Page 116 of Lovetown, USA
The regret I feel over what I did to that woman is overwhelming. I know I can’t erase the hurt I caused her, but I wanted to explain my actions. The worst thing a man can ever do is break a woman’s trust, but we do. Every day. For our own selfish reasons.
At what point do we figure out we’re the problem?
I carry this weight with me every day. As I should. Lane Washington is her name, and she’s extraordinary. I made a generational fumble when I lied to her, and now I’m paying for it. Again, as I should.
Some might even call this op-ed a selfish manipulation. Maybe it is, I don’t know. Paying for space in the magazine she works for. I like to think it's noble, but it’s hard to untangle years of self-serving behavior. Where does this man shit end and where do I begin?
I don’t know.
But I know this: I love her, and I’m willing to fight for the rest of my life to get her back. And I vow to do better. To be better. Because some things, and people, are worth the fight.
44
Lane
“Are you serious?”
Britt nods furiously. “Are you excited?”
“I’m about to pee all around your office like a puppy. Hell yeah, I’m excited!”
We share a laugh and mile-wide smiles as it sinks in that I’m going to Paris on assignment. Britt explained it as a Black American Girl in Paris piece. Apparently, they loved my Lovetown story so much, they figured they’d reward me and keep the interest in my love life going.
I don’t even care.
I’m headed to the City of Lights!
Britt beams with me as the thrill of possibility courses through me. The opportunity of it all, exploring another part of the world on my company’s dime.
Three days later, after a turbulent ass flight that made me pray for forgiveness, I’m standing in the cool Paris morning air. The concierge at my hotel greets me with a polite smile. We talk briefly before he escorts me to my room.
It’s pretty small, and obviously very old, but it’s adorably quaint and cozy.
I take a three-hour nap and wake up somewhat refreshed. I’m here for a month, so there’s plenty of time to sleep. I wanna see the city.
I freshen up in the tiny bathroom, then head back down. Marc waves me down again and hands me a brochure.
“For the metro, for you to get around.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“Are you headed out to eat?”
“To eat, see the sights. I think I’m just gonna wander today.”
“Very good. But if I may, you must try the patisserie down the street,” he says. “Their petit fours…remarkable. You will not regret it.”
I raise a curious eyebrow. Before I can ask him how in the hell he knows I love petit fours, he says, “Your boss said to treat you like a queen.”
That explains it, I guess. I nod, satisfied, though my curiosity lingers.
I stroll down the cobblestone street, the sunlight glinting off the pale stone buildings, the scent of fresh bread and pastries teasing my nose. It’s gritty here, but it’s a grit I’m not familiar with, so I can’t complain. The vibes are currently vibing.
I stop at Le Petite Étoile, figuring this must be the place. I push open the door, and a bell chimes softly. Warm air and the heady scent of sugar and vanilla envelop me.
I sit at a small round table, running my fingers across the green marble. The waiter, a thin blond man with nary a smile to be found, appears. I open my mouth to order, but he interrupts, his voice clipped. “Already taken care of, mademoiselle.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
