Page 14 of The Crimson Lily
The man takes a step toward me, his hands open as a sign for me to stay calm. “I was going to the Mona Lisa to meet William, but then I heard your voice,” he says with absolute incredulity, like he’s trying to explain his actions. He really didn’t expect to see me here. “And I recognized your pink shirt.” He stands there, flabbergasted after seeing me. “Did you…dye your hair?”
Maksim clears his throat. I know exactly what that means. We have to leave.
“I don’t have time to explain, Alejandro,” I say with sorry eyes. “I need to go.”
I’m already pacing away when I hear his voice again.
“Liliana, wait!”
He rushes to me and catches my hand. He makes me turn around, takes one more step toward me, and leads me to his arms.
I freeze.
I have no idea what to do.
The memories come rushing by. The feelings for him. The sadness.
Alejandro is my boyfriend, or is he my ex? I don’t have a single clue. His embrace feels warm, hesitant, but still nice, like a distant feeling of a previous home.
At this point, I have two questions: Who is Alejandro to me, and why the hell is everyone in Paris? William, Alejandro, Béatrice, the Bratva, and now, me.
Alejandro lets me go and steps away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he says as he passes a nervous hand through his curly brown hair. “It’s just…seeing you here…after…”
He still has the same round brownish glasses. Yes! I remember them. Alejandro wears a blue summer shirt over his tanned skin and long gray pants. Same style as always. He’s much taller than me, about five-foot-nine, though still shorter than Maksim, who now stands behind me, glowering at him.
Alejandro adjusts his glasses and bites his lip in uncertainty. His head cocks between Maksim and me with a spark of suspicion in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks, quickly checking the near faded bruise around my cheekbone. He doesn’t let me reply and asks another question, his voice significantly less hesitant. “Who’s this guy, Lili?”
Maksim looks at me and gives me a glare. “I don’t have time for this,” he says, stern, then turns around and walks away.
I look back at Alejandro. I have no idea what to do. I say sorry another thousand times with my eyes and eyebrows, then spin on my heels and trot behind Maksim.
Alejandro Reyes is becoming clearer and clearer in my mind. He was my student before becoming my colleague. He took classes I taught in archaeology as a supplement to his anthropology PhD research. The thing I distinctly remember is the first time we met. Alejandro was working on a project in Mexico, and he gave a presentation about it upon his return. I asked him a few questions, interested in archaeological finds over there, and he invited me for drinks. He brought me home later and kissed me on the lips. I was shocked at first—it wasn’t something I expected from a brainstorming night with a student. I think I even ignored his messages for a few weeks after that.
Once he got his PhD, he applied for a postdoc position in my department. We started with some drinks again, and one cocktail after the next, I ended up in his bed, giving him the ride of his life. It felt a bit like a forbidden love affair. I’m blushing a little, as this is my very first memory of having sex. Me, on top of him, oscillating like a siren. Him, holding my breasts, relishing the view of his muse dancing to the rhythm of his breath. Yet something is wrong with this memory. Something buried deep within me is screaming a truth at me, but I can’t hear it.
“I think he’s my ex,” I clarify, back on Place du Carrousel, running after Maksim and feeling like I owe him an explanation.
He doesn’t respond. I wonder, briefly, if he even cares. I’m still not sure how things ended between Alejandro and me. When he hugged me just now, I felt something, like that feeling you have for someone you hold dear but don’t want to hurt. I think I hurt Alejandro. I saw it in his eyes. But what could I have possibly done? I’m left with an additional feeling, something darker. I’m not sure what it is. Regret, or perhaps…remorse? If I was the one to end things, then maybe that’s where the regret comes from. The origin of the remorse, on the other hand, still eludes me.
Maksim leads me into the street in the direction of the hotel, away from the Louvre. A few minutes later, we are back in the room. He takes a seat on the velvet chair, and I collapse on the bed. I plant my elbows on my legs and press my face against the heels of my palms. I exhale deeply and begin to rub my eyes. The migraine is back.
When I look at Maksim again, he has his eyes fixated on me, like he’s waiting for me to do something. I hold his gaze for a bit, then blush and lose the staring contest. His glare is too intense.
“What?” I growl, unsure of what he wants of me.
“You need to get yourself together for tonight.”
Shit. Today’s Friday. Tonight is the reception! I roll my eyes and let myself fall on the bed after a long sigh. I’m rubbing my face again.
“All right!” I exclaim five minutes later and rise to my feet. I’m about to get ready when I check the clock. 4:30 p.m. “We still have three and a half hours, Maksim,” I remark, mildly aggravated.
“Don’t you want to get dinner first?” he asks.
Dinner? Oh, yes, we’ll need food before the reception. Is he asking me to have dinner with him? The thought crosses my mind, then I blush again. Why am I even blushing? The idea of sitting at the table with him is…intriguing. However, the migraine rings in my head, reminding me of last night’s brawl. My eyes round as I look at him, resting on the chair in his jeans and black shirt that’s too tight around his arms. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, returning to a catatonic state.
