by Zelda French
If Michael loves me back, I’ll go straight to Lucie and confess all. But if Michael doesn’t care, I get to spend the weekend in bed weeping into my pillow.
In English Lit, we submit our work on Wuthering Heights. Tony thanks me for fixing the essay and falls right back asleep behind his binder.
Expertly waiting until Michael walks over to the front desk, I make sure to drop the paper at the exact same time as him just so our hands can touch.
“What’s up?” I’m all casual, you know, but also hoping he’ll notice how blue my eyes are in the warm ray of sunlight hitting the front of Paquin’s desk.
He looks at me, eyes so green, curls so soft, and something mad comes over me and I blurt out: “I broke up with Lucie.”
I mean, Lucie and I are over, over, over. It’s pretty much official. We’re not even talking. It’s details, really. But this is how it comes out, because I wanted to see the effect of his face. Lars comes to submit his essay, so we cannot say more. But when Michael returns to his desk, I’m sure I’ve seen the shadow of a smile dancing on his lips.
It was barely a lie. I’m breaking up with her, tonight. It is done.
Michael spends the rest of the lesson lost in thought, his chin resting on his hand. My heart is drumming around my ribcage with no respect for my nerves. I know. I will not settle down until he’s in my arms again.
When school is over, I wait home for what seems for hours, ignoring my phone ringing for the hundredth time today, my chewed up nails begging for mercy. Every time this stupid unknown callers uses the line, there is a chance Michael is trying to call me, and he can’t reach me, can’t tell me he’s mine forever. What are we to do if he can’t call me!
I’m so worked up that I don’t even think of the fact that Michael
1) hates the phone
2) has never called me, always texted
3) leaves five minutes away, on foot
The intercom rings in the doorway. My heart does a cartwheel. It must be Michael. It must be. I tear across the flat and almost knock over my poor dad, on his way to the intercom.
“I’ve got it, Dad.” I wave his away, panting.
Please, let it be Michael. And it is.
“Can I come up?”
My internal organs liquefy at the sound of his voice. Feeling my father listening in the other room, I hold the headset closer and whisper:
“My father’s here.”
A silence. “So?”
So, I’m embarrassed, sugar lips, what do you think? Even more so after the weird-ass conversation you two shared the other night. My father has been glancing at me strangely ever since.
“Wait, I’ll be right down.”
Tearing down the stairs four by four, I almost slip and break my neck. But one look at Michael’s face makes it all worthwhile.
“I rang Eugénie first, she told me which door to call,” Michael rubs his face and looks agitated, like he hasn’t had a good night sleep in a while.
“Is your father gone?” I ask, barely ashamed to wish his father back to London already.
“No.” Michael throws a glance over his shoulder, his heavenly smell filling my nose. “We’re going to the station now, we’re just waiting for the taxi.”
“Oh.”
“I thought we could go somewhere to eat, when I come back. So we can talk.”
Talk? That sounds great. I’m all ready to talk.
“Sure, absolutely, I’ll wait here.”
Michael’s phone beeps. “Taxi’s there. I have to go. I’ll text you on my way back, we can meet Rue Mouffetard. ”
Is he leaving me already, so soon? I try not to show my disappointment, and stare down at my shoes. In a blink of an eye, he closes the distance between us, pushes me into the hallway, grabs my face and slams his lips against mine. Before I can even return the kiss, he’s gone.
“Two hours, top!” He shouts.
I slam the door shut and lean against it for a second to recover. The week, the interminable wait, is over. And for all intent and purposes, he appears to want me still.
It’s humming when I get back upstairs, into my home and throw myself on top of the bed. Michael wants me still.
One hour goes by, one hour and a half. I have imagined all kinds of scenarios about your date tonight, and they all end up in ecstasy, the details of which I won’t reveal to you.
When my phone rings after one hour and forty-five minutes, I flip it open breathlessly.
“Lou?”
Something’s odd.
First, Michael doesn’t call me Lou. Second, this voice on the phone is clearly a girl’s voice, but not my girl’s voice.
I sit bolt upright on my bed, a deep frown etched on my face. “Who’s this?”
“Hi Lou, it’s Abby. Michael’s girlfriend.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE TRUTH IS SO OVERRATED
ABBY’S CALLING. SHE’S on the phone, with me. Speaking, to me. A mounting feeling of horror floods everything inside me, making it hard to focus on what she says.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you speak English? She sounds irritated.
“Why are you calling me?” I try to control the panic in my voice. “How did you even get my number?”
“Okay, I know it sounds crazy right?” Abby laughs. “I know, you don’t know me, but I kind of know you, through Michael. You know? British? Handsome? Apparently you’re fucking him?”
My fist closes around the sheets.
“Rings a bell?” Abby sighs. “Well. I’m his girlfriend.”
If all I can say is: “What?” she’ll probably believes I’m a little slow, special needs kind of guy. But what else can I say, exactly?
“What?”
“All right.” She has determined that I’m slow, by now. “I know, it must come as a shock to you, so let me explain.”
“How did you get this number?” I ask, my heart is pounding in my ears. Did Michael give her my number?
“Michael told me about you. So I found you on Facebook, because this girl posted a picture of you, yeah? Michael has a type, you see. From the tag on the picture it wasn’t hard to get your phone number. Did you know your Facebook profile is public? I would change that if I were you.”
Noted. I promise myself I will remove all trace of myself from the planet and the galaxy, if , and only if, I survive this conversation.
“What do you mean…” My voice sounds all choked up. “… When you say Michael has a type.”
She mutters something that sounds a lot like “French idiot” heaves another sigh, as though it is particularly exhausting to speak to me. “You’re not the only guy Michael as had fun with, Lou.”
My heart gives a hopeful leap. “If Michael told you about me, then he told you my name is Louis.”
A short silence on the other side of the line. “Your profile says Lou.”
“Michael doesn’t call me Lou.”
There’s an odd thumping sound, as though she just thew herself on her bed.
“He never bothered to say your name, you know.”
“What do you mean?” The muscles in my fingers are starting to go numb.
“All he said was there was a cute boy in his class he was having fun with. I simply knew it was you by looking at the picture. As I said, he has a type. The last one was blond like you.”
Her words hurt me more than a whole week away from Michael did.
“What do you want?”
“Look, Louis, Lou, whatever. I’m just calling you because Michael’s my boyfriend, and he does these things all the time, then he comes back running to me. It’s not fair for you, that’s all.”
“Michael said you broke up months ago.”
“He what?” She breathes hard. “Michael and I have been together since we’re sixteen.”
“Why would he tell me that you broke up, then?”
“To get into your knickers, of course. That’s what he does. He gets bored, seduces a boy, have his way with
him, then comes back running to me. He’s not even gay, you know.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” I say faintly.
But despite myself, my brain is already scrambling for clues to support her arguments.
“Doesn’t it? Have you met his parents? Because I have, and it all makes sense after you’ve spent a few hours with them.”
His parents? What is she talking about?
“What does it have to do with anything?”
“His parents are this artsy ‘live your own experiences’ shit. The mum’s an actress and leaves a pretty open life. His dad hosts lectures on Carpe Diem rubbish. They always encourage him to have as many experiences as possible.”
Michael once quoted Dorian Gray about living one’s experiences, didn’t he? I thought he was interested in my philosophy, perhaps he was trying to lecture me on his. And his mum… the first time I met her, wasn’t she going on about temptation?
My heart sinks. I plunge into the depths of my bed, seeking its comfort.
“Michael’s easily bored, okay?” Abby says in a kinder tone. “It’s not his fault. He’s very smart. I just want to warn you, that’s all. He loves to create this chaos around people, and when he’s messed around his little prey’s life, he moves on to something else.”
“I’m not—”
“I know you have a girlfriend too, I saw her on your profile.” Abby’s voice hardens. “Did you break up with her? Or are you just as bad as he is?”
My eyes start brimming with tears I have no intentions of shedding. Thankfully, Abby can’t see me.
“Did he even tell you why he came to Paris?”
My throat has turned so dry that it’s hard for me to reply. “To be with his mother.”
“Yeah, right. More likely because he almost destroyed this bloke’s life and his parents came after him, wanted to make him pay. Poor lad went mental. He went and made a scene at school, and you know what Michael told him?” She interprets my stunned silence as a green-light. “He said: ‘It was fun. You’re really cute. But you are nothing to me.’ Brutal, isn’t it? Poor thing. Broke his heart in pieces.”
On my childish bedspread, the tiny rockets have started to blur.
Unable to listen to her anymore, I hang up and hurls my phone across the room, where it bounces against the wall and clatters to the floor. My sheets crumpled in my fist, my stomach heaving with spasms, I bury my head in my pillow, and let out the scream that’s been mounting up my throat for days, for weeks, for months, ever since I met his gaze in the reflection of the mirror.
That’s why people should never pick the phone, Tony’s voice says in my head.
Shut up, Tony. Will you please shut up.
I do not know how long I remain prostrated on the bed, my throat feeling half its size, my legs turned to lead.
Eventually it occurs to me. My phone is making all sorts of noises, as though everyone I know is trying to get into my head at the same time. I peel myself off the bed, a bitter taste in my mouth.
Text messages. So many text messages.
Michael, cheerful, wants to meet me at La Crêperie in ten minutes.
Tony stays we should meet, no, we have to meet, it’s important we meet, tonight.
Lucie writes she’s sorry, but she’s feeling better now, and we could talk, we should talk.
Laughing hysterically, return to my pillow, and let out another muffled scream.
I try in vain to remember. How did Michael and I come to be together? Did he seduce me, or did I seduce him? Who did what first? The first words, the first looks, the first kiss? Can it all be traced to him? Did he ever show signs of being the psychopath Abby described, or was too wrapped up in my own fantasy to notice something was off about him.
I wish I could rewind every little moment, see it for what it really was…
He came to my place and turned me inside out, leaving me wanting for more, then ignored me for a day. I had to steal a kiss behind the tree around the Medicis Fountain because he wouldn’t talk to me. His father’s convenient visit made it so that I couldn’t see him for a whole week. I checked my feelings since, told him by mistake that I broke up with Lucie. And now what? He invited me to dinner and says… We need to talk.
I was too lovestruck to notice it. He’s going to ditch me, tonight. He made sure I fell for him. He made sure I abandoned my girlfriend, my best friend, my whole life behind, for him.
He’s going to try to burn me tonight.
A seething anger, like hot blade slashing at my stomach, flares up within me. I want to cancel our plans. God knows I want to. But behind every broken heart is a fierce desire for revenge. This rage I feel is the only reason I don’t collapse onto myself right now. I want to confront him. I want to look at him in the eyes and tell him I know what he’s trying to do to me.
I can’t deal with Tony and Lucie at the moment. I have to send them a text. My plans are all for Michael tonight. My body, my mind, everything is full of poison. I couldn’t recognise my friends if I passed them on the street.
I’m a creature of vengeance, moving numbly, typing absently words of apology on my phone, moving to the wardrobe to get my battle clothes. In my mind there’s nothing but my quest for reckoning. I feel empty, unrecognisable, dangerous. Like a man with nothing to lose.
I leave home, dressed all in black, stick my earphones in my ear, play myself the perfect song. I feel like a soldier on the eve of battle, except my weapon is knowledge. I know what you did, Michael, I know, and I’ll burn you before you burn me.
It’s not long before I reach La Crêperie, which is just a quick take-away place nestled between two tourist traps rue Mouffetard. The night is warm and tourists are flocking the narrow cobblestone street looking for their next meal.
Michael is waiting at the front door, his hands in his pockets, his bottom lip stuck between his teeth. He sees me approach. The way his handsome face splits into a smile is like a knife being twisted in my gut.
Damn, the hurt, the hurt is too real, because my love for him was real. Damn you for what you did to me.
If only this experience would cure me of falling in love forever. Perhaps I could run away, leave everything behind, become a monk. Do people still do that?
Michael speaks, of thinks of no consequences. He orders a crepe, asks me what I want. Incapable of thinking of anything, I order the same thing. His face moves in slow motion. Every little muscle in his jaw, the vein in his temple… I flatter myself to be a good liar but I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s all charm, all after-shave and silky curls, playing me like a fiddle.
“What did you want to talk about?” My voice sounds far away.
Michael takes our order from the salesman, pushes an aluminium-wrapped crepe into my hand, unwrap his and takes a bite.
“My parents are getting back together.”
Does he wants my empathy? Has he ever sought it? His parents are getting back together. Perhaps they never were separated, perhaps it was all a ploy to make me sympathetic to him. But how could he have known my parents were separated? And he certainly didn’t know how little I care about that.
“You’re not eating?” Michael points at my crepe, searing hot beneath her packaging.
“You’re going back to London, then.”
“Yes, during the holidays, first, then…”
He goes on, hungrily taking out chunks of his crepe, reminding me of Tony. Tony always has a monstrous appetite, but not lately. Now, Tony fills my head, fills my heart with painful jolts of guilt and regret. The first signs of a panic attack make their long-awaited appearance: a bitter taste fills the back of my throat, my fingers twitch and freeze and contort painfully. Looking around us, the whole street, usually such a delight for me, looks too bright, feels too hot, too crowded, suffocating. Everyone’s smiling face looks like an ugly, mocking sneer. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.
“Louis? Are you okay?”
Michael puts his hand on my shoulder. I shudder violently, shake
him off. I feel like I’m going under. My hand clutches my chest. I see Tony and Lucie’s faces everywhere. Laughing, sneering, pointing. I have to bend over to catch my breath. My sunglasses fall from my nose, and shatter on the cobblestones. A sound akin to a moan comes out of my mouth. Michael tries again to help me up. I shove him away.
Two familiar sets of shoes appear in my blurry field of vision. A pair of white and pink adidas, so loved they’re worn-out, and a pair of heavy combat boots. I’m not hallucinating anymore… Tony and Lucie are indeed standing over me, in broad daylight, in front of my favourite crêperie.
“I can’t believe I was feeling bad about you,” Lucie says quietly. Her face is white, but determined, cold even.
With difficulty, I straighten myself. “Hey, Lucie.”
“You look like shit,” Tony throws me a disgusted look. He tosses a similar glare at Michael, sanding by my side with his half-eaten crepe.
I manage a monumental shrug, sure to antagonise them both.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lucie says, her eyes flashing.
“No, hang on a second.” Tony plants both feet in front of me.
“When you texted you didn’t feel like going out, I believed you, once again, like the stupid guy I am. We felt horrible, with Lucie, about everything that happened lately. We came to your place to fix things.”
If I was not losing my mind or wasn’t attempting to control a panic attack, I could have been grateful of their attempt. But things don’t always happen this way, do they?
“Your dad told us you went out with Michael.”
For once that dad speaks two words to Tony, it’s to seal my fate. Maybe I should just abandon pretences and start laughing as maniacally as I feel like right now.
“I thought you might be here.” Tony’s face is deformed by his contempt. “Your favourite street. Your favourite crêperie. With your new friend.”
I start chuckling, and before long, I can’t stop myself. Michael and Lucie stare in growing horror. Tony sticks to looking disgusted. Then Michael lightly touches my elbow.