Page 53 of French Kiss

21

Ooh La La

July11

Rive Gauche

The boat docked againunder the bridge, and everyone filed off, climbing back up the stairs, dropping a few euros into the tip jar for our guide, and beginning new conversations in a patchwork of different languages as they headed in all different directions.

Instead of going back to the crowded Place Saint-Michel, Josh and I walked the other way along the quay, still drawn to the water and its ripples, caught in the glow of the city lights. Because of the way the river turned, we could no longer see the Eiffel Tower from that spot. It almost felt like a relief that it was out of sight, because I needed to sort myself out and think.

I wanted to be carefree, but I wasn’t built that way. I needed to put the kiss and the river cruise into perspective. Maybe the romance of the setting had gotten us carried away. Had we just ruined our friendship? I didn’t know what to think.

We crossed the road and left the waterfront, walking up Rue Dauphine, which had bars and restaurants on both sides of the street, all filled with people. With the sun setting so late, it didn’t seem odd to eat dinner at ten thirty at night, and I didn’t feel at all tired.

“So… what now?” Josh asked, looking a little less confident than he had on the boat. He wasn’t asking about what sightseeing we should do.

Back on dry land, we were the same two people who’d been friends for years and who were maybe meant to be just that. We were staying in different hotels, and I didn’t know if a kiss on a boat meant that we should suddenly be sharing a room. And a bed. I didn’t know what any of it meant. I just knew I wanted to try my best not to overthink, to follow this a little farther and see where it led.

“I’m not sure. Maybe we should walk and see where we end up.” I reached for his hand and felt the familiar stirring in my heart when my skin touched his.

We started to move in the direction of the sixth arrondissement, tucking into the tiny Rue Saint-André des Arts, which led back to the neighborhood where I’d been earlier that day, near my hotel. I hadn’t mentioned where I was staying, so I didn’t think Josh was intentionally leading me back there. Having spent an hour walking around this neighborhood, I felt comfortable in it, and I was certain I’d already been on this particular street.

“So… we could hit up a nightclub, find another bar, get some coffee, or just sit somewhere and talk. I’m up for anything,” Josh said.

The one thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to talk. Desperate not to spoil the vie en rose cast of our time on the boat, I didn’t want to muddy the bliss with too much analysis. I felt my overactive brain trying to put sense to things, but I pushed the thoughts down. We walked in silence, as we’d done countless times before, because we’d never needed to fill the space with words to feel a connection.

I suddenly really wanted some of that cold wine that had gone down so easily earlier. In vino veritas. Maybe I’d figure out what I really thought about the idea of Josh. And me. Together.

“You feel like getting a drink somewhere?” I asked. It would fill the void and give us something to do—whatever it took to avoid staring at each other in pregnant silence, waiting for the other to make a sweeping statement about what it all meant.

Josh looked relieved. “Sounds like a plan.”

I felt a drop of rain. Looking up, I noticed that a grey bank of clouds had replaced the deep blue of the sky and was beginning to open up and pelt us with drips.

“Ah, yes,” Josh said. “Wouldn’t be Paris if it didn’t start to rain at some point.” The weather had been perfect all day, though I was too distracted by Josh’s presence to care whether it changed. “It never lasts long. But it could open up at any minute, so we should probably duck into someplace.”

We started walking down Rue de Buci, the same street where I’d had lunch. Now it was packed full of people sitting at nearly every sidewalk table, and the rain was coming down a little more insistently. The café and restaurant owners were deftly unfurling the awnings over the outdoor tables.

We made our way to an empty table at Bar du Marché, which was mere yards from my hotel. I could have invited Josh to come up to my room, but I felt nervous. It wasn’t clear, even to me, whether I’d be doing it to get us out of the rain or so we could fall into the queen-sized bed. And until I could think more clearly, the small table at the bar seemed like a better idea. The place was mobbed. A waiter dressed in a blue-and-white-striped shirt and a red beret dropped a menu at our table on his way to deliver a tray of drinks.

“I’ve had more wine already than I normally drink in a week, though strangely, I don’t feel at all drunk.” It was surprising. I was generally a lightweight and didn’t drink that often, but since I’d left for my vacation, my wine consumption had quadrupled without any adverse consequences.

“Hundred-mile rule, I’m telling you,” he said.

“Well, in that case, put me down for another glass of red.”

“Works for me.”

When the waiter blew by again, Josh flagged him down and ordered two glasses of wine. In under five minutes, we had two full glasses, and ten minutes after that, they were both empty.

Nervous drinking. Anticipation of what would come next…

We ordered two more glasses and huddled at our table, warm in the summer night air, shielded from the rain by the awning, which made an island for us while sheets of water droplets hit the sidewalks and rebounded into themselves.

“I always tell myself to bring a travel umbrella, and I always forget to do it,” Josh said.

“It didn’t even occur to me to bring an umbrella on a summer trip.”

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