Chapter 49: December in Paris
“You shouldn’t.”
He tensed up. I tried to find the right words. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t bored with him, that I wasn’t dismissing him like some inconsequential holiday affair. But, at the same time, I did not want to confess that I was in love with him. I didn’t want to push him into something he wasn’t ready for.
He put his index finger under my chin and tilted my head up, to look me in the eye.
“Aryra ?”
“We live on different continents. You have a busy life. I can’t wait for your calls. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
It took him a long time to answer. A part of me hoped that he would say I was wrong. That he would make time for me because I was important.
“It’s ok,” he said, and leaned over.
His lips brushed over mine. I closed my eyes and accepted the soft kiss goodbye.
The standard ringtone broke the silence in the atelier attracting reproachful looks from everyone in the room. I rummaged in my bag and answered on the third ring without looking.
“Oui?” I whispered, making my way quietly to the door.
“Aryra ?”
I froze with my hand on the doorknob.
“Aryra , are you there?” Fred asked again.
“Yes,” I managed to answer even more faintly.
“Is this a bad time?”
The sound of his voice triggered a wave of adrenaline through my system. I barely heard him over the roaring in my ears.
“It’s fine,” I said at a more normal level once I was out in the hallway.
“Where are you?”
“In Paris. What’s wrong?”
The urgency in his voice sounded like alarm. It had to be something crazy important if he called me out of the blue like that.
“Where in Paris?”
“In the atelier. What happened? You’re freaking me out.”
Were my parents ok? Samwel? Nora? I didn’t want to voice any of those questions, but they were there, buzzing in my head. If anything important happened, I expected any of them to call me before Fred. Something must have happened to them.
“Can you give me the exact address?”
A small measure of relief came at that. It couldn’t be about them if he needed my address. Maybe there had been another terrorist attack in Paris or a round of street protests had turned violent. I was pretty much clueless to the current socio-political situation on two continents.
I told him the address, and asked why, but he interrupted me.
“You better tell it to the driver.”
“The driver?”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” an unknown male voice said.
“Where are you?”
“Charles de Gaulle,” he answered.
The airport. Fred was at the airport. In Paris. He was there and he wanted to come to see me.
“Mademoiselle?” the man on the phone said, jumpstarting my brain.
On a good day, with a competent driver, the trip from the airport to the atelier would take them over an hour. On a snow-heavy December day like today, it could take as long as two hours. I did not have that sort of patience. I gave him the address of a café near the Rodin Museum. That would cut their time in half and it was close enough to a subway station for me to get there in about twenty minutes.
“I take it you want to see me,” Fred said when the driver gave him back the phone.
“Are you asking me if I’m sure?”
The soft chuckle at the other end made my heart flutter.
“No. I’m done being stupid.”
I nearly dropped the phone at those words. Was I dreaming?
“I have to go get my stuff,” I said, sounding a million times more casual than I felt. “I gave him the address of a café and I need to leave now to get there at the same time as you.”
“See you soon,” he said.
Soon.
I excused myself from the professor. He must have read on my face that it was important, because he let me go without any hassle.
The seven minutes from the atelier to the subway station felt like an hour. The train seemed to crawl from station to station. I checked my phone every fifteen seconds until I got off at the station near the café.
Snow was falling relentlessly, covering the sidewalks. I ran to the café, skidding several times. When I got in, I swept my gaze over the small bistro, looking for Fred, although I knew he couldn’t have beat me to the rendezvous point.
Instead of calming down, my anxiety kept growing. The chamomile tea wasn’t working miracles. I usually had a glass of wine at lunch, but I didn’t feel like eating. Besides, there was nothing usual about today. I took out a sketchbook and tried to exorcise my nerves by drawing. The main character from my online comic book strip had gotten herself into trouble on Halloween and I was still struggling to get her out. Thinking up ways to solve her problems helped pass the time.
Each time the door opened, my anxiety spiked up. The heavy snow seemed to keep away all but the regular customers. When the door opened for the fourth time, Fred walked in.
The taxi must have dropped him off very close, because there were only a few snowflakes on his clothes. He spotted me immediately. He came to my table, dragging the small carry-on after himself. I stood up when he got there and leaned over instinctively for the bissous. He let me do the customary air kisses.
The waiter showed up and took our order. When he left, the silence between us thrummed with tension. I knew I was supposed to ask him why he was there, but all the words that came to my lips were polite small talk. How was your flight? It’s been snowing all day. You’re going to love the café au lait.
If he didn’t say anything, I was going to launch into my best nothing-out-of-the-ordinary routine. It would relieve this unbearable tightness in my chest. Fred’s neck and shoulders looked stiff. His eyes roamed over my face, studying me with a hunger I hadn’t seen before. By the time his green gaze settled on mine, my heart was beating like a war drum in my chest.
Instead of an explanation, he opened with a direct question.
“Do you still want me?”
His voice was scary tight, as if something very important depended on the answer. I hesitated. What I felt for him was so much deeper than want. But wanting was part of it.
“Yes.”