Page 48 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Her lips, soft and full, feel so perfect against mine. But why does it seem like something fundamental has changed between us?
Her walls are up.
“Goodnight, Mathieu.” She reaches up and touches my cheek in a move that is at once tender and also charged with a new sensation. Like she’s given up.
Can I blame her? I’m the one who has suddenly found himself completely unable to commit to anything. I don’t even recognize myself. The black curtain has descended again.
An evening breeze off the Seine carries a chill that's at odds with the summer night. The stone façades of the Latin Quarter loom under the starless sky, their shadows playing tricks on my eyes and I keep expecting her to jump out and take my hand, walking together through the night—one of the last we might have. I should run back there, reassuring her that we’ll figure it out. But my feet keep me moving homeward, further away from her. Instead, my mind's stuck in a loop, replaying the furrow of concern on Annie's forehead as she said goodbye.
The soft glow from the street lamps casts a golden hue over everything, yet the picturesque scene feels dulled, like I'm looking at it through a fogged-up window.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, as the chatter of late-night café dwellers spills out onto the terraces. There's a buzz in the air, an energy that Paris at night always has, but tonight it feels like it's for everyone but me.
Why am I like this? What’s going on with me? It’s like a stranger has slipped in and overtaken my ability to see what I want.
I'm barely through my front door when I'm punching Clément's number into my phone, skipping the usual text prelude. It rings, and it rings, and for a second, I wonder if he's going to pick up.
“Mathieu?” Clément's voice crackles through, laced with surprise. “It's past ten. Is someone dead?”
“What? No! Nothing like that…” But the tightness in my chest feels a bit like grief.
“Then why didn't you just text, man? It's the twenty-first century. Calls are for tragedies and butt dials, yougros malin.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to find the words. “It's about Annie. I—” But that's as far as I get before my voice betrays me, a sudden lump in my throat choking out the rest.
Clément's tone shifts from teasing to dead serious. “Meet me atChez Marcel. Five minutes.” I can tell by his voice that this isn't a suggestion—it's a lifeline.
I’m already grabbing my keys and heading back out into the night.
* * *
The dim light ofChez Marcelsoothes my thoughts as Clément slides back into the booth, two frosted glasses in hand. He sets one down in front of me, the foam cresting over the edge like a miniature wave.
The bistro's worn wooden tables and vintage posters of old Paris create a nostalgic cocoon around us.
“Alright,mon ami,” Clément says, his voice steady in a way you only get from years of friendship. The bistro hums around us, the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversations make a fitting backdrop to this impromptu confession booth.
The condensation of the glass mingles with the sweat on my palms.
“When I think about Annie… well, I don’t know what to think,” I admit, staring into the amber liquid as if it holds answers. “There’s only one week left, but I can see this becoming something so much more, but as I try to contemplate it, I just… I panic.”
“Panic because she’s leaving?”
“I don’t think so…” It’s taking shape in my mind. Saying this out loud is bringing some kind of clarity to the fog.
And I don’t know if I like it.
“…I think I’m afraid of getting it wrong.”
“Ah,” Clément leans back, his head nodding deeply. “Heragain.”
“Is it?” I sigh into my beer. “Or is it that I’m just not ready to deal with the stress of a relationship again?”
Clément's expression softens. “But you were so sure about Annie. Remember that napkin you scribbled your heart onto?” His reminder is meant to be a lifebuoy, but it feels like an anchor, pulling me down into a sea of doubt.
“Yeah, I remember,” I reply, my voice a hoarse whisper. The memory of that night—the clarity and hope I felt—is sharp, almost painful. “But that was then. Now, it's serious, it’s real. It’s her eyes looking at me full of hope and…” I swallow so that anything resembling a sob stays at bay. “And I'm terrified of getting it wrong again.”
Clément reaches across the table, his grasp firm on my shoulder. “Mathieu, those words, they came from somewherereal. Trust that. Don't let some ghost of the past scare you away from what's right in front of you.”
