I gave my grandmother a kiss on her soft, rose-scented cheek and, grabbing my set of keys off the hall table, made my way through the heavy wooden doors and down the spiral marble staircase, to the street below.
Paris is divided into twenty neighborhoods, or arrondissements, and each one is called by its number. Ours, the seventh, is an old, wealthy neighborhood. If you wanted to live in the trendiest part of Paris, you would not move to the seventh. But since my grandparents live within walking distance of the boulevard Saint-Germain, which is packed with cafés and shops, and only a fifteen-minute wander to the river Seine’s edge, I was certainly not complaining.
I stepped out the door into the bright sunlight and skirted past the park in front of my grandparents’ building. It is filled with ancient trees and scattered with green wooden park benches, giving the impression, for the couple of seconds it takes to pass it, that Paris is a small town instead of France’s capital city.
Walking down the rue du Bac, I passed a handful of way-too-expensive clothes, interior decor, and antiques stores. I didn’t even pause as I walked past Papy’s café: the one he had taken us to since we were babies, where we sat and drank mint-flavored water while Papy chatted with anything that moved. Sitting next to a group of his friends, or even across the terrace from Papy himself, was the last thing I wanted. I was forced to find my own café.
I had been weighing the idea of two other local spots. The first was on a corner, with a dark interior and a row of tables wrapped around the outside of the building on the sidewalk. It was probably quieter than my other option. But when I stepped inside I saw a line of old men sitting silently on their stools along the bar counter with glasses of red wine in front of them. Their heads slowly pivoted to check out the newcomer, and when they saw me they looked as shocked as if I were wearing a giant chicken costume. They might as well have an “Old Men Only” sign on the door, I thought, and hurried on to my second option: a bustling café a few blocks farther down the rue.
Because of its glass facade, the Café Sainte-Lucie’s sunlit interior felt spacious. Its sunny outdoor terrace held a good twenty-five tables, which were usually full. As I made my way toward an empty table in the far corner, I knew this was my café. I already felt like I belonged here. I stuck my book bag under the table and sat down with my back to the building, securing a view of the entire terrace as well as the street and sidewalk beyond.
Once seated, I called to the waiter that I wanted a lemonade, and then pulled out a paperback copy of The Age of Innocence, which I had chosen from the summer reading list for the school I’d be starting in September. Enveloped by the smell of strong coffee wafting up from all sides, I drifted off into my book’s distant universe.
“Another lemonade?” The French voice came floating through the streets of nineteenth-century New York in my mind’s eye, jerking me rudely back to the Parisian café. My waiter stood beside me, holding his round tray stiffly above his shoulder and looking every bit like a constipated grasshopper.
“Oh, of course. Um . . . I think I’ll take a tea, actually,” I said, realizing that his intrusion meant I had been reading for about an hour. There is an unspoken rule in French cafés that a person can sit at their table all day if they want, as long as they order one drink per hour. It’s kind of like renting a table.
I halfheartedly glanced around before looking back down at the page, but did a double take when I noticed someone staring at me from across the terrace. And the world around me froze when our eyes met.
I had the strangest feeling that I knew the guy. I’d felt that way with strangers before, where it seemed like I’d spent hours, weeks, even years with the person. But in my experience, it had always been a one-way phenomenon: The other person didn’t even notice me.
This was not the case now. I could swear he felt the same.
From the way his gaze held steady, I knew he had been staring at me for a while. He was breathtaking, with longish black hair waving up and back from a broad forehead. His olive skin made me guess that he either spent a lot of time outside or came from somewhere more southern and sunbaked than Paris. And the eyes that stared back into my own were as blue as the sea, lined with thick black lashes. My heart lurched within my chest, and it felt like someone had squeezed all the air out of my lungs. In spite of myself, I couldn’t break our gaze.