on the Croisette. Seriously, you make a great couple… though… ugh, have you seen this stuff? Is that why you’re crying?”

  “Seen what? What are you looking at?” I couldn’t talk to her and look at social media on my phone at the same time, so I had no idea what she was seeing. But it didn’t sound good.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Probably why celebs say they never read the tabloids.”

  “Annie, what? What are people saying?”

  “Just a lot of stupid crap about ‘Chris Conley’s latest flame’ and ‘Who’s Nikki Woodford?’ and ‘Chris Conley’s vacation romance’ and some not-nice things about your hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “Nothing. I think it looks great. People are saying it’s messy.”

  “It’s supposed to be beachy.”

  “Who cares what these trolls are saying? You were on the red carpet with Chris Conley. Was it fun?” she asked.

  The tears started again. “No, it wasn’t. I mean, for a minute, maybe it was, but… I’m not built for this.”

  “Oh, honey, I know. I love you, but this isn’t you.”

  “It’s not. But why is it not? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be spontaneous and easy-going?”

  “What does that have to do with dating a celebrity? I just meant you don’t like flashy designer clothes and shallow people.”

  “It’s true, I don’t. But I take everything too seriously. We’re supposed to be having a fling. And I’m falling in love with him.”

  “Of course you are. Who wouldn’t? He’s super dreamy.”

  “Not helping,” I said.

  “Does he know? Have you told him?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? That’s the last thing he wants to hear.”

  Annie sighed, one of her characteristic moves before she was about to bestow some philosophical advice. I readied myself for a proverb or some Shakespeare. What I got was actually pretty solid. “You should fight harder for what you want,” Annie said.

  My response was equally solid. “I’m not sure I know what I want, so how can I fight for it?”

  “You do know. You always know exactly what you want and I admire that so much about you. You’re just afraid to say it out loud, in case you don’t get it.”

  And as much as I wanted to come back with a pithy retort, I knew she was right. I couldn’t say it out loud because I was certain my feelings wouldn’t be returned. The premiere party only reinforced that impression. “I can’t tell him I’m falling for him. Especially after tonight.”

  “Maybe he feels the same way.”

  “No. I don’t belong with someone like him. Tonight was stressful, and I couldn’t have felt more like an outsider.”

  “Don’t you think that’s how Amal Clooney felt? She’s a brilliant lawyer, and she got dragged to all kinds of dumb celebrity events.”

  “Kind of you to compare me to Amal Clooney.”

  “To me, you will always be Amal Clooney.”

  It made me cry. Again. My perfectly applied eyeliner began to drip down my cheek, tears heavy in my fake lashes. “I drank a
lot of champagne, and I didn’t eat,” I admitted, a knot stuck in my throat.

  “Rookie mistake. But you’re out of your comfort zone. Cut yourself some slack.”

  “Why do you always take my side even when I’m wrong?”

  She looked at me with sympathy from her apartment a billion miles away. “Because you’ve done it for me.”

  I had. I always would.

  There was so much more I needed to unload. It had been a mistake not to check in with her sooner. Maybe she could have talked me through things and helped me figure out what I was doing before my emotions ran roughshod over everything. Now there was no going back.

  But just as I was starting to rewind and dump my emotional load on her, a keycard slid through the lock. Chris stood there in his tux, looking every bit as put together as I looked a mess. He also looked upset.

  “I gotta call you back,” I told Annie.

  She didn’t need to see Chris through her phone to know the reason. She nodded and mouthed, “Love you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Five Seas Hotel, Cannes

  Late at Night, or at Least it Seemed Late

  I knew he was mad. I knew I had to apologize. I’d probably ruined his night, as evidenced by the fact that he’d left his own party to see why his date had run off in a champagne-driven hissy fit. And at the same time, I didn’t want to tell him I was sorry. I didn’t know if I was. It was better not to talk at all.

  I just wanted to leave. Maybe he would just let me go without us having to hash anything out.

  I turned away from him and looked at the small Louis Vuitton overnight bag that contained the few things I’d tossed in for our “night away.” I didn’t own the bag, just like I didn’t own the dress or the fake eyelashes. I could take my things out and shove them into a plastic laundry bag, leaving the luggage behind with Chris. No strings.

  As I was considering this, he took a few steps closer to me. I went to the closet to look for a laundry bag, thinking about what to say and how to get out of there with the least number of words needed in explanation.

  But he spoke first. “I’m so sorry.”

  It was so unexpected that I stopped what I was doing. In my drunken haze, I wasn’t even sure I’d heard right. “What?” I turned to look at him.

  “I’m sorry.” He put up his hands like he was at a loss as to what else to say.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  He took another couple of timid steps closer, as if I might lash out at him. “For being an asshole date.”

  “You weren’t an asshole.”

  “I left you alone where you knew no one, in a country where you don’t speak the language, at a party where everyone is a shallow suck-up but only if you’re famous. Sounds like an asshole to me. Isn’t that why you left?”

  I felt confused. No, none of those reasons were why I’d run out of there. My reasons had nothing to do with him, though it was kind of him to take responsibility. “I didn’t want to stop you from having a good time.”

  He took that in. Then he nodded his head. “Well, you did.”

  I fought back the tears, which seemed to keep insisting their way past my lashes. I wasn’t sure whether I could wipe them or if the whole eyelash would come off, so I let the tears roll down.

  I hadn’t cried at the end of a year-long relationship with Johnny, and there I was, practically sobbing over the end of a non-relationship I’d had for just over a week. The champagne wasn’t helping.

  “Sorry,” I choked out, going back for the bag in the closet.

  “I had a shitty time because these things are always a nightmare. But I had an exceptionally shitty time because you left.” He came over to where I was and touched me on the arm, making me stop searching and turn around. “I wanted you there with me.”

  “Why?”

  He looked confused. I took that moment to back away. Having him touch me wouldn’t help me distance myself, and I needed to do that. He took his cue and retreated to the beige settee with the pink pashmina throw blanket. “Are you… have I been reading this wrong? Are you not having a good time… with me?”

  He looked vulnerable, but I didn’t let that stop me from saying what needed to be said. “Of course I am. But I don’t belong here with you. That’s what hit me tonight. You and I have been hiding out in your house and on the boat, and it’s been great. Normal. Isn’t that what you said? But tonight, I caught a glimpse of your real life, and it was clear I didn’t fit into it.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because all those cameras made my skin crawl, and I didn’t want you to resent me—for lamely standing next to you, making you introduce me to people and explain who I am, your ‘new flame’ or your ‘vacation romance’ or whatever.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.” Of course he didn’t. He made a point of staying off social media.

  “I just think… maybe our vacation fling, or whatever you want to call it, has run its course. Maybe it’s time you go back to your world and I go back to mine.”

  I felt mature laying it out like that. I’d taken the high road and given him an out, so he wouldn’t have to feel bad about going back to his party. Laur would probably drive me back to the house, where I could pack my things.

  But Chris gestured at me to sit next to him on the soft pashmina. My mind wandered for a second, wondering if people ever took those shawls home with them. “Remember how I said I don’t live in some kind of world that’s different from yours?”

  I sat. And nodded.

  “It’s still true,” he said.

  “That was easy to believe when it was just the two of us on a beach, but come on. What I saw tonight—that couldn’t be more different from my life. And I’m not judging at all. This is what you do, and you do it well. I just don’t think I do it so well.”

  “Okay, I hear you.” He looked like he understood because he slid a little farther away, which I needed just so I could straighten out my thoughts without feeling magnetically drawn to him. “But you have to realize this is all in your head. I never said a word about needing you to be anything other than yourself. Yes, my job involves a lot of bullshit celebrity stuff that I have to do—”

  “And I get that.” I knew I was interrupting, but I had to get everything out. “I see how fun it must be to be you, and I don’t want to take anything away from that or make you enjoy it any less because I’m easily freaked out. It’s okay for you to enjoy it without me.”

  “I don’t want to. You fit into my world perfectly. But if you feel differently… at least own that.”

  “Own what? One minute you were next to me, and the next, you were across the room with a bunch of people who were laughing at every word you said.”

  “Yeah, and you were talking to the bartender. I tried to get your attention several times, but you didn’t even notice me. You looked completely lost in the conversation.”

  Did I really talk to the bartender so intently that I didn’t notice Chris? Just because he reminded me of Johnny?

  Jesus.

  “So I figured you were enjoying yourself, and I didn’t want to pry you away. But I’ve got to tell you, it made me jealous as hell.”

  “I was… he seemed like he didn’t fit in there either. I guess I felt comfortable with him.”

  He exhaled a long breath and shook his head. “Why didn’t you just tell me how you were feeling? I had no idea. So I made small talk, like I always do at these things, and figured you’d come find me when you were ready. And then you bolted. So I came here to apologize because I knew something had upset you… but I kinda hoped I could read the tea leaves and figure out what it was because, frankly, I had no idea.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d read the whole thing wrong. And despite me bailing on him in a huff of emotion, he’d been the one to apologize. If anyone was an asshole in this scenario, it was probably me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, slumped and defeated. I suddenly felt very tired from the champagne.
“I projected all my insecurities onto you.” Tentatively, he put a hand on the pool of cerulean satin on my lap. He turned it upward as a suggestion, and I slowly put my hand in his. “I really am sorry. And I have a headache from crying. And from the champagne. I’m kind of a mess.” I flopped backward to where the settee met the foot of the bed and lay my head on the cool duvet.

  “For a mess, you’re sure beautiful,” he said, pushing himself up on to the bed so his head faced mine, leaning his chin on his palm. I couldn’t help it—new tears rolled from my eyes. I vowed to never drink champagne again.

  Chris went to the bathroom and came back with a plush white bathrobe. He unzipped the back of my dress and unfastened the painful stays on the corset so I could slip the robe on. He tied the sash then picked me up and deposited me higher on the bed so my head sank into the pillows. He lay down next to me and rubbed one of my feet where the straps had left a mark. It felt great. And I felt terrible.

  “How can you continue to be so nice when I was such a jerk? And I made you leave your party early.”

  “Are you kidding? I was dying to get out of there. You gave me the perfect out. I just wish you’d waited so I could’ve made my excuses and left with you.”

  I finally exhaled a day’s worth of breath I’d been unknowingly holding in behind the corset. I didn’t know what made me doubt that the guy I’d come to know over the past week was still that same guy at the movie premiere. I traced his cheek down to his jawline, marveling at the contour. “You know, Michelangelo’s sculptures have nothing on you,” I said, the anxiety I’d been fighting all day fading into calm. “I really should’ve eaten something today.”

  He shook his head at me. “Didn’t I tell you? What did you do with all that food in the kitchen?”

  “I left it there and went up to meet with my team of beauty handlers.”

  Chris rolled off the bed and grabbed a heavy leather-bound book from the desk in the other room of the suite. Then he dialed room service, speaking quickly in French, and asked them to bring up something I couldn’t translate. He came back to where he’d been on the bed. We lay there for a while, looking at each other, not talking.