“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not his fault. He never forced me to change. I did it all because I wanted to.”
My aunt once told me that women marry men hoping that they can change them, but they can’t. And men marry women hoping they’ll never change, but they always do. But when I met William, I didn’t see a man who I wanted to change to fit me. I didn’t want to tame him. He was perfect the way he was. Instead, I wanted to change so I could be worthy of him.
Shaking my head, I smile sadly. “I’m sorry … I’m unloading all of my emotional BS with you, and it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. The baggage of a bored, messed-up housewife.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re all fucked up in our own little ways. Besides, love can be like that. Make one fly so damn high, you’re blind to the fall. And, sometimes, even if you see it—know that there’s no way you’ll survive it—you just don’t give a damn because it feels damn fucking good.”
I clear my throat, looking away, and stare down at the street. I focus on a black car driving away—it’s less risky for my peace of mind and heart. Just when I think the storm has passed and I’ve made it out alive, he reaches for my hand tentatively, softly, and the touch is more intimate than a kiss could ever be, more devastating. Every atom in my body attuned to him, begging him silently to never let me go, to stay right here with me just holding my hand. He turns it over, so my palm is facing up, and he covers it with his. No words are spoken. There’s no need for them. The silence is comfortable like the warm breeze kissing my skin.
“Where do you go from here?”
“What do you mean?”
“One must live. Fall. Fail. Get up. Try again and again until we get it right. Life is too short to not know how you like your eggs, Valentina.”
“I don’t know.” I pause, watching people walk by, trying to guess their destinations, thinking of Guillaume and the flower shop and how good it felt to get the job, to have a purpose. “Maybe … Maybe find out if I like to dance in the rain. What it feels like to stay up all night and watch the sunrise. Pretend to be someone else for a day for kicks and giggles.”
“Look at me, Valentina,” he orders gently.
Hesitantly, always hesitantly when it comes to him, I will myself to meet his eyes.
“You’re more than what you give yourself credit for.”
“I don’t know about that,” I scoff, trying to hide my glass-thin vulnerability behind a beat-up armor.
“You know what I see when I look at you?”
I give my head a tiny shake.
“When I look at you I see a woman who might’ve lost her way, but I know she’s brave enough to find it back. She knows it too. She just needs a little push in the right direction.”
Silence grows and matures like a tree around us. He raises his hand, as though in slow motion or a dream, sliding it under my hair. He molds his palm along the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking my hot skin, replacing the blood in my veins with liquid lava.
“What are you thinking about?” I whisper.
Sébastien leans forward until our faces are dangerously close. My mind shouts at me to move, but I unwisely ignore it while drowning in an ocean of blue. Every part of my body tingles.
“That I’ve never wanted to kiss someone like I want to kiss you right now.”
A pause that tastes bitter like betrayal.
“I’m married.”
Another pause. This one tastes like regret, hopelessness.
He rubs his thumb over my jawline, my bottom lip. “Why did you come then, Valentina?”
“Because I wanted to. Because I need to be where you are. Because when I’m with you, I’m happy.”
Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I register the sound of people laughing, the honking of a car, the siren of an ambulance—life moving around us as though nothing is out of the ordinary. It all fades to a meaningless nothing because of a man who holds me as though I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.
Breathing hard, I grab him by the wrist. His skin is smooth and hard, warm and inviting. And I never want to let go even though I should.
“Say something,” I whisper.
“Your husband is a fool. If you were mine …” He takes me by surprise when he lowers his face and kisses each of my fingers. His demanding lips send shockwaves running through me. “Jesus Christ, Valentina, you make me feel things I never thought would be possible to feel again,” he croaks, kissing my forehead. The laughing man has been replaced by a somber stranger, one whose eyes are full of pain and desperation. I want to pull him into my arms and hold onto him through the pain once again. “I look at you and I dare to hope even though—”
“Valentina? Is that you?” I hear a familiar voice ask, breaking the spell of the moment.
No. No. No! I curse the gods who keep interrupting us as I guiltily step away from Sébastien and put some space between us, turning in the direction of the woman’s voice.
“Gigi?” Shock slices through me as I watch my friend step into the light. Soul Cycled legs. Cherry red lips. She’s wearing a mini red dress that leaves very little to the imagination. Georgiana “Gigi” Stanhope. A sex bomb. A fixture in social magazines and fundraisers. And who happens to be married to one of William’s best friends and partners. “What are you doing here?”
“Looks like the same thing as you.” She grins as she checks out Sébastien unashamedly. “Enjoying myself, Val.”
A guilty blush burns my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were coming to Paris. I mean, last time we spoke, you said you had nothing planned.”
“That time at Neiman’s, right?” She shrugs, and even her shrug is seductive. “Change of plans.” She reaches for a blond god, who appears to be much younger than us, and snakes her hands around his tuxedo-clad arm. “I decided to treat myself instead. Val, meet Ryan. Ryan, meet Valentina.”
I introduce them to Sébastien, and we shoot the breeze for a little. There aren’t any uncomfortable silences because of Gigi’s continuous chatter. A natural born entertainer, all eyes and attention must be on her at all times. I don’t mind it. I actually prefer it that way. It gives me time to think of an answer in case she asks me about William or Sébastien. Or of an excuse to leave without being rude.
She reaches for my hand. “Val, come with me. Gentlemen, we’ll be back in a few. Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”
“Which is not much,” I say sarcastically under my breath, making her laugh.
She guides me to a ladies’ bathroom, opening all the doors of the stalls to make sure we’re alone. When she’s satisfied, she moves toward the marble counter, reclines her hip against it, and crosses her arms. “Now, answer two things, you naughty girl. Where is that hapless husband of yours? And, most importantly, how in the world did you end up in the arms of Sébastien Leroux? Not that I blame you one bit.”