The Summer of Him Read online

  “Come, you want to come?” one man asked. I shook my head.

  The next one held up a menu. “Excellent price for three courses.”

  Somehow, I doubted this was the height of French cuisine. The crêperie a couple of doors down had inside seating and a window open to the street. A sugary smell like a waffle cone drifted my way, and I was done. I could buy a crepe and eat it while walking. No solo dining. No sad picnic on my twin hotel bed.

  I chose a savory crepe, pointing to a picture on the menu. The man in the window took my money, poured batter from a pitcher onto a large circular griddle, and chased it around with a wooden stick that looked like the rake for the Zen sand garden I used to have on my desk. After a minute, he flipped the crepe over and loaded it with cheese and spinach. He let the cheese melt a little before folding the crepe up into a triangle and wrapping it in a napkin.

  Oh my God.

  I had no idea anything could taste so good. Forget about eating in restaurants. I would eat crepes every day. Done.

  I took another turn and ended up back at the Seine, looking down at the large night cruise boats—which were called Bateaux Mouches, according to the writing on the sides—passing through the channel. Below the bridge where I stood, a large group of people congregated down by the river’s edge, some sitting on a strip of grass no more than five feet wide, right up against the stone wall.

  There were other people on chairs or benches under bright-blue umbrellas and even more people walking or roller-skating past a few tables where people sat with drinks. A sign said Paris Plages. I used a translation app to figure out that the sign said that temporary beaches were being set up all along the Seine in honor of summer. There would be music and a beach cabana with cocktails.

  I wanted to be down there.

  A staircase wrapped around on the other side of the bridge, and within minutes, I was on the “beach,” standing in line at the cabana and ordering a glass of rosé. The bartender handed me a plastic cup of pink wine, and I found a spot on the grass between two couples and in front of a loud group of friends who were playing music from an iPhone.

  This was it, the Paris I’d imagined when Johnny and I had talked about taking this trip together. Sitting on the grass, drinking rosé—without his sneering comments—made me happy. I was only a little wistful that I was doing it alone.

  I mean, sure, I’d probably be having more fun if Johnny were with me. Johnny was built for vacations.

  Each sip of wine lowered my resistance to picking up my phone and calling him. All around me, couples were nuzzling each other and sitting arm in arm. The French were openly affectionate, holding hands as they walked along or kissing by the water. By the time I was halfway through the second glass of wine, all I wanted to do was call Johnny. The sun had set, leaving the clouds pink with leftover sunlight and the air warm and still. If he were here, I’d be resting my head against his chest as we looked out over the reflections on the water. He’d lean down and kiss me, and I’d have the feeling I first had when we were together—that I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

  I took out my phone, which still had Johnny on speed dial. I looked at the number and his name, which sent a pang of longing through my heart. What would he say if I bought him a new ticket and asked him to come meet me? And how would I feel about myself if I backslid and went back to our relationship, which had no future?

  Maybe I could get over the cheating. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be done.

  “Pardon,” someone next to me said. It was a guy with close-cropped brown hair, rolled-up jeans, and a pale-blue button-up shirt. He was trying to wedge himself into a small space on the grass between me and the couple sitting next to me.

  There was barely room for another person, but I scooted over, grateful for the distraction from my phone and the call I was about to make. The guy was drinking from a bottle of sparkling water, and I was debating whether I could broker some kind of conversation in English with a few French words thrown in when he moved even closer to me. I was taken aback until I realized he was making room for a pretty blond woman in a short black-and-white plaid skirt and dark sandals. She came armed with a bottle of rosé and two glasses.

  I looked back at my phone. Paris seemed made for couples. Seeing everyone paired up like they were getting ready to board an ark for a ride down the Seine just made me miss my old plus-one and second-guess the decision to break up.

  The sun had fully set, and the sky took on a warm royal-blue cast that made the lights from passing boats shimmer on water that had turned the same color. The sweeping lights from the boats shone onto the buildings that lined the riverbanks, and multilingual descriptions of the Paris sites came through the speakers on the upper decks. It was really beautiful. No one should experience it alone.

  I looked at my phone again. Am I crazy, I wondered? Probably. Then I dialed.

  Chapter Six

  La Palette

  “I was a little nervous to call,” I said to Guillaume, who was sitting across from me at La Palette, a café not far from where I’d been sitting by the river. The place was packed, and everyone looked fashionable and hip.

  “I’m so glad you did. I assume you’re not still looking for a hotel, though?”

  “No, I’m all set with that. Thank you.” I fished out the key from my purse and held it up, the large wooden rectangle dangling from it. “Hotel des Écoles.”

  Guillaume started to laugh. “You’re not supposed to take those.”

  “What?”

  “La clef. The key. That’s why they have such a big piece of wood hanging from it. You return it to the desk when you leave the hotel.”

  “Seriously?” I asked, realizing I should have known as much. No one would expect a person to carry around keychain this big. “Well, that makes sense now. It’s kind of awkward. And heavy.”

  “I don’t doubt that. It’s how they know who is in the room. For housekeeping.”

  Housekeeping was okay, but I had to push down my paranoia that someone would be creeping around my room when I wasn’t there for some reason other than to clean it. Then I reminded myself its shoebox size prevented standing upright, much less creeping.

  He signaled to a waiter who was dressed in an outfit very similar to the black-and-white clothes he’d been wearing earlier. I wondered if that was a standard uniform for waiters here. “What would you like?” Guillaume asked.

  “I’ve already had two plastic cups of wine at the little beachfront down by the river. I’m not sure I should have more.” It was another side-effect of dating Johnny: I was always the designated driver and the level-headed yin to his carefree drunken yang. I didn’t explain any of this to Guillaume, who was folding his reading glasses into a leather pouch.

  “Ah, you found the Paris Plages. I love that. Well, the French pour small glasses, so you can have a few.” Before I could object or even think about what else I might like, he told the waiter, “Deux verres de vin rouge et une carafe d’eau.” He turned to me. “Always ask for water,” he said, gesturing to a carafe and two glasses on the table next to ours. “Otherwise, you’ll end up spending all your money on bottled water. And our normal water tastes good.”

  “Good to know. Thanks,” I said.

  “Anything else I can tell you?” he asked.

  A sigh escaped my chest before I could stop it. I wanted to be self-sufficient and independent, but exhaustion and disorganization were prevailing. “I don’t know why this is so hard. I’m on vacation and I’m stressed out because I feel like I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Have fun.” I filled him in on some details of what brought me on my solo trip, feeling whiny and pathetic.

  “I think you’ll find your way back to fun,” he said quietly. “It sounds like he was just the wrong person for you.” He was sweet. I felt guilty that I was boring him.

  “Ugh, I’m so sorry, Guillaume. I dragged you out of your house, when you were probably perfectly
happy to spend a relaxing evening at home, because I’m scared to be alone with my thoughts.”

  He placed a hand on mine. The gesture of intimacy caught me by surprise. I worried that he thought this—the lost-American routine, calling him at night—was all a big flirtatious come-on. Oh no. Did he think I was going to invite him back to the Hotel des Écoles? He’d be in for a rude awakening since he wouldn’t fit in the room.

  I looked up at him, but I couldn’t decipher his expression. I’d felt like he’d taken a fatherly interest in my well-being back at his café, but I couldn’t be sure anymore. He was at least ten years older than me, but that didn’t mean anything. I realized I might have given him entirely the wrong impression. And here he was, ordering wine for us both.

  I was an idiot. I realized he’d come out expecting a menage à moi, and I’d have to extract myself without angering a man I didn’t know at all and who knew where I was staying. Shit. Or the language app instructed, merde.

  “I did not mind getting out of the house. My husband is working at home tonight, and he can be… irritable when I’m there because our apartment isn’t big and I like to sing.”

  Okay… I was wrong.

  I broke out laughing—about the fact that I’d so misjudged the moment as well as about the idea of Guillaume, so buttoned-up and quiet, bursting into song to such a degree that it would annoy another person. The situation—calling my new gay friend to listen to me whine about my love life—was almost a cliché. I myself was a cliché. The whiny breakup victim. The thought was enough to smack some sense into me.

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I guess it worked out well for both of us.” I took out my phone. “Please witness what I’m about to do,” I said, swiping to my favorites list and deleting Johnny’s number. Then I went to my contact list and did the same. That was it. He was gone.

  Timed perfectly, the waiter returned with our glasses of wine and our carafe of water. Guillaume held his glass up to make a toast. “À santé. To health and to your next love. And there will be a next one. Maybe here in Paris.”

  I waved that thought away. I couldn’t think about another relationship. But I felt good to have closure on this one.

  “Don’t worry—they will come looking for you,” Guillaume said.

  I took a sip of the wine. It was chilled, which seemed unusual for red.

  “Not strange here,” he told me. “There are many summer reds that are good to drink a little cold.” He swirled his wine in the glass and sniffed it, eyes crinkling again when he held it to the light and squinted at the garnet color.

  “How did you and your husband meet?” I asked.

  He smiled in a way that said he was smitten. “Dance class. My friend used to teach a jazz class, and I signed up on the first day.” Again, this surprised me. I could no more picture him dancing than I could singing. “I had hoped once to perform in musicals, but it turned out I’m not as talented as I thought. But I’m perfect for a jazz class. Jean-Yves is another story, however.” He laughed at some memory. “The first day of class, he danced like an elephant. And I say this to you because there’s no other way to describe him. He dances like he’s trying to make a hole in the ground with each step. He’s completely uncoordinated.”

  “Does he know that’s how you feel about his dancing?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I said it to him the first day he came to class. He didn’t like me much because of it, but he really liked our instructor. It resulted in a little healthy competition between us. We both wanted the teacher’s attention but for different reasons. Fortunately for me, our instructor was happily married to a woman.”

  “What made Jean-Yves sign up for a dance class in the first place if he’s not coordinated?”

  “He did it on a dare. He’s competitive that way. He’d never turn down a chance to prove someone wrong.”

  “Worked out well for you.”

  “Yes,” he said, gazing down at a silver band on his finger. I hadn’t noticed it before, partly because he wore it on the right hand.

  The café was growing noisier and more packed the later it got. The waiter who’d served us was balancing a tray with a bottle of wine, six glasses, two coffees, and a couple of beers for the table two down from ours, where a group of six had just sat down, squeezing into a space I wouldn’t have thought could hold them. They lit up cigarettes and talked loudly and quickly.

  Maybe they weren’t speaking as fast as it seemed, but to my ears, it sounded like melodic patter mixed with laughter. Mopeds came buzzing by, and about half the people who were walking on Rue de Seine stopped at La Palette to talk with the waiter, who seemed to know them all. I’d thought the place I lived was semi-urban—the city of Santa Monica, which had lots of restaurants and foot traffic—but this scene made my home seem like the distant suburbs.

  Everything was happening right here in the streets, with people living upstairs in historic architectural works of art, convening in the cafés, and spending as much time as possible in the warm summer night outside. I suddenly felt exhausted amid all the invigorating action. The need to close my eyes was real and immediate. I had sympathy for people who had kids and always walked around sleep deprived.

  Guillaume must have seen the sudden shift in my eyes. “You’ve had a long day. I think you’ll sleep well tonight.”

  “I know I will.”

  “Everything will look different in the morning. And if you can’t sleep, go outside. Paris is beautiful in the early hours of the day. Take a walk, take a nap, let yourself be on vacation.”

  I nodded, feeling the weight of my head and the sudden difficulty of holding it upright. Guillaume dropped a couple of ten-euro notes on the table, not letting me pay for the drinks. “But I dragged you here,” I said. “It should be my treat.”

  “There is no ‘should.’ It is my pleasure to buy you your first glass of chilled red wine. I hope it will prove memorable.”

  “Already proven. Merci, Guillaume.”

  He wouldn’t let me walk back to my hotel alone, which was lucky for me because I might not have found it on my own through the haze of fatigue and wine. I followed him without paying attention to the route or to any of the shops along the way. I had one destination in mind—that tiny twin bed under the slanting roof.

  We walked toward the water then stayed on the quai, which ran alongside the buildings, across the busy street from the river. At the intersection on Boulevard Saint-Michel, I froze, trying to decipher when it would be okay for us to cross the street. Cars seemed to be coming from all directions, and I couldn’t see clearly which traffic lights they were following.

  “How do people know when it’s their turn to drive or walk?” I asked.

  Guillaume pointed to a small post, no higher than a stop sign, with a light on it. “Traffic lights.”

  “I didn’t see it. It’s so small.”

  He shook his head. “Americans do everything bigger. But when you’re used to it, you see that a small light is just as good. We don’t have large kitchens with big refrigerators, so we shop for fresh food. There would not be a use for a place like Costco here.”

  I was surprised he knew about Costco, but I was too tired to ask him about it. A few minutes later, I could see the now-familiar towers of Notre-Dame, which signaled that we were close to my hotel.

  When Guillaume left me in front of the hotel, he kissed me on both cheeks like I’d seen him do with other people earlier. I passed right by a new woman at the front desk, who looked at me quizzically, like she was ready to retrieve my key from one of the hooks. But I held mine up. “Sorry,” I said. “Tomorrow, I’ll turn it in when I leave.” She smiled and nodded.

  When my head hit the pillow, I slept without dreaming.

  Chapter Seven

  A Modestly-Priced Hotel in Paris

  The Next Morning, Sort Of

  I couldn’t believe it when I looked at the glowing screen of my phone. It was three a.m., and I’d only slept for a couple of hours. Yet I was wide awake. It w
as six in the evening at home. I spent the next few hours trying to force myself back to sleep because I knew I needed to sleep at night and stay awake during the day. It would be hard to function on only two hours of sleep.

  Drifting off and waking up for the next few hours brought me to morning, at least. The sun shone through the window and I was awake for good.

  Paris looked even more beautiful in the early-morning light. Guillaume had been right. The streets had gotten magically scrubbed of trash as if by tidy vacuumers who worked through the dawn hours. A few boulangeries had opened their doors, and a framework of metal stalls indicated where a farmer’s market would soon be open for business, but otherwise it was quiet.

  I walked back down to the Seine, which was flat and blue. It was too early for the boats to begin their tours. I still couldn’t wrap my brain around how it would feel to live and work every day in a city with gorgeous Haussmann-era architecture and picturesque monuments with hundreds of years of history behind them. It wasn’t like I expected everyone in Paris to resemble Marie Antoinette, but the young, hip French looked a lot like the people who lived in my neighborhood, and I felt envious that they got to work and live in such a beautiful place. I doubted that I’d ever get tired of the view, even if I moved to Paris and lived there for years.

  From where I stood, I saw at least four cafés, none that stood out or called to me in a special way. So I chose the nearest one and took a seat outside, facing the street. I fumbled through an attempt to order coffee and a pastry, ultimately asking for what I wanted in English because the kind waiter sensed my struggle and told me he could understand me without having to pull out my translator app.