Lena didn’t strike me as particularly strategic; she seemed wild and careless. But of course she’s smart. So was Charlie. So am I.
“I’m not coming,” I tell her. “I don’t want to know anything else.” Normality is what I’ve been craving ever since my conversation with Charlie in the hotel that day, months ago. Since before that, really. Since the incident that set it off. I want my old life back.
Lena nods, but she looks disappointed. She digs through her bag, brings out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbles something on it. She throws down a few euros on the table and takes a final sip of her latte. Then she pushes the scrap of paper in my direction.
“In case you change your mind,” she tells me. “I’m due to head back to London on the eight a.m. Eurostar from Gare du Nord tomorrow morning anyway. That’s my train number and my mobile number and that’s my address in the city.”
Then she walks out of the restaurant without looking back. Maybe she can get away with jetting all over Europe, but for me the stakes are higher. I’m not the type to just whisk off to London, throwing down cash and taking risks. I have a family that worries when I’m not around. I barely even got clearance to come to Paris. I crumple up the paper and shove it in my back pocket, willing myself to throw it away.
4
Lena
Truthfully, Aubrey’s kind of lame. I don’t know what Charlie saw in her. She’s pretty, sure. Hotter than me, if I’m honest. But she’s got a stick up her ass like I can’t believe. I can’t believe Charlie cheated on me with her. She was probably awful in bed with their boring, responsible, condom sex. I wonder if Charlie really lost his virginity to me, the way he said. At least if he was telling the truth, I have that on her.
The thought of her in bed with him . . . It’s a thought I’ll probably never be able to get rid of.
I take the metro at Odéon and make my way back toward the 10th, where the streets come alive in the vibrant Canal Saint-Martin neighborhood, with its picturesque bridges arching above wide waterways. It’s usually my favorite part of Paris, but today the sight of the canal’s tree-lined banks and iron footbridges does nothing to lift my mood. I’m crashing in the neighborhood with an old friend from boarding school. When my parents heard I was coming here and not staying with my aunt and uncle, they flipped. But my aunt’s worried eyes and my uncle’s hacking cough and the way my cousin Elodie hangs on me would have sent me into a rage spiral.
Carey’s asleep when I walk in. It doesn’t surprise me. Carey’s a stoner type, inherited family money and all that. He’s into the party scene over here, which isn’t all that different from the London scene: all-night raves fueled by E and Special K. Then he comes down from it and lies around smoking pot until he has his energy back up. Carey doesn’t even work. He’s just a useless, lazy bum. And he can afford to be. He’s sprawled out on the leather sofa in only his boxers, his skinny white legs draped over the sofa arm. A trail of drool is trickling from one side of his mouth. Truthfully, I’m always waiting a little anxiously for the day when I get the call that Carey’s in the hospital or in prison. I kick him once, hard. He grunts a little but doesn’t move. I’ve been counting on Carey for distraction, but he’s as useless as always.
It hits me in a wave so forceful that I crumple to the ground next to the sofa, feeling the harsh, splintered wood of the floor snag and rip my tights. Charlie is gone. His hands, weaving through mine. The way he whispered in my ear just before moving to kiss my neck. The muscles of his back under my fingers. His arms wrapped around me on a cold day, the scruff of his facial hair against my cheek, tickling. Making me laugh. Wrapping me into his coat with him in the park, and pulling me down into the snow. His lips on mine as he hovers above me. His nickname for me. All of it, gone. Ripped away. And I didn’t even know he’d been ripping it away slowly all this time. All the times he said he’d meet me and he didn’t, all the phone calls I waited for that never came, the distance: physical and emotional and always brutal.
Charlie’s gone, but he could still be alive. Aubrey thought I was crazy when I said it; but she doesn’t know what I know. And I’m not ready to tell her . . . yet. Not when I don’t trust her. I don’t realize how loudly I’m crying until I feel Carey’s hand on my head, pushing my hair back. He scoots down from the couch and settles next to me on the floor, guiding me into his shoulder.