“You can snot on me if you like,” he says. I look at his bloodshot eyes and laugh over my tears and curl up into his side. He pushes me forward and arranges a pillow behind my back. I nestle my head on his shoulder and begin to fade. Without Carey, I’d never have lasted as long as I did with Charlie. Without him I’d have cracked long ago. This is what I’m thinking as I drift off.
I wake up in Carey’s bed at four a.m. He’s gone—probably back out at whatever party he’s managed to sniff out. It’s actually perfect timing because my train leaves for London at eight, and without coffee I’m hopeless, and I have lots to pack. I take a quick shower in his bathroom, then dig an old towel out of the dirty clothes bin, trying hard to ignore its musty smell. The maid must be due to come any day; Carey never does his own laundry. I scrawl a quick note to him on the corner of a receipt: Thanks, babe. Cookies on the counter. I made my favorite for him yesterday morning before the funeral. Baking is more of a way to calm my nerves than any kind of hospitable gesture, but he won’t know that. I made white chocolate macadamia. Charlie was allergic to macadamias.
I know part of what I’m feeling for Charlie is grief. I’ve lost this love I thought I had, but apparently never did. Grief isn’t what’s driving me to London, though. It’s anger. If Charlie’s alive, he needs to pay for what he’s done to me. If only Aubrey were there, it would be that much sweeter, making him face both of us at once. But either way, I’ll confront him. I’ll make him tell me to my face that he was cheating on me. I’ll find out what the fuck he was lying about besides Aubrey. He doesn’t get to be a coward and leave this mess for us to deal with. He owes me more than that.
At six o’clock, I throw my duffel over my shoulder and make my way out the door, pulling it shut behind me. I stop in quickly at the boulangerie on the corner. When I open the door to the shop, I’m assaulted by a fresh, yeasty smell, left over from the morning’s baking. I buy a café and an almond croissant, my favorite when I’m in Paris. The croissant is still warm when I bite into it, but as with the canals, it’s hard to take joy in the simple Parisian pleasures I usually treasure. Then I take off in the direction of Gare du Nord. I haven’t thought much more about what I’ll do when I get back to London. I haven’t thought about much at all since Aubrey and I parted.
I was hoping Aubrey would show up before I left. I gave her my cell phone number and Carey’s address, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wait an extra ten minutes before leaving for the station or check my phone obsessively for unfamiliar numbers.
I know I can track down Charlie’s skeletons without Aubrey’s help. But beyond the satisfaction of seeing his face when he sees both of us together—if we find him and force him to own up—something Aubrey said yesterday hit me hard. Charlie never mentioned you. So if he didn’t mention me—the girl he spent three years of his life with, including one year when we were practically inseparable—what did he talk about? Who was he? I only know Charlie as an extension of myself, and I need to find out who the hell this other Charlie was. Because apparently I’ve had no fucking idea. I saw one angle, the one he chose to show me. Now I need the rest. And she holds the key to at least another cache of something important. I can interview his friends, his teachers, all I want. But I’ll only be able to detect the lies that conflict with my Charlie. I’ll never be able to tell about all the rest, not without her help.
Charlie always liked to have the last word.
But not anymore, not in this.
I pass through the crowds quickly, stopping only to validate my ticket. Gare du Nord has an impressive arched and pillared exterior, but the inside is an ugly place, a great big mix of travelers and beggars and shopkeepers. There’s a little stall selling “Manhattan hotdogs” for five euros each. There are train times and destinations digitally projected onto a large screen that hovers in front of me and at least a dozen tracks with trains waiting to depart. I find my train to London St Pancras Station on the board and work my way over to track 6, nearly stumbling over a baby stroller. “Pardon,” I say to the baby’s mother, but she fixes me with a stiff glare. I’m heading to car 15 when I feel a hand on my wrist. Fingernails dig hard, piercing my skin. I jump and swivel. Everything I’ve been feeling this weekend bubbles to the surface.
“Christ!” I yell at Aubrey, causing several other travelers to turn our way. “You can’t just grab me like that.” I’m breathing hard, stooping over my knees. Somehow the encounter has shaken me up in a big way.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Seriously, I just wanted to get your attention.”
“Well, you did,” I tell her in a hard voice. “Congrats on that. What are you doing here?”
She responds by waving her ticket in my face. I squint at the small type, doubting her up to the moment I see confirmation of a single journey to London St Pancras.