A Million Miles Away (16 page)

Even the traffic is influenced by art, she took note for her sister.

Their hotel was nearby.

Soon, everything might fall apart, and Kelsey dreaded it. Especially here. It shouldn’t happen here, where it was already evening, and soft yellow light was coming from candles on the tables, beneath the twisting iron streetlamps, and windows that opened onto narrow streets lined by white balconies.…

“Coming?” Peter called to her from ahead, holding out his hand.

She nodded and followed the group down one avenue, then another, then back the other way for a wrong turn, and finally to a building marked only by the number painted above the doorway.

“Okay,” Peter said, glancing at the directions he had printed out. “40 Rue Nollet.”

He rang the bell.

Inside, they found a steep wooden staircase and a wizened caretaker, whose tiny frame disappeared into her apron.

“C’est ici,”
she said after four flights, pointing to a thick white wooden door.

She led them inside to find two large beds, and a window from ceiling to floor, opening to a small iron balcony.

“
Merci
. Enjoy,” she said, and exited.

Phil and Sam tossed their canvas bags onto one bed and stretched, taking in the view of the city.

“One room?” Kelsey said, turning to Peter.

“Nice and cozy,” Peter said, winking. Then he whispered, “Sorry. This city ain’t cheap.”

“That’s okay,” she replied.

As she watched Peter peel off his army T-shirt to don civilian clothes, she was also grateful that she wouldn’t have to talk her way out of doing whatever it was that Michelle and Peter would do in a bed alone.

She was blushing. Again.

The close quarters would make it difficult to have any private conversation, though, let alone the one they were meant to have. But deep down, Kelsey was grateful to put it off.

Soon, the four of them set out on the metro to find a shop called Shakespeare and Company, at Peter’s request.

Sam took some convincing as they hung on to a metal bar for balance, huddled among the passengers. “I’m not shelling out euros to see Shakespeare, no way. Can’t understand that crap. Never could. Might as well pay to watch a soap opera in Spanish.”

Peter laughed, his hand on Kelsey’s back. “It’s a bookstore, Rooster. Where all the American writers used to hang out in the 1920s. Hemingway’s favorite.”

The street they searched for, it turned out, was right across the river from Notre Dame Cathedral. When she saw it, she drew in a breath. The cathedral was gigantic, of course, but the late-afternoon light made the small shadows just as important as the enormous towers, emphasizing the structure’s tiny curves and faces and leaves. Never before had Kelsey seen a building that asked so much of those who looked at it. Every inch had been carved into something else.

Inside the bookstore, Kelsey found a quiet, hidden corner to collect her thoughts. The wet-wood smell of old books arose from all sides. She knew nothing of the history of this place, but she could feel it in the silence. She was a stranger to everyone except herself, and now that she was alone, she found she didn’t care. The boys were just as in awe. The beauty of Paris had made words unnecessary.

Between the shelves, she spotted Peter, absorbed in a large book with bright images.

“Peter,” she said quietly.

He looked up, and searched for the sound of her voice. When he saw her, he smiled. “Look what I found,” he said.

As she approached, she noticed a leaf bud from one of the trees had gotten caught in Peter’s hair. When she removed it, for some reason, she couldn’t bear to toss the leaf on the floor. She pocketed it.

“Your book on Andy Warhol, the one you have in your room,” he said, pointing at an image of the artist in black and white. “But in French.”

Michelle’s book. Kelsey had paged through it a few times, when Ian had told her to look him up, and when she was composing her first letter to Peter.

“Tell me what it says,” he said, his mouth lifting at the corners hopefully, his eyes washing over her.

Kelsey’s mouth went dry, and she looked at the pages full of random syllables, which might as well have been completely blank.

“It says…” she said, letting out nervous laughter. Her game was up. The words came out of her, clumsy. “It gives his birthdate and says he was a great artist, that his work is not snobby or hard to understand.”

“Is that really what it says?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, playful.

Kelsey’s hands were in fists in the pockets of her jacket. She met his eyes. Maybe now was the time. She swallowed, trying not to let her voice shake. “No,” she said. “I’m bullshitting you.”

Peter closed the book, and replaced it on the shelf. “I’m sure it’s close enough,” he replied. He took her in his arms, her cheek to his chest, and she could feel his voice come through his body and into hers. “Right now, you could tell me the sky was green and I’d believe you.”

Kelsey slipped out of his embrace, pretending to browse, trying to resist the look on his face, the look that said he wanted to kiss her again. “But the sky’s not green. And that’s not what the book says. That’s not the truth.”

From behind her, Peter said quietly, “I like anything that comes from you. That’s truth enough for me.”

Kelsey hid a smile, but she wasn’t sure who she was hiding it from anymore. She let him take her hand and lead her through the shelves, where Sam and Phil waited for them outside.

They took the train home.

After catching the sandwich shop down the street from their hotel before it closed, they had a dinner of ham and cheese on baguette near the square, in a jet-lagged haze, watching the passersby.

They bought a bottle of wine at a corner store and brought it back to their hotel room, where they drank out of paper cups and played blackjack until the three soldiers on Afghanistan time were exhausted.

Peter and his friends reminded her of long, jokey nights with Davis, watching him and his fraternity brothers shoot guns on the screen of a video game. Unlike the boys with her now, after they turned off the TV, they were done. Every time she thought of Davis, she sighed. Yet another reason why she shouldn’t be in Paris, let alone kissing another guy in Paris. But she couldn’t change the past. She was trying her best just to be there. And, well, being there wasn’t hard.

Kelsey was still wide-awake, but she got into her pajamas anyway, suddenly self-conscious enough to wait until Sam was done using the bathroom. Normally, she would have tossed her shirt aside, no matter the company. Kelsey and her body were one, and she wasn’t ashamed or scared of revealing it.

But this wasn’t Davis, who had seen and touched pretty much everything. This wasn’t an audience of hundreds of anonymous faces, watching her writhe around in a costume. This was Peter, who cared so deeply about the little things. Who opened his heart to her.

Judging by how moved he was by a song or a circle in the middle of a Kansas prairie, her bare back might just send him reeling.

When she came out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and shorts, Sam and Phil were already snoring. One lamp, beside the bed, remained lit.

Peter approached her in his boxers, and put his hands on her waist, tucking his fingers under the hem of her shirt. He was so close she could see the blonde hairs on his skin. Maybe he wasn’t as prudish as she thought.

Kelsey seized up.

He must have sensed she was feeling shy, so he took a step back.

He kissed her on the cheek, and turned to switch off the lamp. Kelsey took the opportunity to jump into bed, under the covers, her face toward the wall. Her cheek was burning.

“Hey,” he whispered as he lay beside her. “Today was crazy.”

“It was,” she said, swallowing.

“Tomorrow will be great,” he said, shifting his weight closer.

“Mm hmm,” was all Kelsey could get out.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

She waited for the sound of Peter’s deep breathing to breathe herself, silently begging the universe over and over, for what she wasn’t sure. For a lot of things. For everything to be okay. For Michelle, wherever she was. And for the kind soldier beside her to be all right.

Above all, for that.

As far away as it seemed right then, the thought of Peter safe and happy granted Kelsey peace, and she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Iron beam after iron beam fell past Kelsey’s eyes, and between the lattice, Paris grew smaller and the sky grew bigger. As the Seine River lengthened, the green of Champ de Mars unrolled in a graceful U shape. Her stomach flopped. They were getting higher. Peter held her hand tight, catching her eyes, laughing at the absurdity of a dozen nations squawking together in one elevator.

“The sound people make when they’re traveling up the Eiffel Tower is the same in every language, isn’t it?” he whispered.

“You mean, ooh and aah?” she replied.

“Exactly.”

“Except not here. Here they say, Ooh la la.”

Peter cringed. “Bad. You are good at bad, bad jokes.”

“No, here they say: Who gives a merde about the Eiffel Tower, I am so cool, I am from Paris.”

“Merde? Is that shit?”

Kelsey was using her limited French to her full advantage. “
Oui.
As in: Western Kansas smells like merde, because of the hog farms.”

Peter gave her a shove. “Do not knock my place of origin. And that’s Emporia with the hog farms, not El Dorado.”

“Why are we talking about hog farms right now, of all times?”

“A valid point. I feel like we should be reciting poetry.”

“Roses are red, violets are—”

“Anything but that.”

They laughed.

Kelsey hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand the whole way up.

It was a windy, cool afternoon in early spring, and that morning the four of them had walked down the Champs-Élysées as the sun broke the clouds. Even the Parisians were loose and talkative in the metro, smiling below dark sunglasses.

Everyone seemed to have forgotten their troubles, and Kelsey was powerless against the pull of an entire city. She was distracted. Love this, everything seemed to say, in the haughty way a girl like her might flaunt her own good looks. How can you not love this?

Peter let go of her hand briefly, to point out the pyramid shape of the main entrance of the Louvre in the distance, then took it again, squeezing.

He was lighter than she had ever seen him. He didn’t have anything to shove away, to swallow, to pretend wasn’t happening. That morning, they had watched Phil and Sam do one hundred push-ups each, but Peter had cheerfully refused. “Unless someone is going to yell in my face about it, I don’t feel the need.” On their way to the tower, Peter had made dirty jokes about the nude statues that lined the park hedges, including one that made Kelsey spit out her latte on the manicured gravel.

The elevator continued to rise, away from Peter’s friends, who were now somewhere near Notre Dame Cathedral.

Kelsey realized how long she and Peter had been alone.

As the city blocks began to blur together into one vast carpet, her resolve crept back.

Peter, I’m not who you think I am. I am, but I’m not.
Kelsey felt her eyes squint. This was going to be terrible.

At the top, the wind blew stronger and the iron creaked, sending a group of Italian tourists into shrieks.

Kelsey buttoned up her trench coat and Peter pulled her to him, kissing her lightly on the forehead as they stared out across the city, entwined.

Peter, this may come as a shock. But I am not Michelle. I do care about you, though, which is why I am here.

No matter what would happen between them, they were the only two people there who knew each other in that particular way, so far from home. She couldn’t imagine keeping a secret from him. This should be her chance to make everything right. This was her chance.

She stepped back, putting a hand on each of his arms, their solidness now shivering under his cotton sweater.

“Should have brought my jacket,” he said, and they were both quiet.

“Peter—” Kelsey started.

Just then, a man—whose red tracksuit mirrored the woman beside him—tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” His accent sounded Eastern European. “Photo, please?” He gestured at himself and his wife, then at the sweeping landscape.

Peter looked at Kelsey, raising his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “Long shot or close-up?”

“Sorry?” the woman responded, flipping her dark lenses up to reveal regular glasses underneath.

“Never mind,” Peter said, glancing at Kelsey again, close to laughter. He was having fun. They were both having fun.

This was a terrible thing she had to do.

Kelsey smiled stiffly and folded her arms, trying to keep her courage.

The blonde couple held each other and posed, their cheeks rosy from the chill, hands united at their waists. They had probably been married for decades, pounds and wrinkles away from their youth, further and further from the moment they met but always in love, until the end.