I wasn’t sure what would be harder to leave: Poppy, the friend I’d grown to trust; or Paris, the city I’d grown to love.
Poppy was full of apologies and promises to try to talk Véronique out of her decision. But I’d screwed up, and I knew it. I didn’t want to cost Poppy more than I already had. I had the feeling that her own job security was hanging by a string, and I knew that losing the Guillaume Riche account would mean the end of Poppy’s business. I would never do that to her. I felt terrible that I had already wreaked so much havoc. She had rescued me from my own depression back home, and I had repaid her by putting her job in jeopardy. Although Poppy kept insisting it wasn’t my fault, I knew it was. It was unforgivable.
Once Poppy realized that her powers of persuasion weren’t going to get me to revise my decision, she gave in and began to say her good-byes. She took me out to dinner at a different restaurant every night, perhaps to try to convince me to stay in France. But all the crêpes complètes and coq au vin and crème br?lée in Paris couldn’t change things.
She even loosened up on the whole French-kissing mission, which was a relief. I didn’t know whether her relaxing of the rules was due to her pity for me or perhaps over some sort of change that her visit with Darren had wrought in her. Nevertheless, it allowed me to slip back to my old ways of not dating, which were much less disaster-prone. After all, if I wasn’t dating and I wasn’t thinking about kissing Frenchmen, there was no chance of anything going wrong, now, was there?
I tried calling Gabe several times that week, but there was never an answer on his work or cell phones, and he didn’t return any of the messages I left. I’m so sorry, I said in several messages. It didn’t mean anything. In others, I apologized for my complete lack of professionalism and told him I was leaving for Orlando on Saturday morning. They all had the same general theme: I’m a jerk. And I’m so sorry if I hurt you.
On my last day of work, Guillaume, who had managed, quite impressively, to stay out of trouble all week, came by Poppy’s office in the afternoon for one final round of apologies.
“Look, Emma, I really like working with you,” he said, sitting down at my desk and widening his already enormous green eyes at me plaintively. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said with a nod. And it was. Guillaume was Guillaume, and I should have known better. This was my fault, for the most part, not his. “I’ve liked working with you, too,” I admitted as an afterthought.
This made him look even sadder. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” he asked. “Talk to the people at KMG, maybe?”
“No. What’s done is done, I think.” I gave him a small smile. “But you are really talented. I will wish the best for you. I know you’ll do well.”
On my last night in Paris, after I’d packed and left one final apologetic message for Gabe, I went to dinner with Poppy at a crêperie near the Place d’Italie, where we stuffed ourselves with a bottle of cidre, salads, buckwheat crêpes with cheese, eggs, and ham, and massive flambéing crêpes Suzettes and cafés doubles for dessert. Outside the window, a parade of Parisians strolled continually by, walking little white dogs, carrying baguettes, chattering away on their mobile phones, or tending to small, impeccably dressed little children with pink cheeks and spring coats buttoned all the way to the top.
“I love it here,” I murmured, staring out the window as Poppy counted out a small handful of euro bills and coins for our dinner, which she insisted on paying for.
“So why don’t you stay?” Poppy asked softly.
I shook my head and gazed out on the Paris outside our window before answering. “No,” I said. “I can’t. It’s obviously not where I belong.”
After dinner, Poppy suggested heading to Le Crocodile in the fifth for cocktails, but I only wanted to be alone with the city. “No,” I said. “I think I’m going to take a walk. I’ll see you at home in a little while.”
Poppy and I hugged good-bye and went our separate ways, her to a taxi and me underground to the 7 line of the Métro, which I took to Chatelet, seven stops away. I emerged twenty minutes later to a square full of sparkling lights lining centuries-old buildings. The Palais de Justice, the H?tel de Ville, the Pont de la Cité, and Sainte-Chapelle were flooded with soft light and glittered on the surface of the Seine, which was broken only by the occasional silent passing of a bateau.