Make Me Bad(Private Lessons)

Chapter Twelve




Luc





We f*ck for about fifteen minutes. After we're both spent, I put her down, we walk over to sit at my kitchen table and I pour us two glasses of water.

“I should go.” she says awkwardly, “That really wasn’t why I came here. I really did come to apologize.”

“Didn’t you like it?” I tease.

“I loved it,” she whispers, “but I don’t want to come across as manipulative.”

I laugh out loud. “Trust me, I know manipulative women, and you are certainly not one of them.”

“Well, I could be.” she says defensively.

I laugh again. “Tell me. What are you telling your parents you’re doing while in Paris?” I’m not quite ready for her to leave yet so I figure I will keep her talking.

She looks down at the floor. “Well, I’ve kind of been avoiding talking to them.”

This makes me smile. “Really? And why is that?”

She rolls her eyes and motions to my apartment. “How do I explain this?”

“Good point. Were they happy you came to Paris?”

“They came around. They weren’t too crazy about the idea initially. I didn’t grow up as one of those rich kids who didn’t have any supervision. I was always with my parents. Going to college was pretty much my first time being away from them.”


I whistle softly. “I bet you went crazy.”

“Actually, I didn’t. I don’t know. It never really appealed to me. I had already done a lot of things with my parents, traveled to a lot of places. I had been to New York dozens of times.” She shrugs.

“Well, they must have done something right.” I offer.

She nods, pensive. “Yes, they did. And they never pushed me into country music. They always let me pursue my own interests. I’ve always been more into jazz and classical types of music. I mean, I like country music, don’t get me wrong, but how could I ever do that and not be compared to my parents? No one wants to live like that.”

I agree – no one would want to live like that. It’s like those kids who try to break into showbiz and their parents are massive stars. Everyone assumes they only get cast because of who their parents are and they’re always known as so-and-so’s son or daughter.

“Didn’t we already establish that I’m a good girl?” she asks. “There’s not much to tell about my parents. They are who they are and they’re great people. I couldn’t have asked for better ones.” She chews the inside of her lip. “What about your parents?”

Well, that’s what I get for asking about her past. Naturally, she wants to learn about mine.

“Not much to tell really. My dad left when I was just a kid. Which was fine, because he wasn’t much of a dad anyway. My mom was gorgeous, and a ballerina. I think that was the initial appeal for him and then he felt somewhat responsible after knocking her up.” I glance over at Madison, who quickly masks her face into one of neutrality.

“So,” I continue, “it was just me and my mom, living out in San Diego, and occasionally coming back to France to visit. My mom was French.” I add. “She worked a lot so I could continue my guitar lessons and study, and then she got ill and passed away when I was twenty.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching over and taking my hand and it feels so strange to be comforted. Even in our earlier stages, I can’t remember Vera ever comforting me. She was never one for sympathy.

My initial reaction is to pull away, but it feels good to have her hold my hand, and for a brief, crazy second, I can see myself with her. I can picture Madison and I together, despite our age difference, her youthful vibrancy offsetting my darker, cynical side. She would be good for me. I know she would be.

And it’s all so crystal clear, all so perfect, that it actually takes my breath away. Suddenly,

I ache for Madison Evans to be with me. Maybe everything will be all right as long as she's a part of my life.

“Well, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to my boring life story.” I say, withdrawing my hand and changing the subject, running from the feelings bubbling up inside me.

“Oh, right.” she says, recoiling quickly.

I feel guilty. I can tell that I just hurt her feelings.

“I don’t want to keep you.” She blushes. “I’m sorry that I even bothered you. I really was coming over just to apologize. Not for—you know, the other stuff.”

You mean the raw sex up against my front door? I think to myself.

“Of course.” I say.

“Maybe I’ll hear from you later in the week?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She nods hesitantly. “Okay. Well, again, sorry that I ruined today’s lesson. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s fine, really. Don't give it a second thought.”

I open the door and she slips out into the hallway. I watch her disappear down the steps and then I close the door after her.

I can’t help moving to the window to watch for her figure to appear on the street. A minute later I see her, and I slip behind my curtain when I see her glance back up at my window. A few seconds later, she looks away and makes her way down the street.

I stand at the window long after she’s gone, wondering why I feel so strongly about her this early on. I can’t remember ever feeling this strongly for a woman before. And honestly, I could never have a real future with Madison. She's forbidden in every respect. Ideally, I should be with someone like Juliette: someone my age, with a connection to my past, who has come out okay on the other side of divorce.

But have I really come out okay on the other side? And aside from the fact that Juliette lives in France and I live in New York, Juliette has children, and I don’t know if I could ever be with someone who has children. I can’t relate to kids. I’m awkward and unsure around them.

I shake my head; no, definitely not someone with kids. What does it matter anyway? Since when do I want to be tied down to a woman in the first place? I don’t want or need to be tied down to anyone. My own company and my guitar are enough.