I turned from him, grabbed one of the cupcakes, and took a huge bite.
“Thanks for the cupcakes,” I told him, trying hard to make my voice sound cool and aloof. “Not sure what you think is going to happen on that bed, though.”
“I know exactly what’s going to happen,” he said. Then he lifted me up before I could stop him, and I got cupcake frosting all over my shirt, and he carried me over to the bed and dumped me down on top of a mountain of pillows. He grabbed the cupcake from my hands and ate the rest, licking his fingers. Then he was over me, and I was tasting chocolate frosting on his tongue and wondering how the hell I got so lucky with Charlie Price. From the beginning, he picked me, not the other way around. After we first met, he never let me go. I’m still wondering exactly why—why me—every single day.
3
Aubrey
I could leave now. It wouldn’t be hard; when the fairy-elf slumped down to the ground, her frame no longer obscured the exit button. But the way she reacted right now, going from tough girl to helpless in less than five seconds—it scares me. I can’t feel bad for her. I can’t. I feel bad about so many things that I think I’ll never feel okay again.
I push the button. I hear the lock click. I tug at the handle and it yields to my grasp. But my feet are rooted. I feel myself turn back. I watch myself kneel next to her.
“Are you okay?” I ask. She’s let her cigarette slip from between her fingers to the ground, where it burns the edge of a blade of grass. She doesn’t answer but her eyes droop closed, and I panic. She’s so pale, so thin.
I put my hand on her shoulder. I don’t even remember her name.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you all right?” For all I know, she has anxiety attacks or a weak heart or something. She nods slowly.
“I just need a second,” she mutters. “But don’t go anywhere. Please.”
“Okay,” I say. But I can see a few other mourners congregating in the foyer. Soon they’ll wonder what we’re doing.
“Actually,” I say, “let’s get out of here.”
“Wouldn’t want to cause a scene,” she says, not bothering to look up.
“Parisians don’t like scenes,” I agree, and she laughs a little, even though it’s not funny. I hold out my hand and she accepts it. The bones of her fingers feel frail as I pull her to her feet. We step through the door—which I can barely open, it’s so heavy—and onto Rue de Buci. It’s my first time in Paris since I was little, and everything is substantial and impressive, from the towering wooden doors to the thick metal posts that line the sidewalks.
I feel faint with Charlie’s betrayal, even though I shouldn’t. I have no right to be; and I don’t know how Charlie can still surprise me. I glance at this girl’s face and all I can see is a slideshow of him and her: kissing her, laughing with her, scooping her up in a big hug, balancing his muscular frame on top of her fragile one. My imagined idea of the two of them together is happier than the reality of him with me ever was. I turn without a word and set off toward the metro. I need to get away; that’s the only thing in my head. Technically, I can’t feel like a victim without also being a hypocrite. But that’s the funny thing about feelings—they don’t make any sense, they just are.
“Wait!” she calls after me. I hear her running to catch up, but I cross the street just as the light’s changing. I look back to see her dodging traffic and feel my mouth fall open.
“Are you insane?” I ask when she catches up to me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Listen,” she says, out of breath. “I’m guessing you’re not heading to the funeral luncheon, right? Let’s go sit at a café for a bit.”
“I don’t want to sit anywhere with you.”
“I’m not the one who screwed you over,” she points out. Apparently she’s gotten over her wilting damsel moment. “He obviously treated both of us like crap. Don’t you want to know anything?” Her breath emerges in loud gasps that seem disproportionate to her stature. “I, personally, want to know what other bullshit Charlie fed us.”
“Okay,” I say after a moment’s hesitation. “But I can’t stay long.”
“I know a place this way,” she says, gesturing westward with her chin. The cobblestone street is packed with people and lined with shops of every kind: boulangeries with mille-feuilles and precariously stacked pastel macarons in their wide window displays; ice cream carts with miniature red and blue awnings; corner cafés with cheerful wicker chairs outside, front-facing so customers can people-watch; and flower shops boasting bouquets in every hue imaginable. There are a million options.
“There’s a tea salon right here.” I catch sight of a little Invader tag, just one example of the street art I’ve been seeing all over Paris since I arrived—something I’d love to photograph any other time—above the salon’s awning. Charlie’s other girlfriend looks at me like I’m crazy.