One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  He groans as he pushes into me harder and faster, and it feels so amazing but I can’t quite get there, and I desperately want to. I trail my hand down my side, and explore under my skirt. I find my throbbing clit and rub it gently. Oh God…

  This is happening. Any second now.

  “I love it when you touch your pussy, baby,” he whispers against my ear as he goes at me harder. “Make yourself come. I want to hear you.”

  I oblige and take myself there, not wasting another second. His throbbing cock still inside me, he moans loudly against my ear as he pushes hard into me, stills and comes. One more push and he’s done.

  He stands still for a few seconds, pressed against me. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  I smile. “No… I loved every minute of it. Or should I say every second of it?” I tease.

  He laughs against my ear. “Sorry, I was a little quick there, but you drive me crazy, Kayla. That dress, and those boots…”

  He pulls slowly out of me, and I press down the folds of my dress. “Thank goodness I’m wearing this thick jacket because my shoulders would be feeling it tomorrow.”

  He takes my hand in his. “Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want my girl all bruised up.”

  We set out on our way back to the metro. “Thank you,” I say again. “For tonight. It was amazing.”

  He smiles down at me. “No, thank you, Bernie.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  I swear, that guy loves to take me against walls, but he also loves to drive me up them.

  Mom is all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. You’d never know that she’d just broken off her engagement. She’s ordered a crêpe with custard and strawberries. I’m eating an omelette with a side of fruit.

  We’ve agreed to meet at this little café, smack in the middle of the both of us, where the first and the 8th arrondissements meet. She’s staying in the 8th, and the first is where I am. It’s a little swankier where she is, and she’s closer to the Eiffel tower, but I like the first arrondissement, the center of it all.

  The café is like the hundreds of others in this city; pretty bistro chairs, charming decor and art, stiff servers, stylish patrons, and menus written in French on cute chalkboards. This one has vintage Paris posters and a huge selection of crêpes.

  “I’m addicted,” Mom says as she digs in. “I wonder if I could make these at home. They’d never be as good.”

  I smile. “You could try.”

  “Well, you know me,” she says with a mouth full of crêpe. “Not such a great cook.”

  I smile but don’t say a word. Mom is great but yes, she’s never been a great cook. “So how are you feeling? You seem really great.”

  She smiles widely. “I’m great. Antoine and I had a great time yesterday, and we’re going to see the Louvre today. We’ve booked a private tour.”

  “Wow, good for you. Way to rebound!”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, there’s nothing going on between Antoine and I,” she insists. “We’re just friends.”

  I cock a brow. “So you say.”

  She blushes a little. “He’s really great, and very handsome but… I just ended it with Mark.”

  I want to tell her to forget all about Mark, the scoundrel, and jump into bed with Antoine. We only live once, after all. But for some reason, I don’t say a word. I’m still thinking about my role in all this, and the guilt is driving me crazy.

  Although it truly had to be done. I’m so glad she didn’t go ahead with the wedding. God, I can’t imagine having Matt as my brother. He definitely revealed his true colors, and just as I suspected all along, he’s a complete, utter asshole. Deep inside, I knew his whole Mr. Perfect act was too good to be true.

  I enjoy a sip of my orange juice. “So Oscar punched Matt in the face last night.”

  She sets down her fork and knife. “What?!”

  “We were at this bar, and I told Matt that I wasn’t interested in dating him anymore, and I guess I must have offended him because he lost it and started throwing insults at me. About my clothes, my status. Crap like that—”

  “What a little ass.”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.”

  “I guess not.” Mom suddenly seems so sad, and I know she’s gone back to all those years ago. “I can’t believe he’s still bullying you. I thought he’d grown up. I guess I was wrong.”

  “He’s not worth another second of our time, Mom. Not another word. And neither is his father.”

  She grabs her glass of juice, and lifts it up in the air. “Hear, hear.”

  She quickly gets back to her crêpe. “Hey, Antoine and I are going to see the Eiffel tower on the Bateaux Mouches tonight. You want to come with us?”

  I brighten up at the idea. “Sure, can Oscar and Corrie tag along?”

  She smiles. “Of course.”

  “We don’t have much more time in this beautiful city,” I point out. “We better make the best of it.”

  Mom’s face falls. “Yes, you’re right.”

  I know she’s thinking about Antoine. “You can always FaceTime with him,” I tell her. “You can chat on Facebook, and send long romantic emails. It’ll be fun.”

  She blushes. “He’s just a friend,” she insists.

  I smile because I know she’s full of it. Women of her generation could never jump into the bed of someone new, so soon after the end of a relationship. It would just be uncouth. But I know she’d love to.

  I eat my last bite of delicious omelette; egg white with spinach and mushrooms. I watch Mom enjoy the last of her breakfast, and I debate telling her the truth right here, right now. How great would it feel to get this off my chest? It’s really weighing on me; a heavy burden has settled at the back of my mind, like a hunk of junk taking too much room in the garage. Wouldn’t it be great to rid myself of it?

  My pulse quickens as I start. “Mom…”

  She looks up at me and grabs her glass of orange juice. “Yes? What is it, sweetie?”

  She can tell from my expression that this is serious. She seems extremely curious. I can’t go back now — I’ve opened the gates and she’s coming in.

  “I have something to tell you,” I venture, but I don’t quite know where to start.

  “Yes?” she says, getting more curious by the second.

  Where to start? From the beginning, I guess. My heart is pounding now. “A while ago, remember when Corrie told me about Mark, and I, uh, tried to talk to you about it…”

  Her eyes are glued to me, intrigued.

  This is so damn hard, but I plow on. “Well, anyway, when Corrie told me Mark had a… reputation, I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but first, I had to make sure.”

  Her face falls… she knows what I’m talking about.

  “I had to do something. I couldn’t let you marry the jerk. I knew he’d break your heart.”

  Her eyes grow wide, but she doesn’t utter a word. I’ve apparently rendered her speechless.

  “Corrie and I and Matt all got together and devised a plan. Matt knew this woman in Paris… Nicole.”

  “Nicole,” she says quietly, not quite believing my words. “The one who was giving… the one who was with him when I caught him?”

  I nod. “Yes, Mom. Nicole was a set-up. We set him up.”

  “You what?” she asks, completely confused.

  “We arranged for Nicole to seduce him, and for you to catch him in the act. I knew you’d never believe it if you didn’t see it with your own eyes. You had rose colored glasses on.”

  Her jaw is on the floor, and she can’t seem to look at me. “You… you did this. The sweater… you didn’t need a sweater. You just wanted me to catch my fiancé with his pants down.”

  “Well, it was the only way—”

  “I can’t believe you, Kayla,” she scoffs, her eyes brimming. “I can’t believe you would do this.”

  God, she’s hurt. �
�Mom, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. I was trying to save you. From that scoundrel.”

  She’s crying now — she’s a slobbering mess. “I can’t look at you right now. I just can’t.” She’s completely flustered as she digs into her purse. Her hands tremble as she slaps money on the table. “I better leave since I can’t stand to look at you right now.”

  And with those words, she grabs her jacket and dashes off. I want to run after her, but I can’t leave because I’m not sure she’s left enough money to cover both our meals. And besides, I know my mother — I know it would be pointless. When she’s upset, there’s no turning her around. She’s pig-headed that way.

  How did this happen? How did I manage to ruin our last days together in Paris? I should have never told her.

  Mothers & Daughters

  One of the most important relationships we have is the relationship we have with our mothers. —Iyanla Vanzant

  We start off as a microscopic egg inside their wombs, we grow inside them, into fully formed human beings. Mothers carry us for nine months and birth us. For some, mothers choose us, choose to make our lives beautiful when they decide to adopt us. Mothers care for us, feed us, teach us, and love us. Mothers are magicians.

  Our relationship with our mother should be the closest relationship we have. But for most women, that’s not the case. As we grow older, so does the distance between us. As soon as we leave their wombs, we take a step away from them. The first day of school, we take another step. The last time we are picked up in their arms is yet another step. The first fight we have pulls us further away. The independence we gain as teenagers expands the distance even further, and when we go off to college, we take a giant leap away from them.

  When we fall in love, a part of our heart is divided. Our lives become too busy for them; career, friends, relationships and hobbies and passions. Ironically, the mother who has raised her daughter well, who has loved and encouraged her to be strong and confident will lose her more easily, for that daughter will be successful, will love easily, and will live life to the fullest. When we have our own children, we are often too busy for our mothers.

  Mothers and daughters often don’t see eye to eye. Women are emotional creatures, and especially if a daughter has inherited her mother’s stubbornness. Despite the conflicts, ill-spoken words, the fights and silent treatments, mothers and daughters will always love each other.

  I’ve been lucky to always have had a wonderful relationship with my mother. She and my sister were all I had when I was growing up. My mother helped me deal with my father’s abandonment — we were all abandoned, the three of us. The three musketeers, Mom used to call us. She was strong for us. She led by example. Who needs a man anyway?

  When I was bullied, she was always there for me. She made sure that I wouldn’t forget that who I was inside was more important than what was outside. She never failed to remind me that I was beautiful.

  She took care of me.

  But there comes a time in the daughter-mother relationship when roles reverse. The daughter starts looking out for the mother, helping her out with advice, tasks at home, errands, and health problems. My time has come — it’s my turn to take care of her and look out for her. My mom has always been a little naive and whimsical — it’s one of the things I love about her. She sees the world with rose colored glasses. And sometimes she gets in a pickle because of it — trusting too much, shopping too much, doing crazy things she really shouldn’t. She’s been swindled, hurt, and debt-ridden. I’ve been there for her through all that, and that’s not about to change.

  As deceitful as it was, I did what I did because I love her and I’m looking out for her.

  Just like she looked out for me.

  36

  I’VE TRIED TEXTING HER about twenty times — lots of sorrys and cute stickers. An ‘I love you’ Bitmoji or two. An ‘I’m sorry’ Bitmoji. She’s not biting. She’s obviously very upset.

  I’ve spent all day staring at my phone, silently begging her to reply to my messages. I figure that the Bateaux-Mouches excursion is off, which is a shame because I was really looking forward to it.

  “We’re still going,” I announce to Oscar and Corrie as we enjoy dinner at the Japanese place again — we were all getting sick of French food.

  “I’m in,” Corrie cheers. “Let’s do this.”

  “Who knows,” I say eagerly. “Maybe we’ll run into them. Maybe we’ll be on the same boat.”

  Truth be told, that’s what I’m secretly hoping for.

  As soon as we arrive at the port, I look for her. The place is crazy busy, as are all tourist destinations in Paris, even at this time of year. I’m told the Bateaux-Mouches are the best way to see Paris — a stroll down the Seine and you get to see all the major attractions from the comfort of your seat.

  “Do you see her?” Corrie asks, eager.

  I strain my neck. There are so many people. “Nope.”

  “Well, I don’t want to burst your bubble,” Oscar chimes in. “But these boats leave every thirty minutes. The chances of us being on the same boat as them are slim.”

  I scowl at him. “Thanks, Oscar. Thanks a lot.”

  We board the boat. The seats are hard, and it’s crowded. There are earphones and ten languages available to us. This boat has an English speaking guide so we won’t need the earphones. I’m nestled between Oscar and Corrie. The woman to our right picks up the headphones and chooses Spanish.

  It’s cool, but a beautiful night nevertheless. I’ve dressed appropriately, swaddled in a thick jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. Corrie and Oscar are likewise prepared, thanks to me. I reminded them that boats are usually cold. I’m always the one who thinks of everything.

  The sun is setting as we head off. The tour guide tells us all about the attractions and the bridges we pass under. So many bridges… I never realized there were so many on the Seine. I recognize the Pont des Arts where that Gypsy accosted me, drew a horrible drawing of me, and probably cursed me. I’m pretty sure he did. A small part of me will always be worried.

  We sail past the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée du Louvre, and la place de Concorde. To be honest, I have no idea what that is, or what purpose it serves, but it sure is a pretty building. The architecture in this city is mind-blowing. How long must it have taken to build these fabulous structures? They certainly don’t make them like this anymore. Everything is efficient, streamlined now. No superfluous details. Just the basics. Such a pity.

  Corrie is busy snapping away for her Instagram, and Oscar is just enjoying the scenery. My gaze darts around, hoping to see Mom on our boat, I’ve already looked as we set out on the river, but strangely enough, I’m still hoping to see her, as if she were to suddenly materialize out of nowhere, as if she were hiding in someone’s oversized bag.

  Oscar squeezes my hand and shoots me a sweet smile. I recollect the night he told me about this brother. I can’t remember the last time we made love like that. It was different… so intense and emotional. Did it mean anything? Did it change everything between us?

  The sun is getting low, and the river is a captivating sight. I get lost in the twinkling lights, and I revel in the sensation of being tucked in between my two best friends. Oscar and I have been best pals for over three years now, and we know everything about each other. He’s the only one I can truly confess to, and likewise, I’m his only confidante too. I know it was difficult for him to tell me about his brother, but I’m so glad he did. I feel like I understand him better now.

  But can we do this? I’ve never had a relationship which lasted longer than six months. I’m just not built for them. I’m not wired that way. I’m better off alone. The last thing I want to do is ruin my friendship with Oscar. He’s my best friend. And shit happens when you get too close, when you stir emotions in the mix. We were doing just fine, just being friends who fuck. Are we getting too close? Are we making a huge mistake?

  I shake my head, not wanting to dwell on it. I just want to enj
oy this moment right now. We sail past Ile Saint-Louis and marvel at the beauty of Notre-Dame. The cruise is a little too loud for my liking; too much chattering all around, too many phone clicking sounds. Why can’t we all just sit in silence and enjoy?

  The night gets dark as we sail past the Arc de Triomphe, and la Place des invalides (again, no clue what that is… I should really pay more attention to the guide). We head toward the Eiffel tower. It’s all lit up and magnificent. People get excited at the sight of it and start snapping photos again. Hold on, I want to scream.

  As we get closer, it becomes imposing, larger than life. It’s beautiful, twinkling in the night. Of course, everyone stands, blocking my view, snapping away. I wish I could climb up on Oscar’s shoulders like I did that one time at that outdoor concert. I suddenly get lost in the memory of that day about two years ago. We’d gotten stoned and made love all night — it was one of the best days of my life.

  I’m in Paris, standing in front of the Eiffel tower. Why am I thinking about a concert two years ago? I grab my phone and snap away too. If you can’t beat ‘em, might as well join ‘em.

  It’s still early when we get back to our apartment. My feet are aching. My heeled boots are stylish, but not designed for walking the streets of Paris. Corrie plops down in front of the ancient television set. She finds an English channel — it appears to be some British soap opera. I wonder if it’s Coronation Street.

  The place is a complete mess. Neither Oscar nor Corrie are very organized. Truth be told, they’re both like sloppy teenagers. We’re leaving in about a day, and I really don’t want to deal with this mess then. I start in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Oscar asks. “It’s a beautiful night in Paris, and you’re cleaning a kitchen.”

  I turn on the faucet to fill the sink. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”