One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  “Matt Moore doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he says. “He has no clue how amazing you are.”

  “Enough about him,” I say. I don’t want to think about him anymore. I just want to focus on Oscar and I, and this moment. This blissful moment.

  I push him off me, and reach into the table next to the sofa where I keep condoms. I keep them here, my bedside table, and in the washroom cabinet because sometimes, we like to fuck on the toilet or in the shower, and once, on the bathroom vanity.

  I turn away from him, and get on my knees. I need to get off tonight, and doggy-style always does the trick. He strokes my ass softly, and trails a finger up the length of my spine, until he reaches my nape, and grabs a handful of my hair and pulls lightly. I reach for him and guide him into me… he’s not moving fast enough.

  He grabs the flesh of my hips hard when he finally sinks into me, and gives me what I’ve craved. I close my eyes and sink into the pleasure of it, and forget all about Matt Moore.

  It’s a perfect moment. A hot cup of tea sits next to me. Mitzy and I are wrapped up in a cozy throw, and I have the latest Nora Roberts book on my lap, an old-fashioned hardcover.

  And then, my mom calls.

  The woman has the worst timing.

  I can’t hide the dash of annoyance in my voice. “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hi, darling,” she says. “I hope I’m not bugging you.”

  I stare up at the ceiling. “No, not at all.”

  “So, I’m calling about…” She hesitates, and I know she’s about to say something she doesn’t want to say. I instantly worry. Is it the wedding? Is it her health? Is it Sarah?

  “I want you to listen with an open mind,” she goes on. “I know this will probably make you angry.”

  I exhale a long breath. Meditation comes in handy when it comes to dealing with my mother. “What is it, Mom?”

  “Well… Matt called me,” she finally tells me. “He wanted your number.”

  My heart goes from zero to sixty. “What? Why?”

  “I didn’t give it to him of course,” she’s quick to say. “He said he really wanted to speak with you, but knowing your history, I told him that I couldn’t give out your number.”

  “Thank you.” Turns out, my mother is not as ditzy as I thought.

  “But I did agree to give you his number when he practically begged.”

  What could he possibly want? Does he just want to torture me again?

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “He sounded sincere,” she goes on. “Maybe he just wants to apologize and make amends. I’ve only met him a handful of times, but he seems like a nice young man. Honestly, it’s actually hard to reconcile him with the boy who used to bully you.”

  A huge breath escapes me.

  “I’m sorry… it’s just my impression. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s still the spoiled rich kid he was back then.”

  I’m a mess of emotions. I’m scared. I’m confused. But mostly, I’m curious. I desperately want to know what he wants. “Give me his number.”

  She recites the number with a strained voice, and I jot it down on the back of a pizza place promotional flyer. The sight of his name and number scribbled next to a picture of the Meat Lover’s pizza makes me want to vomit.

  I’ve been sitting on his number for two days now, staring at the pizza flyer on the door of my refrigerator, secured by a motivational quote magnet.

  Today is going to be a beautiful day.

  I finally muster up the courage to call him. My hands are actually trembling when I input his number into my phone, and I can’t believe how a person I haven’t interacted with in over ten years can still affect me so. I still hate him so much, yet… there’s still a certain excitement, curiosity, a rush of adrenaline.

  He answers on the second ring. “Matt Moore.” His voice is deeper than it used to be, more serious.

  “Uh…” I falter. “It’s... it’s Kayla Wilson. You wanted me to call you?”

  “Oh, hi, Kayla,” he says, his tone lighter. “I’m so glad you called.”

  A beat of silence follows. I don’t say anything. Why would I? He’s the one who wants to talk to me.

  “I wanted to speak with you,” he starts off slowly, “to apologize.”

  Still no words from me.

  “I realized when you dashed off the other night that you were upset, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. I know you’re not allergic to nuts… I’ve seen you eating Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. I know I was a total jack-off back then. I was a stupid kid, Kayla.”

  “Yeah, you were. Glad to see you realize that.”

  He clears his throat. “I should have never treated you that way,” he continues. “I was the new kid and I wanted to fit in. When I came up with that name, I wasn’t really thinking. It was just something I said out loud, and everyone laughed. I like making people laugh, and I liked the attention, I guess.”

  “You didn’t care about me though,” I manage to say, despite the large lump lodged in my throat. “Your popularity at the expense of mine, I guess.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Another long beat.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” he asks. “We’ll be family soon. Can we bury the hatchet? That was ten years ago.”

  Yes, ten years ago. Seems like a lifetime ago. But to me, it seems like it was yesterday. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, the popular nursery rhyme goes, but how so very wrong it is. My bones would have healed just fine, the physical pain long forgotten, leaving only a cool anecdote of how a stupid boy broke my leg, or arm or whatever. But unfortunately, those words and taunts, those memories will stay with me forever.

  Matt Moore has no clue that as a result of his actions, I fell into a deep depression and fell victim to a serious eating disorder. I flunked out of college, and found myself in a psychiatric ward. But that’s neither here nor there.

  He wants to apologize and clear his conscience, and move on with his perfect life. Who am I to stand in his way?

  “How about dinner?” he says, so casually, it feels like a kick in the gut. “I want to take you out to a nice place to apologize, and we could get to know each other again.”

  I’m completely speechless.

  “I’ve always liked you, Kayla,” he says. “The first time I met you at that corner store, I thought you were super cute and sweet. I still remember it; you were eating jujubes and a chocolate bar, mint flavored, and it matched your green shirt.”

  Then why did you turn on me? Why did you ruin my life?

  “It was seventh grade,” he goes on. “And I realized fast that you were not very popular when I heard other kids making fun of you, and I wanted to stand up for you, but I also wanted to fit in. I was new and didn’t know anyone.”

  I want him to know what effect his actions and words have had on me. All the self-help books I’ve read over the years preach closure. Closure is a big thing. Maybe if I could finally get closure, I could finally move past this. “Where were you thinking? I’m thinking Casa Arrabella,” I say, knowing this place is one of the most expensive restaurants in Burlington. If he’s going to apologize, I’m going to make sure it costs him.

  I can almost see the smile on his face when he says, “Great! Yes, I love that place. Great idea. I’m so glad you’re agreeing to come to dinner.”

  “Well, like you said, we’ll be family soon,” I point out. “Might as well try to get past all this.”

  “I look forward to it, Kayla,” he says. “Just let me know when’s a good time for you, and I’ll call you with the details.”

  “Sure, I’ll text you,” I say, my words clipped. I still can’t believe I’m going out to dinner with Matt Moore.

  I wonder what Oscar will think about this.

  8

  “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!”

  Oscar is not impressed. He thinks I’ve gone insane. And I don’t blame him. I’m having dinner with the enemy.

  �
��What can I say? He’s my future bro.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Then why do you care what you look like?”

  The man does have a point. I’m standing in front of a door length mirror, and I’ve tried on three dresses so far. I’ve finally settled on the tight sexy red one. I wish I could borrow Maeve’s red Louboutins — too bad she lives so far away now. I’ll have to settle for the red Nine West pumps I treated myself to on my twenty-fifth birthday.

  “You don’t understand women at all, do you?”

  He lies back on my bed and smirks. “Oh, I do,” he argues. “I know what gets them off.”

  Well, he’s right there. The man definitely knows what he’s doing in bed. “I mean, you don’t know how our minds work.”

  He props himself up on his elbows. “Enlighten me.”

  “Okay, well, I admit… yes, I want to look good for Matt. I want to look damn good. Hot. Sexy. But that’s not because I like him. It’s because this is a boy who made fun of my weight and looks for years, and now I want to show him that I’m fucking hot.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, yeah, you are. But why do you care what that ass wipe thinks? You should be past this by now.”

  My stomach drops. He’s absolutely right. I stare at my reflection in the mirror; straightened hair, lash extensions, tight dress, tall heels, and Mac Ruby Woo lipstick.

  I care because I’m fucked up. Matt Moore fucked me up good. I crave his approval. It’s human nature to crave the approval of those who won’t willingly give it to you.

  “You say this is about closure,” Oscar goes on. “But it’s really about you wanting Matt Moore to want to fuck you.”

  I jerk my head around. “What?!”

  “You want him to want you. You want him to get hard at the sight of you.”

  My mouth drops. How dare he.

  “You’ll probably get what you want,” he says. “Because I’m hard right now, just looking at you.”

  I hate him right now, but the thought of Oscar hard for me always gets me going. I don’t know if it’s the sight of his long body sprawled on my bed, the five o’clock shadow lining his jaw, or just the wicked way he’s looking at me, but I’m horny as hell.

  A slow delicious grin traces his lips. “Come over here.”

  I join him on the bed. He wastes no time in hiking up the skirt of my dress, and slipping off my lace panties. The shoes stay on, and I climb on top of him.

  “I’m going to get you off before you go on your date,” he mumbles against the swell of my breast. “So you won’t be tempted to fall into his bed.”

  “It’s not a date,” I point out. “And I would never. Never in a million years.”

  He does as promised, and gets me off. Then we cuddle for a few minutes. He traces the contour of my cheek with the tip of his finger, and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Don’t let him hurt you again,” he says, “and if he does, let me know.”

  I smile. “Why?”

  “So I can kill him, of course,” he deadpans. “Orange is a good color on me.”

  Casa Arabella is the kind of restaurant you might expect in heaven. I’m surrounded by shades of white; crisp white linens and sleek white leather chairs, white washed wooden floors, rustic brick walls, painted white, of course. Giant light globes hang from the white ceilings. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.

  I’m sitting on a not-too-comfortable seventies-style white leather sofa, by the hostess podium, waiting for Matt. He’s not late, I’m the one who’s early.

  I dig my cell out of my purse to pass the time.

  “Oh, you’re already here,” he says and checks his watch. “I hope I’m not late.”

  My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. I hate to say it, but he looks good in a gorgeous suit and blue dress shirt. A large brown leather satchel hangs from his shoulder. His blue eyes shine. As much as I hate him, I can’t deny that he has amazing eyes. That’s what hurt so much, the fact that I liked him so much and was so attracted to him, and the feeling just wasn’t mutual.

  I stand and smooth the folds of my dress. “No, I’m early.”

  His gaze travels down the curves of my body. “You look fabulous. God… that dress…” His words trail off and his mouth hangs.

  The hostess, a tall brunette, spots him and shoots us both a friendly smile. “You’re here. Under Moore, right?”

  “Yes, Matt Moore,” he says.

  “Follow me,” she says, and we follow the classy swagger of her hips as she leads us to our table by a window. A single white rose in a small crystal vase serves as a centerpiece. “Please have a seat,” she says with a smile, and hands us both wine menus and dinner menus. “Your server will be right with you.”

  I settle my rear comfortably on the fancy chair, and cross one leg over the other. I sit up straight and attempt to appear more confident than I am. I’m an empowered, independent and confident woman now. I’m not the meek, self-conscious, shy girl he used to know.

  “Thank you again for agreeing to eat with me,” are the first words out of his mouth — he’s really kissing my ass. He’s probably riddled with guilt, and can’t wait to wash it off. Maybe Matt Moore does have a conscience, after all.

  “Wow, you really stand out in that dress,” he says as he peruses his wine menu.

  I look down at my flashy red dress and pumps, stark against the whites of the space. My gaze darts around the room at the other diners, all dressed in shades of black, grey and muted shades. I suddenly feel self-conscious.

  “I mean that in a good way,” he says. “You own the room. Everyone’s looking at you.”

  A middle-aged man jerks his gaze away when I catch him. I’d been so consumed with what Matt thought of me, I didn’t even notice.

  “Who knew little Kayla Wilson would turn out to be such a knock-out?”

  His words hit me hard. But not in a good way. “Don’t you mean little Whaley Wilson?”

  He shakes his head. “I know I could tell you that I’m sorry a million times, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

  “It wouldn’t,” I don’t hesitate to say.

  “From now on, I’m determined to make it up to you… now that we’re practically family.”

  I smile. “It’s hard to believe. Who would have ever thought… Matt Moore and Whaley Wilson, siblings.”

  His face falls. “Please stop reminding me about that shit nickname I gave you. It’s been nagging at me for years, and it’s one of the things about my past I wish I could change.”

  His words catch me off guard — I don’t say a thing.

  “I’m going to make it up to you, Kayla. I promise.”

  9

  THE SERVER ARRIVES and introduces herself. Matt orders a bottle of red for the both us, chooses a Shiraz as per my request. He orders lobster bisque soup and the prime rib, and I choose grilled calamari, and avocado pecan salad. I always make healthy choices; grains, nuts, vegetables and fruit, lentils and kale. Health is a priority for me. My diet is a primary focus in my life, has been for years, and I suspect it will be that way for the rest of my days.

  His gaze lingers on me for a beat, and I hate the fact that he can still manage to stir up a whirl of butterflies in my stomach. How the fuck does that work? I hate the guy. It’s that intense stare of his… he had it when he was younger too.

  Some men just have an effect on you, whether you want it or not. Why do the jerks have that pull? I could read a million self-help books on relationships, and I still wouldn’t understand that one. It’s the reason why so many women stay with assholes… because those men have a hold of them.

  He shakes his head again. “I can’t believe you’re the same girl I knew in high school.”

  I roll my eyes without the least attempt to hide it.

  “No, I don’t mean the way you look, Kayla,” he says. “It’s more about the way you carry yourself. You seem so confident now. You know the reason you got picked on in high school wasn’t your weight. You were just so meek and down on y
ourself. You were an easy target.”

  I bite my lip. I want to tell him to fuck off.

  “High school is like that. There’s always a victim everyone picks on. If we all choose a victim and pick on him or her, then we’re all in on the same game, and no one picks on us. It’s a way to protect ourselves. Thank God those days are over… teenagers are the most insecure people on earth.”

  I smirk. “Well, you never seemed to have trouble in the confidence department,” I point out. “Mr. Popularity.”

  “Oh, believe me. I had my issues.”

  “Well, your issues were nowhere as serious as mine. It’s a wonder I didn’t blow up the school or grow up to be a serial killer.”

  He smiles. “I’m happy you turned out great. Your mom has been talking my head off about you for ages; her beautiful daughter who just happens to be a registered massage therapist and yoga instructor. And when she’s not doing all those things, she’s busy saving the environment,” he adds with a playful wink. “I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

  “And you never knew who I was?”

  “All I knew was that your name was Kayla. I never put two and two together.”

  “I guess you’d long forgotten about Whaley Wilson,” I say, another dig. “Believe me, I never forgot about you.”

  Before he can say another word, the server, a stiff skinny middle-aged man, interrupts us and pours an ounce of wine in Matt’s glass. Matt twirls his glass and tastes the wine, and nods in approval.

  I have the urge to say something snarky but I’m at a loss. I’ve never been particularly witty around Matt Moore, not like I am with Oscar. Oscar doesn’t drink wine. He’d probably make some crack to the server about how he’s being sexist by offering the tasting and approval to him instead of me.

  The appetizers arrive and I dig in. The calamari is perfect and I enjoy every bite of it.

  Matt reaches down for his satchel. He digs in and I’m curious to see what he wants to show me. He fishes out a white frame, and when he flips it around, I almost choke on my calamari — it’s a photo of me. It’s one of the photos he took of me when we were young, when we were friends, before he turned on me. He used to always carry a camera around — he was a real shutterbug, talented too.