“C’est la vie. Enough stalling, Valentina. Dance with me.” He lifts me so my feet are on top of his feet, and begins to sway.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wincing a little, imagining that this must be painful for him.
“Never better,” he whispers close to my ear, tightening his grip around me. “I’ve got you, ma petite chouette.”
I’ve got you. Simple words, but how safe do they make one feel.
I let my gaze roam over his features while getting lost in the heady sensation of being in his arms. Sébastien is like the sun. Dark without him, and bright, so bright whenever he’s near you. He can be blinding, but what does it matter when your body is burning once again?
And under the moonlight and the stars as our witnesses, we move slowly, effortlessly. There’s no rush. No room for thought. Just pleasure. The world could be falling apart, and it wouldn’t matter. I lean my head on his strong shoulder, smelling his scent of man and smoke and champagne, filling my lungs until every pore of mine is drowning in him. He moves closer, resting his cheek on top of my head, taking a deep breath. And baby, it’s good. We become two bodies slow dancing in a wildfire. If there’s nothing left of me after this, it will all be worth it because, for the first time in a very long time, I remember.
I remember what it is to feel alive.
“Ready?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you trust me?” he asks throatily, tightening his grip around my waist, pulling me closer to him.
I blink a couple times, still in a daze. However, the answer jumps out of me. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Sébastien takes me by surprise when he bends me backward over his arm, whisking me into an extravagant dip that is close to the ground. A shriek of shock turns into laughter and more laughter. And then laughter turns into a silence full of meanings that can’t be spoken. My heart kicks into overdrive, an invisible chord pulling me toward him.
He kisses my forehead, chuckling ruefully. “It seems we have an audience.”
“What?” I ask, disoriented by the sensation of his lips on my skin.
Straightening with me in his arms, Sébastien winks before twirling me one last time. The movement grand, elaborate. I squeal with happiness as he catches me by the hips and brings our bodies flush against each other.
The sound of mad clapping erupts somewhere from our right. I let go of him and turn in the direction of the small group of people watching us. Heart soaring and feeling silly, I reach for the edges of my dress, grabbing them between my fingers on each hand, pull the skirt out to each side, and accord them with a very pretty, ladylike curtsy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sébastien bowing to our audience, which makes them lose their minds. Our gazes meet briefly over the sounds of clapping and some catcalling. I smile. He smiles. And the world disappears around us.
I’m falling for him.
The thought doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s more like opening my eyes and seeing the blue sky for the first time in a very long time.
BURYING MY FACE in the pillow, I avoid opening my eyes for a little while longer. I wiggle my toes relishing the sensation of my skin against silk sheets. My entire body exhales in pleasure as memories begin to replay like a broken record of my favorite album in my mind. Was any of it real or just a lovely, lovely dream made out of wishful thinking?
But it must have happened. Because there’s this lightness in my chest. I feel like I can fly. I want to get up and jump on the bed like a toddler. Laugh and laugh until my stomach hurts and I can’t breathe. Hold onto this feeling and live forever just like this.
Letting out a sigh, I flip on my back and open my eyes. My gaze lands on the crystal chandelier and the rainbow of light reflected by each piece of glass. I blink a couple of times before reaching for my phone to look at the time. It’s eight in the morning, then I focus on the date.
It’s Tuesday.
Another kind of excitement flows through me. I’m supposed to be at the flower shop in two hours. About to get out of bed, I hear the doorbell ring. Frowning, I reach for my cardigan and put it over my silk nightgown before I open the door to find a young deliveryman holding a large plastic bag. The smell of butter flows out of it. Curiosity disperses the last traces of sleep from my mind. Helmet in hand, he smiles as he hands me a note.
I take the bag from the guy and go in search of my wallet. I tip him and shut the door behind me. I raise the expensive stationery to my lips and kiss it as though it’s Sébastien’s lips. After placing the note carefully in the front pocket of my cardigan, I walk to the kitchen, place the bag on the counter, and take out multiple plastic containers filled with food. I take off the lid of each one of them to find eggs prepared every which way: a frittata, an omelet, over easy, sunny side up, and the list goes on. An explosion of pleasure and delight bursts from somewhere deep inside me. Oh, Sébastien. You silly, wonderful man.
Out of the shower, I get ready in no time. I skip the blow dryer and let my hair dry naturally. Embrace the curl, the inner rebel inside me jokes. Summer, flowery dress. Check. Flats. Check. Perfume and lip-gloss. Check. Glasses. Check. Ready to conquer the world? Abso-fucking-lutely check.
On the way to the flower shop, I discover new smells. New sounds. The soundtrack of the city becomes a beautiful harmony to match its rhythm. I take a deep breath as I trace the flowerbeds lining an iron gate with the tips of my fingers while walking past it. The silky smoothness of the petals reminds me of Sébastien’s touch. I wonder where’s the guilt, the shame. But my heart remains blind, quiet to all of it. I try to picture William, but the eyes of my mind show me a man and a woman dancing under the moonlight to “La Bohème” as each step they take slowly illuminates every dark corner of her life.
Shaking my head, I push thoughts of William out of my mind. I will deal with the mess I’ve made when the time comes. The day will eventually come when the consequences of my actions catch up to me.
But today isn’t that day.
So I turn my back on reality. Wanting to enjoy this borrowed rose-colored dream for as long as I can.
When I arrive at the flower shop, I find Mr. Lemaire already inside waiting for me. He greets me with a tentative smile and a dictionary of French to English in hand. I laugh.
“It seems like we had the same idea.” I pull out of my leather bag a dictionary of English to French and place it on the counter. Mr. Lemaire focuses on the book and nods, his weathered blue eyes twinkling with good humor.