Page 51 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
I'm trying to put on a brave face, but I can't tell if I'm more heartbroken about leaving this city, leaving my newfound friends, or leaving whatever Mathieu and I had—or almost had.
My shoulders are hunched up like I'm carrying the weight of the Eiffel Tower, with a tissue in my hand that has seen better days.
Every little trinket, every postcard and keychain and fridge magnet in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe feels like it's pitying me, reminding me of what I'm about to leave behind. My eyes keep drifting to the Swarovski crystal pyramid Mathieu got me, and my heart just sinks lower than a frog in a dry well.
A mewing sound emerges, the first time I’ve ever heard that from my little boy. He’s plunked herself down in the middle of the bed, not caring about the fact that I’ve got my whole French life spread out there. His head is cocked to the side, and for the first time in my history of knowing a cat, I’d say he’s feeling empathy for me.
“I’m okay, boy. I mean, I will be okay.” He stands from his spot, walks across the souvenirs, jumps to the floor and winds between my legs in consolation. “Yes, I’ll miss you, too, little guy.” I pick up my streetwise kitty and sit on the bed with her in my lap. Knowing this will be one of our last snuggle-sessions almost brings a fresh round of teary sniffles.
Suddenly, like a cavalry in a Western movie, Charlotte and Emilia come busting into my room. Their faces are all business, like they're about to tackle a bull by the horns.
“Annie, darling, what in the world?” Charlotte exclaims, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes in my sorry state.
“What? I'm just sitting here, a heap of tears and tissues, feeling like my world's turned topsy-turvy. That’s all.”
Emilia strides over and flings the curtains wide open. “Let's get some light in here,” she says, and just like that, the room's flooded with a cheerfulness that’s nothing like how I feel. “Let’s chase away those blues with a bit of July sunshine.”
They gather around me on the bed, doling out hugs and comfort like it's going outta style.
“You can't spend your last night in Paris moping around,” Emilia insists, her German accent thick with resolve.
Charlotte chimes in. “That's right! We gotta paint the town red, Annie. Celebrate everything you’ve lived, hmmm?” She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear in a way that’s much more maternal than I would expect from her. “Things always work out the way they’re supposed to,ma belle.”
“And this is the way it’s supposed to work out?”
“Definitely not,” Charlotte says with a proud chin. “First, we have to lap up your last night! Paris is magic, you know. And these last few months have brought more than a handsome fella your way.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Emilia covers it with the palm of her hand. “No ifs, ands, or buts. Girl, you've made friendships here that'll last a lifetime, seen things that'd make a cowboy's jaw drop. We're going out, and that's final!”
Lifelong friendships. That’s right. Despite the ache in my heart, a smile sneaks onto my face. “Alright, alright, you win. Let's go show Paris how Texans say goodbye.”
“Woo-hoo!” They squeal in unison, and we bust into our Friday night best.
“I know just the place,” Emilia declares. “One of the best views in Paris.” She wiggles her eyebrows like she's sharing a state secret.
The Parisian streets are buzzing like a beehive at sunset. Lights twinkle from every corner, music drifts from open windows, and folks are laughing and chatting like there's no tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Don’t think about it, Annie.
“Feels like the entire city's alive tonight,” I say to distract myself.
“Perfect for your last night, Annie,” Charlotte adds, slinging an arm around my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “My last night.”
As we get closer to the bistro, the sound of the river mixes with the buzz of the city. The bistro, all lit up and bustling, looks like something out of a postcard.
“Wow, this is something else.”
“You just wait until you see the river from here,” Emilia grins, leading the way. The place is alive with energy—folks chit-chatting, waiters zipping around, and the smell of something delicious in the air.
We find ourselves a little circular table spot right by the water, the Seine glimmering as the sun descends.
“This,” I sigh, taking it all in, “this is Paris.”
We're welcomed by the sweet strains of a street musician's violin, spinning a tune that's as French as a beret and a baguette.
