Page 70 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
Madison stared them both down. “Don’t pity him, and don’t tell anyone else that story.”
With that, she left the walk-in too. Dean went to wipe his forehead only to discover he was still holding the turkey leg. Brooke dabbed at her eyes.
“She’s right.” She straightened her shoulders. “Get over your shit about Kyle growing up with money. I grew up that way too, and you don’t treat me differently because of it. So you might look deep for why that is. As someone who was recently in a long-term relationship—even if it ended badly—I can tell you that kind of shit is going to bleed into things with Jacqueline.”
Those words struck deep, more because they were from a friend. “I’ll work on it, Brooke, and I’m sorry.”
“I know, but sorry doesn’t take the words back.” She looked off, chewing her lip. “It never does. I’m off to work. See you tomorrow.”
He was suddenly alone in the cold walk-in with the lingering aroma of holiday turkey and deep regret. God, why had he been such a jerk? He pushed out of the walk-in and found a wastebasket for his turkey leg. Listening for voices and hearing none, he wondered where Madison and Kyle had gone off to. After another search of an empty kitchen, he headed up the stairs to find his overcoat and gloves.
He had another forty-five minutes before he was supposed to meet Jacqueline, and he needed to get his head on straight.
The streets were filled with the glow of golden lampposts, slick cobbled streets after an earlier rain, and the sound of conversation and laughter coming from outside seating at the cafés he passed. Couples of all ages strolled arm in arm, and he marveled at the understated romance he saw everywhere. He hoped he and Jacqueline would link arms or hold hands like that as they walked these same streets.
But Brooke was right. If he didn’t stop thinking of himself as some hard-up victim with a shitty past, he’d never be a good friend or partner. Look what he’d done to Kyle earlier. His stupidity had dredged up horrible memories for someone he cared about.
He continued walking down to the quay, going a longer route to clear his head. When he reached the Seine, boats were cruising like usual, and he wandered amidst tourists taking selfies and staring at maps on their phones as they almost walked into him.
He inhaled some deep breaths and reminded himself of who he wanted to be. Okay, who he usually was. He was the nice, funny guy who made everyone laugh. He was the friend they could always call if they needed something. That other Dean back there dragged him down, and he was going to kick him aside like the empty soda can on the street in front of him.
Only when he reached it, he decided to pick it up and throw it in the nearest trash can instead. The clunk it gave when he dropped it in seemed like the punctuation to his thoughts. The garbage inside all of us might pop up from time to time, but it was our choice whether to throw it out or leave it out on the street to bother or trip others. Again, not who he wanted to be.
When he arrived, Jacqueline was waiting for him with a tote bag, wearing jeans, boots, and a black sweater with a belted double-breasted camel-colored coat that fell to her mid-calf.
“Bonjour,Dean,” she called, shifting on her feet, a smile flickering over her face as if she felt a little unsure.
Unsure would so not do. “Bonjour, ma belleJacqueline.” He held out his arms, and she walked into them without hesitation. “You beat me again,” he murmured as he kissed her lightly on the mouth.
She twined her arms around his neck and leaned up to continue with a little longer kiss. Dean wrapped his arms around her and met her kiss for kiss. This was Paris, after all. Kissing on the street was a national pastime.
When he leaned back, he kept his arms around her and grinned at her smiling upturned face, so beautiful in the golden light. Yeah, nothing unsure was flickering there anymore. “Hey! Have you ever seenSanta Is a Stinker?”
Her brows knit, but she remained smiling. “Of course.”
“What about the one with the kid who gets nuclear radiation and has a dad who makes his final days happy? I forget the name.”
“I think you meanL’Arbre de Noël, orThe Christmas Tree, in English. That is not exactly the premise. He develops leukemia after seeing a nuclear bomb explode, I believe. And yes, I have seen it. It’s a classic. The last movie our great French actor and singer Bourvil starred in. My dad really liked his music. Your American actor William Holden starred in it. Now that I think of it, I don’t know whether the original was in English, but I do believe the director was French. Or at least I think so. Why?”
“Brooke was talking about French holiday classics, and that one had a clear tragic French ending,” Dean told her. “I hope you also like comedies. Because if you have a tragic streak, I’m going to have to work overtime to make you laugh.”
The light in her eyes captivated him as she leaned in and bestowed him with another kiss before saying, “You make me laugh almost as much as Pierre. How is my dear friend?”
“Upstaged by a parrot,” he joked. “He’s good. Helping Madison with the new menu. I sampled a turkey leg recipe she’s testing for Christmas dinner at the restaurant and almost died.”
She touched his jaw, sliding her fingers across it. “You almost died! And you say the French have a tragic streak.”
“Har-har. It’s a good expression. So, I see you have a tote bag, which means you have the wine. Where are we going?”
She took his hand and led him to the crosswalk. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it, waiting for the light to change. “My dear Jacqueline, I would follow you anywhere.”
“I’m glad.” She tugged on his hand. “Let’s hurry. The light is green.”
They strolled across the street, and he thought of his earlier hope to hold her hand on the streets of Paris. It was happening, just as he’d imagined it, and he hoped it would be so tomorrow and the day after that. Despite the current situation with the cave…
She was intent on taking him to her spot, but he already knew where they were going when she detoured down the stairs on the left side of Pont Neuf bridge to the man-made mini-island—as least that’s what he called what was basically a little park in the middle of the Seine. She charged past couples sitting on park benches, some entwined romantically while others talked. Of course there were groups of friends catching up after a workday in the low light from the lampposts. He and his roommates had shot the breeze down here many times. She led him to the end where the lone willow tree’s branches swayed in the breeze and plunked herself down on the ground, dangling her feet over the brick sides.
