“I don’t want tea,” she says. “I need a drink.”
I have a funny feeling that this girl and I would have been friends under different circumstances.
She leads me into a café: outside it has the same furniture as the rest of the cafés lining the street; but inside there are just a few red leather booths and some wooden tables. It feels like we could be anywhere in the world . . . except Paris, where aesthetics are celebrated and nearly everything is elaborately decorated.
“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,” says the waiter. I merely smile and nod, but the fairy-elf breaks out in flawless French:
“Bonjour, monsieur. Une table pour deux, s’il vous pla?t?”
“How do you know French?” I ask once we’re seated. She shrugs, fiddling with a beautiful gold ring with a blue stone—real sapphire, if I had to guess. She twists it above her knuckle as she talks, alternately biting her thumbnail.
“I’ve done a lot of traveling. Plus I spent most of high school in Europe. Took French and Spanish and Portuguese and Latin in school. Anyway. I’m Lena. What’s your name?”
“Aubrey,” I tell her. It’s funny that we went this long without exchanging names. Lena. I’ve definitely never heard the name before, coming from Charlie. She laughs, but it’s a little flat.
“You’re Aubrey?” she says, incredulous. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“So you’re the ‘good family friend,’” she says, using air quotes.
“Is that really what he said?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’ve never even met his parents.”
That gives her some satisfaction, I can tell. “You know, I was always suspicious of you. I never met you and I’ve met everyone else, and yet he insisted you were this good friend from childhood, a neighbor or something from Paris. Jesus, he was full of shit, wasn’t he?” It’s almost too much to process. My whole body hurts, like I’ve just finished working out. I’ve felt guilty for so long about the wedge that had started to drive itself between me and Charlie. And now to realize maybe I should have been angry, too . . . that all the blame shouldn’t have been on me . . . I’m surprised by how much it hurts. “You’re dating a jazz musician, you know.”
“What?” I’m completely confused now. Charlie was hopeless with music. He couldn’t even sight read when I played the piano.
“Not true? Doesn’t surprise me. That’s just what Charlie told me. Apparently you’re dating a jazz musician and the sex is—”
“STOP,” I say, louder than I mean to. She stops, her jaw dropping open. A few people glance our way. “I’m sorry,” I say, quieter now. “That’s just—I can’t believe he’d make something like that up. About me. His family friend.”
“Tell me,” she continues drily. “What about my fake identity? Let me guess: I used to be his babysitter? I’m banging a tattoo artist?”
“No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I’ve never heard of you. He never mentioned your name.” The second I say it, I regret it.
“Fuck you,” she says clearly, just as the waiter is bringing us our menus. Her face has gone white. She pushes her chair back, moving as if to leave.
“Lena! Stop.” My voice is high and nervous. I feel terrible; I didn’t mean to hurt her. I find myself reaching for her arm—we’re reversing roles now; it’s me after her. “I’m sorry—” I catch myself. I don’t want to talk to this girl, because I don’t know what I might say. Still, I know how bad she’s feeling, because I’m feeling just as bad. It makes me want to be careful with her. I find myself holding her gaze. I try to let her know that way that I really am sorry—for both of us. The whole situation is like some nightmare I can’t pull myself out of. She sighs and lets herself sink back into her seat.
“Goddammit,” she says. “Fucking Charlie. I dated him for three years. I never cheated on him. I could have,” she says. “But I never would have done that.” I swallow hard against my guilt. The waiter is back to take our order. He’s dressed in black with a white apron, and he holds his pad aloft, pen poised and ready. “Whiskey on the rocks,” she tells him in English now; I guess her “flawless French” is only situational. “Un double, s’il vous pla?t. Elle prend un verre de vin blanc,” she says, clearly ordering wine for me. “Do you want anything to eat?” she asks me. I shake my head. To my surprise, she orders herself a croque-monsieur.
We sit in silence for a minute and then the waiter’s back with a glass of white wine for me and her whiskey and a sandwich slathered in cheese. I watch Lena take an enormous bite of her sandwich, then another and another—like she hasn’t eaten in months. I’ve always been the opposite: when I’m sad, I can’t eat at all.