Page 49 of French Kiss

“I’m gonna run to the restroom and wash my hands,” I told Josh.

“Good idea. I’ll go when you get back.”

I instinctively walked toward the kitchen, thinking the restroom was probably in that direction, but I was promptly redirected to the stairs, which led down to a tiny door and a restroom that was almost as small. I didn’t care. I just needed to reapply some lip gloss and splash some water on my face. I was surprised that I didn’t look as bedraggled as I felt.

I found myself wanting Josh to think I looked good, which also surprised me.

After he’d made his own trip downstairs, we ordered some food and sat with our wine. “I like this,” I said, letting the cool red roll over my tongue. It was chilled, unlike red wine I normally drank.

“It’s a Beaujolais. They serve it cold. I thought that might be good since it’s been so hot all day.”

“Works for me.” I took another sip.

By the time our escargots arrived, I’d finished my glass and decided it was the first time since I’d gotten on the plane that I fully felt joy. Josh was looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just… I don’t know. Something about you is different. Maybe it’s just the vacation. You seem… happy.”

“I think it’s finally hit me that I’m done with residency. We did it. We made it through. And now I have three more weeks to travel. Life is good.”

“Life is good,” he agreed. But he was quieter than usual.

When the escargots arrived, I was surprised to see them in a round dish with six indented circles, almost like an artist’s palette. There was a pool of what looked like butter and herbs in each circle, along with a snail shell. The waiter gave us tiny forks along with a basket of sliced crusty bread. Then he left us alone with the snails.

“I’m still not sure about this,” I said. “I mean, I’ll eat the bread, no problem. But…”

“Just try one.” Josh handed me a tool that looked like a cross between an eyelash curler and a pair of tongs. “Use this to hold the shell, and take the little guy out with your fork.”

“Please don’t try to make it sound cute.” I did as he instructed and pulled what looked like a small piece of meat or a tiny scallop from the shell. I gave it a dip in the buttery sauce for good measure, closed my eyes, and popped it in my mouth. Chewing quickly, I noted the garlicky taste of the sauce before swallowing and following it with a sip of wine.

Josh was looking at me with amusement. “You just loved that, didn’t you?”

“Um, I mean, it wasn’t terrible. A little chewy for my taste, maybe, but the garlic is good. And if I could get away from feeling like I’m eating a garden slug, it might actually be passable. But I have an active imagination, and I know these things slither.”

I’d always been like that about food. If I thought about it too much, I found most things unappetizing. That meant that I often went long stretches without eating certain foods like mushrooms or meat or eggs. Then I’d go back. Then I’d start thinking about cheese and feel strange about eating food that came from cows’ milk. Then I’d get over it. My mainstays had always been basic kid foods, so I stuck to those, peppered with whatever I happened to feel good about at a given time.

Josh had never missed a chance to comment on my strange eating habits, and he clearly wasn’t about to let them stop him from pushing my boundaries in France.

He picked up his own shell and ate one of the snails. He chewed it slowly then swallowed. “I do like these, I gotta admit. But mainly it’s because of the sauce. You could dip anything in this sauce and hand it to me, and I’d probably lap it up.”

I took one of the rounds of bread and dipped it in the sauce. He was right. It was delicious. “Yeah, I could be very happy just eating this.”

“I won’t pressure you to eat half of these. Proud of you for trying. One and done.” He ate a few more of the snails, and I sopped up more than half the garlicky sauce with the bread. We drank some more of the wine, and eventually, the waiter brought out chicken, fries, and a tomato salad for us to share.

“You’re gonna have to roll me out of here after I eat all this,” I said. “And for your sake, I hope it’s downhill.”

“I will find you a wagon, my dear.”

The words again hit my ear with a pleasant lilt. He’d never called me my dear in all the years we’d known each other and then twice in one day. I wondered if the wine was catching up with him. But I liked the sound of it. I liked him.

If he’d known what was going through my head, I’d have crawled under the table in embarrassment. I’d gone well past wondering what it would be like to kiss him and now was picturing him with his hands on my naked skin.

Just to test the waters, I put my hand on the table, close to where his was resting on the white paper, and nudged his fingers lightly. Without seeming to think about it, he reached closer and put his hand on mine. I felt a ripple of pleasure when he touched my skin.

It suddenly felt like we were on a date. Our first date. We’d spent so many days and nights in each other’s company, but only now was it seeming to me that we were supposed to be together. Hand-holding aside, I had no idea if he was feeling it too. Friends held hands. Hell, I’d even slept over at his apartment a couple of times when it got too late to walk home, and I shared his bed. I’d never considered that anything romantic would happen because I saw us as friends.

Just because I was seeing things differently than before, that didn’t mean anything had changed for Josh, and I was afraid to broach the subject. Why ruin a perfect afternoon and a lovely evening?

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