by Zelda French
Too upset for another round of karaoke tonight, I storm out of the living room and into the narrow corridor in long strides, wrench open the front door, nearly tearing it off his hinges.
At the last second, I recover enough sense to wave my friend good-bye. “Please don’t worry about me, Miss Eugénie. I’ll be back tomorrow with your groceries, okay?”
Eugénie, her lips pressed into a thin line, gives a feeble wave. I close the door just as she hangs her head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I DIDN’T SEE YOU THERE
WHY IS IT that the first time I fall in love, it was not real at all? Will I ever get over it? I wonder. I know I’ll never forget him, the way he made me feel when he smiled, when we first kissed, when his fingers dug into my skin, and how I feel right now, like utter shit, because none of it mattered to him.
This morning, my father is late, rustling papers outside the kitchen. He straightens up as I stalk into the kitchen. He’s still watching me as I sit at the table with a fresh cup of coffee.
“What?”
“Happy Birthday.”
Oh, right. It’s today. I force a smile. To my surprise, he pulls a chair and sits down, and push an envelope toward me. I have completely forgotten to tell him what I’d like. Not that I want anything, anyway.
It’s a credit card. I stare down at it in surprise.
My father scratches his cheek. “I’ve opened you an account a while ago. Put money on it. I thought now that you’re eighteen, you might want to use it. You know… To go to London.”
I stare at the credit card, speechless, a gentle wave of gratitude warming my cold insides.
All these feelings, and and no way how to express them.
“Did, hem… Did Mum call?”
Habit, a question raised like a shield, an answer I already know. My father looks embarrassed.
“It’s a bit early for her. You know.”
It is, it’s early. Late, for my father, who usually leaves at eight o’clock at the latest, but my mother never calls in the morning, even for my birthday. Truth be told, she didn’t call at all last year. She was on holidays on an island and quite forgot about her son back in Paris.
My mother is always on the back of my mind, but I’m not on hers, that’s how it works. I never talk about it, especially not to my father. My reluctance to talk has always saved me from hearing the uncomfortable truth.
And look where it got me today. I start laughing despite myself.
“Don’t you like it?”My father gives me a worried look.
“I do, I’m sorry,” I say. “Thank you, really. I was just thinking of something else.”
His hand tightens into a fist. “Care to share with your old man?”
I look up, surprised. Has he ever been so inquisitive, or is it new? Was I always so determined not to answer, or was there just nothing to say? One thing is certain, I haven’t got anything more to lose, do I?
“I know I’m boring,” my father says, echoing Michael’s words and sending a chill through my spine. “I was never as extroverted, as flamboyant as your mum. You and her, you were so close, when you were a kid.” A pause, an awkward slip of glance. “But I can listen, at least. If—if you want to talk to me.”
My fingers curl around my mug. My dear mum. Let’s talk about my mum.
“Why did she leave?”
My father’s eyes widen. Yeah, I’m going straight to the million dollar question, no time to waste.
“Are you worried about that now?”
I lift my shoulder in half-shrug. “I am worried. In general.”
That’s an understatement.
“She didn’t leave because of you, you know,” Dad says, slowly, as though to make sure I understand him perfectly.
“Didn’t she?”
Didn’t her attitude change around that time when I was twelve and we went to Biarritz for the holiday? I always wondered what I had done, what changed during this fateful trip. A few months later, she was slamming the door, and she never came back. I thought about this trip many times. Did she see it, the flush on my face, when we went for ice cream and the employee of the shop, a young man, handed me my gelato? She was quiet on the way home. She was quiet a lot in the weeks that followed.
My father leans forward across the table; his hand makes a motion toward me.
“No, of course not.” His eyes meet mine. “Remember how close you were when you were younger.”
“But if it wasn’t me? Who was it? You, then?”
My mother used to sigh at his father’s mild countenance, his compliance, his lack of expression. I’m pretty sure she sighed as she said goodbye to him the morning she left us.
“It was her.”
“How?” I pound my hand on the table. “Explain this to me.”
Dad runs his hand across his stubble. “She got tired of this life. She wanted something more exciting.”
I knew it.
“Because we were boring. We were nothing special.”
My father shakes his head. “Because she always wanted more. Always. Something amused her and then didn’t. We would have never been enough. Because the problem was always her. It was never your fault.” He lets out a long sigh. “And though I have my faults in this, I don’t thing it’s mine either.”
So, that’s it?
“She just left us?” I ask, my voice trembling. “And then, decided we were only deserving of a postcard, a Christmas card and birthday wishes whenever she can remember?”
“There was…” My father hesitates, leans back in his chair. “There was another man.”
My mouth drops. “What?”
“She fell for another man. Younger. Early thirties, charming, that she met at work. He persuaded her to move away with him, to open a store with him. He ended up taking all her money, so she left him too.”
She had a lover? My blood rushes to my ears, making my father’s voice sound far away.
“Why didn’t she say anything to me about it?”
“Because she was embarrassed! She didn’t want you to think she was stupid. She always was a pack of nerves. And then her shame grew into this impossible thing. She never calls because we remind her of her shame.” My father’s gaze falls on me, gentle and, I notice for the first time, wise. “I can’t ever let you think that it’s because of you. She loved you. She just… loved this guy more. And then she preferred to run. She was never one to face her responsibilities.”
Yikes. My mum and I have the worst possible traits in common. There are glaring similarities between her behaviour and mine, but I just turned eighteen. What’s her excuse?
I don’t want to become like her. I don’t want to walk away from my responsibilities and my people and let them think it was all their fault.
This realisation opens up within me.
I must apologise to Tony and Lucie, I must tell them how sorry I am, how selfish, how self-centred on my problems I’ve been. I must beg for their forgiveness, I must go now.
This all happened silently, but my crazed blinking hasn’t escaped my father.
“Why are you so worried about that now? You’ve never asked me about it.”
“Now?” He give a chuckle. “I’ve always been worried about it. Actually, I worry a lot, about everything. And lately, everything has turned out just like I worried it would be.”
I couldn’t even begin to explain this to my father, even if he asked me.
“I wish you would just tell me thing,” Dad says. “I know. You’re eighteen, you’re reckless and young and in need for experiences, flamboyant like your mum. But I’m here for you, always waiting for a sign that you want to talk to me, and when I see you closed up, I don’t dare coming to you, you always look like you’d prefer to be alone.”
I dare to look into my father’s eye. All I can find is deep sympathy.
“And yet I hate being alone. You have no idea the lengths I take to not be alone.” Staring down at the credit card, I feel a shiver of self-loat
hing. “But it’s useless. I’m alone now. I’ve ruined everything between me and Tony, and Lucie. My only friend’s Miss Eugénie, and she’s a million years old.”
My father finally finds the courage to reach out and pat my hand.
“There, there. There are worst friends to have than Miss Eugénie. And she’s only in her seventies.”
The mention of Miss Eugénie is enough to bring a faint smile on my lips. “She said she saw you as a baby and you were annoying.”
My father laughs. “She babysat me, but she was too cool even for that. Eugénie travelled around the world, she worked in Hollywood, she dined with movie stars… She’s done it all.”
Poor Miss Eugénie. I have bullied her with my problems, and never even bothered asking her about her life.
“Why did she leave Hollywood for Paris?”
“She got married, I think. Divorced, since.” My father give me a sympathetic smile. “Listen, Lou, you must be kind to Eugénie. She lost someone a few months ago, around Christmas. It was very hard on her.”
“But…” I can’t believe Eugénie didn’t tell me that. “She never told me.”
My father tilts his head. “She probably doesn’t want to talk about it. She really cares about you. She told me yesterday she worried about you.”
With a smile, I think of Eugénie as like the old bat in Cinderella who makes wishes come true. She’s kinda cool.
“You know, dad. you can call me Louis again.”
My father gives me a surprised look. “Are you done with Lou?”
I was always Louis. It’s Lou who’s done with me. And every one else is done with Lou.
“Yes, I’m done.”
“And…” My father says, trying to sound casual and failing. “Will you tell me why you’re so downcast lately?”
“I told you. Tony and Lucie aren’t speaking to me anymore. I’ve ruined it all.”
Dad scratches his stubble, tries to work his way around the question he wants to ask. I daresay I know what he has in mind.
“What about your other friend, Michael?”
Bingo.
“What about him?”
Dad tugs at the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know, he seemed nice.”
He was. He was so nice. He taught me so much. Michael taught me a lesson I’m not likely to forget. The ruins of my defences crumple at my feet. I surrender.
Searching for my father’s gaze, I let out a deep breath. “Michael didn’t love me like I loved him.”
The understanding, the confirmation of his suspicions flashes in my father’s eyes. And it’s done, without fanfare or drama. Dad smiles, a deep smile that testifies to his relief at being at last trusted with my secret. His finger rises to rub the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry to hear that. That boy sure did seem to care about you.”
That’s a bit rich, Dad. I laugh into my coffee cup.
“Did you get that from your twenty-second conversation about classics? Or whatever that was about…”
“No.” My father shakes his head. “I got that from watching him pace outside the door for over an hour last night.”
“What?” Coffee dribbles all over my chin. My father jumps to his feet, hands me a napkin. I repeat: “What?”
“He was there!” Dad says.” He didn’t ring the intercom, he was just pacing. He left eventually.”
Why on earth would he do something like that?
“He’s not dangerous, is he?” My father asks, furrowing his brow.
“No, I don’t think so, but…” But he makes no sense, and he might, just might, be a psychopath. “I don’t understand him.”
In a few words, I explain everything there is to know about my meeting with Michael, our fast-growing friendship, the heaps of curls, how I waved my heterosexuality goodbye, and of course, Michael’s unforgivable betrayal.
Without interrupting, my father listens with a cocked eyebrow, only sipping coffee from time to time. He seems to have completely forgotten about work.
I get to the moment I got rid of Michael in front of the Crepêrie. My father raises his hand to ask a question.
“How did he react when you confronted him?”
“Shocked, he was very shocked that I knew!” The face he made is burned into my memory. “He asked me how I knew, but I didn’t reply.”
“Didn’t try to explain himself?”
“Well, no, I was in no state to hear his lies.”
“But,” my father says, holding up his hands, “you thought he liked you very much, before this Abby called.”
I think about it. “I did. But it never made sense in the first place. I mean, he’s like a Ferrari, and I’m like… I’m like the old car parked outside. The Coccinelle. Cute but useless.”
“Listen to yourself.” My father scoffs. “You’re the only one who ever thought you were useless, you know. To me, you are everything.”
Hum… OK.
Dad taps his knuckle against the surface of the table; “And I think Michael didn’t think you were useless either. I bet he liked you very much. I can bet you even Abby didn’t think you were useless.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“She called to wreak havoc. She was jealous. She wanted to split you up!”
I can appreciate my father being all up in my business and trying to help, but I know better. I was there, after all.
“Michale didn’t even try to justify himself. He didn’t. He just left”
“Fine.” Dad throws up his hands. “I’m not saying he’s innocent. I’m just saying when you’re mad, you’re really not easy to talk to. The way your blue eyes burn with anger, just like your mother’s. It’s quite terrifying.”
“Michael used me, Dad.” My father startles. “He used other people before. I was nothing but a thing to pass the time with. Nothing more.”
“You’ll figure it out, Louis. But be careful what people say to you. Words can be weapons. Sometimes it’s better to judge people by their actions, not what they say. Take it from me. Not everybody is equipped with the gift of communication.”
I’m still pondering these later, way after my father has left for work.
It’s true that I was quick to believe Abbie’s words. I wanted to believe her. She seemed to know about me. How weak, how useless I was. It wouldn’t take much for someone to convince me of my worthlessness. Michael, on the other hand… would he have told me straight to my face that he loved me, would I have believe him? My father’s words are playing with my head.
That’s it, enough with Michael.
I’m not going to spend another day cowering in a corner of my bedroom and wringing my hands like an old lady. I’ll get to the bottom of this, sooner or later.
But for once since a long time, my priority is with Lucie and Tony. They need to know, they need to get the truth, my truth.
And if our friendship is unsalvageable, so be it. But I must grow up and assume responsibility for my actions. I owe them that, at least.
On my eighteen’s birthday, no less, I make the decision to become a better man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HERE'S THE TRUTH, NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
A PLEASANT AND warm early afternoon brings me to Lucie’s doorstep at the end of the quiet courtyard. This is it. The moment of truth. I’m just hoping Lucie won’t cut off my head and bury me in the lovely back garden of her townhouse.
My finger hover over the doorbell. Tony’s bike hangs against the wall near the bins. I can’t pretend that I’m surprised. It’s not exactly a bad thing. I can tell them both at the same time. Rip the bandaid off.
Lucie, in jeans, shirt and loose ponytail, dark circles under the eyes, opens the door and looks at me in surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
Her tone isn’t hostile, at least. She throws an anxious look over her shoulder, her fingers gripping the side of the door.
“I came to apologise.”
My words force her to look at me ag
ain. She doesn’t know what to do. Tony is probably in one of the back rooms, she probably wants to avoid a scene.
“Can I come in?”
“ I thought you were busy, you know, with the others.”
The others? What others? It doesn’t matter.
“Please. I won’t be long.”
After a second of hesitation, she lets me into her hope. I recognise the sparkling white tiles on the floor and the aquarelles of wildflowers on the wall. Lucie doesn’t invite me to sit, but that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to see me either if I was her. She leans against the wall to the kitchen, an anxious look on her face.
“Happy birthday,” she says, staring at her feet.
“You remembered.”
Her head snaps back up. “Of course I did. I had planned a whole thing, remember?”
The memory of our fight, back at the gardens, is still too fresh. I better move on to the real conversation. I press my hands hard into my pockets.
“I came to say I was sorry for… For talking to you like that the other day, and for lying.”
Her expression hardens. “So you were lying, you admit it?”
“I was.” I give a shrug of surrender.
She peels herself off the wall and approaches me. “And you admit you were cheating on me?”
Before I can answer that, Tony appears at the end of the corridor, on his tiptoes. His face contorts when he sees me. Anger? No. Surprise, mixed with little bit of fear, and just the right amount of shame. They both fall silent, nervously waiting for my reaction.
“Look,” Lucie begins, her eyes welling up.
In an effort of reassurance, I hold up my palms. “No, that’s fine. I know about you.”
“What do you know, exactly?” Tony approaches cautiously, his face serious.
I can feel their eyes on me, watching me, daring me. My instinct to run away is particularly strong. It was easier to yell at them than tell them I love them. But I stay firmly rooted on the spot.
“I’ve always known, I guess,” I say, my voice calm. “That you loved her.”