Page 7 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“But thepolice?”
“I was so scared that I forgot what you’re supposed to do with an injured bird. The police took me to the animal hospital, where they fixed him up and set him free.”
No need to tell her I was crying enough that the police were worried something was wrong withmeand that’s why they drove me over. I stayed until the vet assured me he was well enough to fly the next day. The animal hospital thought it was odd that I slept in their waiting room, but they were open twenty-four hours and I overhead them say they’d seen stranger things. Actually, just one stranger thing. Once.
“So you like animals. That says nothing about your feelings toward fellow humans. And who paid for that bird’s treatment, anyway?”
“I did.”
“Then maybe youneedthe extra funds from my wallet.” She says that, but the bite is leaving her tone of voice. She clears her throat and sits straighter. “You actually haven’t told me anything about who you are, right now, in this instant, and why I should trust you any more than a catfish in a spelling bee. Tell me thetruthabout you.”
The truth.
I glance away, feeling unexpectedly raw. She asked for the truth—I might as well give it to her.
“My friends,” I nod toward the table of eager faces watching us, “they dared me to come over. I wouldn't have had peace otherwise.”
“That’s believable.” She narrows her eyes. “Go on. The truth.”
“The truth.” I begin, my voice softer now. I swallow hard. “My fiancée… she left me. A year has passed since she went and I've been alone since, struggling to reconnect, not just romantically, but with anyone on a deeper level. The future feels like nothing but a black curtain and I’ve lost something of myself along the way.”
It’s amazing how much easier it is to bare everything to a stranger than it is to your closest friends.
There’s a subtle shift in her demeanor. The hard lines etched by wariness around her eyes begin to ease, her gaze softening. Her posture, once rigid with distrust, bends toward something more approachable as her tight grip on the handbag loosens, allowing it to rest casually on the worn wood of the table. A glimmer of something akin to camaraderie sparkles briefly in her eyes, and the firm clench of her jaw seems to relent, allowing a softer contour to emerge.
And all it cost me was the truth.
The ghost of my fiancée's departure still haunts me. She traded our shared dreams for a solo ticket around the globe, and eventually, a new life in Australia. I had been ready to drop everything, to chase her across oceans, but she insisted I stay put. I was too dazzled by love to see the truth—we were etched with different desires. She longed for thrill and change, while I yearned for a simple life filled with love and laughter, and a yard scattered with toys and children.
When I walk through Paris now, the city of lovers, I feel an odd man out. It's not that Paris lacks women who dream of domestic bliss. It's that I've been paralyzed, caged by the dread that I’ll repeat my past mistakes. The city whispers to me of love at every corner, yet I walk in silence, alone amongst the crowd, still nursing a wound too raw to expose again.
The woman in front of me shoots out her hand like she's aiming to seal a deal that's already been won.
“I'm Annie Clayton. And after that story, I believe you,” she declares, a trace of southern twang.
“Mathieu Dupont.” I take her hand. It’s at once soft and warm, but has a toughness to it like the lady herself.
“Won’t you have a seat, Mathieu Dupont?”
I sit. “Now may I ask you a question, Annie Clayton?”
“Seems only fair.”
“It seems you’ve had a bad day.”
“That’s not a question.”
I grin at her sassiness, for she has a sparkle in her eye that wasn’t there before.
“But yes. A downright flop of a first day in France.”
She rattles off her tale, the stolen passport, the hostile hostel, and the impending wait at the embassy. I can feel the frustration emanating from her, the sharp sting of betrayal that lingers after being swindled by a seemingly kind stranger. The image of her standing defiant yet dejected in front of a hostel that refused her shelter sharpens in my mind's eye.
She sighs. “So I just need to hold out until the embassy opens at two.”
“Are you sure the embassy is opening soon?” It would be the first time I’ve heard of the American embassy being open on a French national holiday, but then again, I’ve never had my passport stolen on my first day in a new country.
“They’dbetteropen soon,” she says. “Two hours is plenty for lunch.”
