The Summer of Him Page 5

The café was empty, and the seat I’d chosen was far away from the only other people outside having coffee. I inhaled a deep breath, smelling diesel fumes mixed with fresh air and cigarette smoke. The smells comingled into a city perfume that felt uniquely Paris, and I had a pinch-me moment. I was really sitting at a French café. I was really a trans-Atlantic adventurer.

  Moving efficiently between tables, the waiter came back with my coffee and a croissant. He tilted his head at me like he could sense I have some questions, but I did my best to offer up enough of a smile that he seemed reassured. I couldn’t spend my entire time relying on the kindness of waiters to get me through the days. I needed to put on my big girl panties and come up with a plan. I was in France. On vacation, for crying out loud.

  The coffee helped. Like a magic bullet, the first couple sips woke my brain up and started me thinking more clearly about what I wanted to do all day in the city of love. My first thought—shopping. Even if it was only window shopping at stores I couldn’t afford, I could grant myself a little retail therapy.

  It turned out I’d picked a good café because I could see up and down a couple of streets right from my table, so I could come up with a plan just by looking around. The bright red sign of something called Monoprix caught my eye. I had no idea what it was, but my loose translation of the name made it sound like maybe everything at the store was one price. I felt a surge of excitement, thinking that I’d found the French equivalent of a Dollar Store. That had to be worth a visit.

  A few minutes later, coffee drained and croissant devoured, I paid my check and walked down the block to Monoprix, my mind zinging with glee over the cheap Parisian finds that were certain to be waiting inside. I figure that even a tiny travel-sized deodorant would be exciting if it was French.

  The automatic doors zipped open and I stepped inside.

  Monoprix was a supermarket. A big one. And nothing was cheap or the same price. But Monoprix was nothing short of awesome.

  In addition to regular groceries, it had a huge department of clothes, a lot of which were on sale at crazy-cheap prices. Though I didn’t really need leggings and T-shirts printed with English-language sayings like “Surf’s up” and “It’s all good,” I took comfort knowing they were there if I needed them. I debated buying some underwear, just because. French underwear, even from a supermarket, still seemed glamorous.

  I spent a good half hour browsing up and down the aisles, where whole sections were devoted to colorful pens and notebooks, makeup, baby clothes, towels… I was fascinated by the French versions of all the things I’d seen at home, as though they were more exotic and interesting. Eventually, it dawned on me that I’d yet to see any food.

  That was because Monoprix had a whole second floor below ground and all the food—plus a zillion kinds of bottled water, some with gas, some without—was on the other level. I had to look at everything—the dairy cases with high-fat butter and more varieties of cheese than I knew existed, the aisles of chocolate bars and cookies. I immediately appreciated the brilliance of Monoprix when I realized I could buy a piece of luggage upstairs and fill it with cookies and chocolate downstairs to take home at the end of my trip. There didn’t appear to be a consumer problem for which Monoprix wouldn’t have a solution.

  My day had already done a one-eighty. I was giddy with excitement over an entire aisle of mustard varieties. I also felt myself getting sucked into an epicurean vortex that threatened to derail my sightseeing, so I collected my wits. I grabbed a bottle of water, a package of butter biscuits, and a few peaches and got in line at the cash registers. I had a long day of sightseeing ahead and who knew if I’d have time for lunch? Or dinner? And yes, I realized I was already making up reasons why I couldn’t possibly dine alone.

  When it was my turn, I handed the cashier my items and waited for her to ring them up. She took the peaches and gave me a strange look. She turned them over and examined them, then shook her head and said something I didn’t understand in French, handing them back to me.

  “I… I’m sorry, what?” I stammered.

  She repeated what she’d said, throwing her hands up like she had no idea what to do with someone as inept at grocery shopping as me. She had to know I wouldn’t understand because I didn’t get it the first time. I examined the peaches like she had, but I didn’t see anything wrong with them.

  I could hear rumblings from the people in the line behind me and next to me. A couple of them were looking my way, and one was pointing. They all seemed to be mocking me for something I didn’t even know I’d done.

  “You’re supposed to weigh them first,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and caught a quick glimpse of a guy under a baseball cap. I couldn’t really see his face but he was probably annoyed, and I realized I was holding up the whole line with my mistake.

  I still didn’t know what he meant. Where was I supposed to weigh them?

  Overwhelmed and embarrassed, I dropped the peaches and dumped the cookies and the water on the counter before backing away. “Never mind. I don’t need it.” I left the cashier to figure out what to do with my aborted purchase and hurried up the stairs and out of the store.

  My heart was pounding and I felt a rivulet of sweat drip down from my temple. At a grocery store at home, I’d just have apologized and fixed my mistake, but here, in a different language, nothing felt manageable. I was a little shocked at myself that I bolted without trying harder.

  The strong independent self I was counting on seemed to be on her own vacation someplace else.

  I thought about going back to my hotel and asking Sylvie at the desk to give me a download on everything I needed to know if I wasn’t going to embarrass myself several times a day. I clearly hadn’t done my homework. It was so unlike me to come to a foreign country unprepared, but because it was supposed to be a trip for two, I’d decided to be more spontaneous. The two of us didn’t need a plan. We’d have each other.

  In the month since our breakup, I’d been too busy uncoupling our possessions and my emotions to read up on how to properly buy fruit.

  I had no idea where I was going, but I’d walked the better part of a block before jet lag and emotions got the better of me. I leaned into the doorway of a bakery that had a sign saying it was closed for summer vacation and would reopen August 15. I hoped someone wouldn’t yell at me for loitering, and as I imagined being scolded yet again, I felt the tears well up in my eyes.

  I desperately didn’t want to be the kind of person who was afraid to eat dinner alone or who couldn’t make a mistake without crying. I also hadn’t slept very much and that could make a person tearful, I reminded myself, working hard to add sympathetic self to my independent self.

  People walked by, oblivious to me, happily talking to one another in fast bursts of French that I wasn’t going to pick up just by sitting around cafés and listening. And definitely not in a matter of hours. No one expected that, so I needed to chill the heck out.

  “Thank God you slowed down. I didn’t want to chase you all over the city to give you these,” I heard from a male voice to my left. The English was a salve to my aching Anglophile ears.

  I looked up and saw the guy in the baseball hat, the one who’d seemed irritated in line behind me. He held out the three peaches I’d attempted to buy, only now they were in a plastic bag with a sticker on them, properly weighed and priced. “The cashier was going to wait and let you go back and weigh them, but I guess you didn’t understand what she was telling you… anyway, no one should be without peaches.”

  I felt so overwhelmed by this act of kindness that a new wave of tears formed, ready to spring forth. I fought them back, trying to maintain my composure, because crying over peaches wasn’t something I was prepared to explain to a stranger. After a couple seconds of hard swallowing and blinking, I croaked out my gratitude.

  “Oh. Wow. That’s so nice. Thank you.” I took the peaches and awkwardly stuffed them into my bag. He handed me the cookies and water too. “You bought all my stuff?�
� I was shocked that a stranger could be so nice to me. And, once I took a closer look at him, an exceptionally great-looking stranger. My heart started beating a little faster and I felt a blush creep over my cheeks.

  “Well… yeah. A person’s gotta stay hydrated. And you seemed like you were having a rough day.”

  “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” I stopped myself before I unloaded my tale of two warring selves, because I doubted he was super interested. “Anyway, thank you. I don’t usually fall apart at the checkout counter… but I panicked in the face of angry shoppers.”

  He nodded, his lips tugging to the side and relaxing into a smile. Yes, he was definitely attractive. I didn’t want to stare, mainly because I wasn’t sure where I wanted to look first; his high cheekbones, his sharp jawline or his pretty, plush lips, which were still parted in a smile which revealed some very straight, very white teeth.

  But what really got me was his eyes. They were a different shade of brown than I’d seen before, almost deep grey and impossibly dark and bottomless, like they possessed a magic power to prevent a person from looking away. I had a feeling they could make women bend to his will, not that I had any intention of proving that theory. Ugh, it almost hurt to look at him directly, like staring at the sun.

  I did my best to cast my eyes down, not wanting to stare, and a little frightened that I might fall under a spell of some kind.

  At the same time, despite the astounding face, he seemed like a regular person, touring around Paris grocery stores and buying peaches for wayward female travelers. He seemed so comfortable—the polar opposite of how I felt, trying to acclimate and understand street signs and snippets of conversation on no sleep.

  I snuck another look at him, trying to avoid the eyes. In his baseball cap, he looked like the guys I was used to seeing in Santa Monica, right down to his beige linen shorts and crazy-expensive trendy sneakers. He was definitely American.

  “First time in Paris?” he asked.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He laughed. “Not at all. But jet lag and a new city will kick anyone’s ass.”

  “I appreciate the sympathy.”

  “And look at it this way—you’ll never make that mistake again in a grocery store. You can check that off your list of life lessons.” He swung a dark-green backpack off his shoulder, unzipped it, pulled out his own bottle of water, and unscrewed the top to take a drink.

  “You got that right, because I’m never going in a grocery store again.”

  “Oh, come on. You scare that easily?” His eyes—those eyes—were challenging but playful. I willed myself to adopt his attitude.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s true—I’m really jet-lagged. And I kinda hit the ground running here without looking at a guidebook or figuring anything out,” I said.

  “Trust me, there are lots of bigger ways you can offend people here. Don’t try to pick your own fruit at an open market. The produce sellers’ll have your head. You tell them what you want and let them pick for you. Unless they invite you to touch the produce.”

  “Thank you. Offending the fruit vendors was next on my list of ways to make a crappy impression with the French.”

  He smiled then fished in his backpack and extracted a pair of sunglasses, which he put on. Now I could barely see any of his face, but I was protected from the magic eyes. He put out his hand and introduced himself. “Chris.”

  “Nikki,” I said, shaking his hand, noting that the gesture seemed oddly formal here. I’d already seen so many French people leaning in to hug and kiss each other on both cheeks that the handshake felt like we were doing business. And then I stopped myself because I realized I was unconsciously wishing for more of a connection than a mere exchange of stone fruit for gratitude.

  It felt so nice to talk to an American, who wouldn’t judge me for speaking English in a French-speaking country. I found myself wanting to linger with him a bit longer before I went back out on my own. Maybe he was alone and looking for someone to hang with. Maybe we could tackle Paris together.

  While the scenarios for how the rest of the day might go unfurled in my head, I realized he’d been speaking, and I hadn’t heard a word of it. I mentally chastised myself for thinking he was interested in anything other than doing a good deed. I needed to let him say goodbye like a normal person.

  That was what he was saying, right?

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

  “I said… have dinner with me,” he repeated. But it still didn’t sink in.

  “I’m sorry, what? I zoned out for a second. Jet lag. It’s killing me.”

  “It’s my last night here in town, and I’ve got no plans. Have dinner with me. I know the city pretty well. I can give you my download on stuff you shouldn’t miss while you’re here…”

  I raised one eyebrow and tried to sound mysterious. “You’re assuming I have no plans.” I think I just sounded confused about the situation.

  He looked sideways at me, his skepticism clear in the way his mouth hooked to the side. “You said you just got here, so I figured… Do you have plans?”

  “No. I don’t know why I said that. I have no plans… and yes. Dinner would be great,” I said, inwardly gleeful that I’d forestalled dining alone for one more night. He seemed nice. And there was certainly nothing wrong with looking at him over a plate of snails for a couple hours. “Do you have a place you like? Or should we meet somewhere and figure it out?”

  He looked down at his backpack and stalled, suddenly seeming uncomfortable. “Can I get back to you on that? I need to check a couple of things.” It felt like maybe he was rethinking his invitation.

  “I mean, only if it works for you. Whatever you want,” I said. Trying to be chill. Possibly failing.

  “No, it’s not that. I just don’t know where we should go. Can I…?” he asked, gesturing to my phone. I obediently handed it over, and he tapped in his phone number and sent himself a text. “Great. Now you have my number. I’ll get my act together and text you a time and a place. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great. Yep. Great,” I said, immediately thinking I sounded idiotic. But I was gleeful that Monoprix had, in fact, delivered a solution to all my wants and needs. “And thank you. For the fruit save.”

  He nodded. “Happy to help out a fellow expat.” His phone beeped, and he looked down at it. “Okay, so, good,” he said, seeming consumed by the contents of his text message.

  “Yes. Good.”

  Still looking down at his phone, he said, “I gotta run. I’ll text you later.” Then he was moving off down the street practically at a jog. It was then that I noticed he also had broad shoulders and a nice ass, which was receding in the distance with the rest of him.

  I felt like jogging, too, because for the first time since I’d arrived in Paris, I had a plan. Despite my yearning to fly by the seat of my pants and be a little more carefree, the plan made me comfortable and happy. I fished one of the peaches out of the plastic bag and rubbed it on my shirt to clean it. When I took a bite, the juice dribbled down my chin. It tasted delicious and French.

  Chapter Eight

  Rive Gauche

  I walked for the next two hours. Over bridges, around gardens, beneath stunning stone architecture.

  Then I was hungry again. I crossed the large Boulevard Saint-Germain and finding a seat under the awning of Café Napoléon, where I ordered a café au lait and a chèvre chaud, my mouth watering in anticipation of the two circles of goat cheese, each melted atop a toasted piece of bread, with some salad greens on the side. That’s how it was described on the menu, the English translated version, which I was grateful to have.

  From my seat outside, I could see the Saint-Germain church and the Les Deux Magots down the block, which had been a favorite hangout of Ernest Hemingway when he was writing novels in cafés and drinking absinthe.

  The area felt touristy. A family walked past me, the husband wearing a Yankees cap, a camera bag strapped across his chest, and
the wife in big sunglasses, carrying a Gucci purse, and speaking in a thick drawl. “I’m gonna smack you if you don’t stop messin’ around,” she told her kids, two girls who looked about ten years old and who were trying to trip each other by flat-tiring the other’s flip-flops.

  When they stopped to look at the menu at Café Napoléon, I was worried that they’d sit right next to me and I’d overhear their family drama rather than work on absorbing a word or two of French from the people around me. But they kept moving down the street.

  A forty-something impeccably dressed woman, her hair hanging down over her shoulders, pulled out a chair and spread a napkin on it before lifting her small dog—who I could tell was a boy from his navy blue collar emblazoned with boats—and setting him down on it. She sat down in the chair next to him and ran a hand over his fur and then took a cigarette out and lit it with the other. She ordered a glass of wine and a plate of pâté, from what I could discern. I only caught a couple of words, but I was pretty sure “vin,” and “fois gras” were in the mix.

  The waiter appeared with my hot goat cheese, which smelled amazing and dripped with butter. I’d decided to fully embrace France, eating real butter and full-fat cheese and drinking wine. Why not start with a glass right now?

  I felt inspired by the woman next to me though not inspired to smoke. I had yet to toast myself and launch the beginning of my solo adventure. I tried not to think that my change of mood and attitude had anything to do with my dinner plans, later, but a small part of me knew it had helped push me along. Sometimes a girl just needed a push. The independent spirit was there, waiting to be unleashed.

  I cut through the cheese and bread and brought the first bite to my lips, knowing the impending food coma would be a theme of my time in France. The cheese and buttered bread tasted decadent and delicious, and the vinegary salad greens cut through that taste perfectly. The wine was a mistake, however, because no sooner did I scarf down the last bite of lunch than I felt a wave of exhaustion overtake me with a force I hadn’t experienced before. I had no choice but to race back to my hotel and turn in for a two-hour nap and dream of butter and cheese.