Page 71 of French Kiss

27

Merde

July13

Gare du Nord

The train pulledonto the platform, and I looked from car to car, waiting to catch sight of Amrita and Shelby. Finally, they hopped off, holding hands and laughing at something. Neither one of them had luggage, and I realized they were planning to go back to Amsterdam later on, which made me even more grateful that they’d come. Not everyone would spend three hours each way on a train to take care of a friend, but Shelby was that kind of person.

She was also the kind of person who solved problems by keeping busy, so the first thing she said after wrapping me in the hug I needed was, “I’ve always wanted to see Montmartre, so I hope you haven’t already been there.”

“Nope, not yet,” I said, relieved that they weren’t coddling me and asking about my feelings.

“All right, let’s go. I looked at a map, and we can walk from here.” Of course Shelby had already looked at a map.

It turned out that Montmartre was pretty close to the Gare du Nord, and as we chugged up the final hill, circling the white-domed church, Sacré-Coeur, I could see why Shelby had been so insistent we make the trip. From where we stood on the wide steps leading up to the church, we could see the entire city. The views spread out beneath us, and I tried to divert my gaze from the places I’d gone with Josh. Paris was starting to become a checkerboard of good and bad memories.

We sat on the steps beneath the church and for the first time, finally let out the big sob that had been welling in my chest all day. Sitting on either side of me, Shelby and Amrita put their arms around me and waited while the tears continued to come.

“Guys are shits,” Amrita said, finally. “That’s not why I’m a lesbian, of course, but it certainly helps.” I couldn’t help but laugh through my tears.

We wound our way down a small street where a dozen painters had easels set up, their canvases splashed with paintings of the neighborhood buildings and a red windmill—the Moulin Rouge—and portraits of tourists. The area was touristy, but it didn’t matter. The charm was still palpable in the streets of the historic area that can-can and burlesque dancers had made famous.

“Who’s hungry?” Amrita asked.

“I’m in full pity food mode. The more fat and sugar, the better.” I couldn’t believe I was actually hungry, but I’d spent a good two hours walking around, and my metabolism didn’t seem to be in communication with my heart. We grabbed an outdoor table under the red-and-green-striped awning of Le Consulat, a corner bistro with a traditional French menu and a great view of people passing by in all directions. I knew Amrita would love the vantage point for taking photos. “Lunch is on me, it goes without saying. I love you both for coming to scrape me off the floor.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well, actually,” said Shelby. “I was expecting worse. Though I can’t say I’m shocked about Maddox. He’s motivated by his penis, not his brain. So if he met someone…”

“But he didn’t. Josh made that up.”

“He could still be off with some foreign hottie. You know Maddox.”

“Yeah, some Nordic blonde named Brigitte or whoever,” I said. “Doesn’t really matter what her name is. They’re all the same.”

“Who gives a rat’s bum about him?” Amrita asked. “I want to know what happened with Josh. He sounds like the better guy.”

“Except he’s not,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re all the same.”

“I hate to think that’s true, but you did have your heart handed to you twice in two days,” agreed Shelby.

“Thanks for the recap. When you put it that way, it really does sound pathetic,” I said. “I can’t believe I fell for Maddox’s crap. I mean, he weaves these stories about this intense connection he has with you, and you feel like it’s unique.”

“I remember,” Shelby said.

“But Josh isn’t like that. Or at least I didn’t think he was. How did I fall for him too?”

“Well, you’re a romantic,” Shelby said, looking at the menu. “You always have been. Maybe those guys just knew what they needed to do to play on that.”

“Yeah, well, they did a good job,” I said.

Instead of trying to decipher the French on the menu, I looked around to see what other people were eating. Two tables down, a woman in a blue beret and red pants was having a salad with thinly sliced ham and cheese on top of frisée lettuce and tomatoes. Maybe I’d just point to that. I didn’t even care what I ate.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, but when I pulled it out, I didn’t recognize the number. I did recognize, however, that it was coming from somewhere in Europe, and I thought maybe it was the hotel or something otherwise important, so I answered.

There was a lag, followed by a familiar voice. “Hey. What’s up?” Maddox said casually. My stomach did a backflip. I felt nauseous and dizzy hearing his voice.

I immediately got up from the table and walked a few paces down the block, not knowing what to say and not wanting an audience. “Um, not much. Just, um, having lunch with my friends.”

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