Page 59 of The Two of Us

15

THEN (AGE 15)

Alot of girls my age would kill to spend their summers in Paris, but I’m not one of them. In another life, I’d be enamored by the magic of the city. I’d appreciate the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower that look like fireflies when you squint your eyes. I’d be glad to eat my body weight in the fresh baguettes wafting through the windows on early foggy mornings. I’d walk a little slower while passing the live musicians outside the hole-in-the-wall cafés who play as if they need the music more to survive than the money being tossed into their hats. I’d see Paris for all it has to offer.

But I have qualms with the City of Light.

Paris is not the bearer of my wanderlust, but my bitterness. Paris is the shiny thing that stole my mom away from our family, enticing her with its glitter and gold. No, Paris isn’t a lover of mine and I vowed from the age of ten that it never would be.

So when I’m forced to visit the city every summer as per my parents’ divorce agreement, I do so with as much pushback as I can muster and this summer is no different.

As I step off the plane, I see my mom’s gaze drop to my graphic tee, which reads: Paris: The City You Smell Before You See.

“Very funny, mija,” she mutters, pulling me in for a tight embrace.

She smells the same even though everything is different. Vanilla with a hint of rose. For a second, I abandon my stoicism and embrace her back, inhaling her scent as my eyes sting. Every year she looks younger and more alive, as if she’s aging in reverse. She walks with a lively bounce in her step and turns heads in every space she occupies. She’s pure vibrancy and I understand why the city won’t give her back to me. She doesn’t belong in Speck Lake.

“How was your flight?” she asks.

I readjust the duffel on my shoulder and shrug. “It was fine. The plane food wasn’t half bad this time.”

She laughs and I notice a stranger in my peripheral vision smiling at her in return. “Well, if that’s where your standards are, I haven’t done a good job at exposing you to the food Paris has to offer. Are you hungry? This little Moroccan place that just opened right next to my flat and the kefta mkaouara is divine. We can beat the dinner rush if we head straight there.”

She’s already thumbing through her phone, searching for an open reservation when I put my hand over hers. “Actually Mom, I’m exhausted. Is it okay if we rain check?”

Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t express any negative emotions. She never does.

Feel something. Anything. Show me that it’s okay to do so.

She squeezes my hand and smiles. “Sure. Let’s get you some rest.”

***

The smell of fresh croissants stir me awake. The sun slips through the drapes that hang in the guest room and a male’s laughter mixes with my mom’s in the kitchen. I brush my teeth before throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt I got when I joined the film club at school. If the only thing standing between me and fresh croissants is a few minutes of small talk, I’ll do it. Small sacrifices.

“Bonjour, Mara!” Jean-Paul exclaims, pulling me in for a hug before I’m fully in the kitchen. My arms hang limp at my sides until he lets go.

“JP.” I accept the mug of coffee my mom’s extending toward me.

Jean-Paul resembles a wind-up toy that can go and go. It’s like someone wound him up and he malfunctioned, never knowing when to stop. He’s always happy—which makes me suspicious—and he always smells of praline. He’s a baker, a prestigious one according to Parisian standards, which explains the croissants.

I don’t have anything against Jean-Paul. In fact, under any other circumstance, I might enjoy being around him. But like Paris, Jean-Paul is relegated to the side of my list of things I refuse to love on principle.

“So, what are we to do today?” he says, clapping his hands in excitement. I’ve known him two years now and every time he speaks, I picture the little French candle from Beauty and the Beast.

The silence becomes unbearable as we all glance at each other, waiting to see who will speak first. My mom always makes me feel welcome during my visits, but we never actually spend much time together. She prioritizes her art and leaves me to my own devices while she drowns herself in her work. I’ve already made a list of the new bookstores and cafés I plan on exploring today.

She clears her throat. “I need to get in some studio time. Julien has been pestering me about the second phase of my ceramic series and I’m more than behind.”

She wraps a thin shawl around her shoulders as if her explanation was sufficient. I turn to Jean-Paul. “I’m heading to a few bookstores to look for a biography on Joan of Arc. But thank you for—”

“Wait a minute,” he says, holding up his hands. “Isabel, it’s her summer vacation. We must spend the time together.” I can’t tell if his frown is on my behalf or not.

My mom pins me with pleading eyes, practically begging me to get her out of spending time with me. It’s almost comical. Almost. I give Jean-Paul a casual smile. “I’ll be here for weeks, JP. We’ll have enough time for everything.”

Relief pours off my mom in waves and I brush it off before I can let it wound me. Jean-Paul looks unconvinced, but he concedes.

“Fine.” He sighs, staring directly at my mother. “But the Paris International Film Festival is in two weeks. Mara, I know you enjoy the films. We will all go. Together.”

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