Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (25 page)

Nic looks pained that I said that, so I quickly tell her, “Don’t get me wrong. I love Jason, and I love the baby, and I’m really happy for you. But, sometimes, I miss us. I miss being able to go out with you on a random Tuesday night. And I knew the minute Seema got married, no more random Tuesday nights with her either. Plus I had to move out, so there would also be no more random Sunday-afternoon ‘Let’s watch reality bride TV all afternoon for no reason’ roommate days. And that loss, well … it’s like it started out as this little snowball: ‘Oh, my life isn’t quite where I want it.’ But over the months the snowball got bigger and bigger, and soon I was running from an avalanche.”

Nic nods. “And then Jay showed up, and you were young again.”

I laugh uncomfortably. “Yeah. Only this time I got to be with my crush, and he invited me to be with him, and I thought, ‘Yup, this is it. This will fill up my hole.’” I shrug. “No pun intended.”

I glance back over at the building across the street. In the apartment beneath the older couple, a young mom walks through the door, carrying her baby in one arm, and her diaper bag in the other. “I’m surrounded by perfection, and I still want to jump out of my skin. What’s wrong with me?”

Nic shakes her head and juts out her lower lip. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You have a big change coming up, and you’re getting used to it. For now, just enjoy yourself. Enjoy the moment. No one ever said this guy was the one. And that’s okay—he doesn’t need to be.”

I shake my head. “But if he’s not the one, what am I doing here?”

“Seeing Notre Dame and the Louvre, making love to a beautiful man, and enjoying your life. I promise you, the heroine in every story has to take a journey before she gets to where she needs to be. If that doesn’t apply to dating, I don’t know what does.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“So tell me about the Eiffel Tower. Better than Vegas?” Nic jokes.

I chuckle, then describe everything I’ve seen so far.

Nic and I talked for a while longer, and she said all the right positive affirmations, and I listened and thanked her. Then I promised not to rummage through Jay’s stuff anymore, and to fly back to LA if I was having any more
Lost in Translation
moments.

What I didn’t tell her was that I had this nagging feeling that Los Angeles wasn’t home anymore either.

And I still had no idea how I would escape that avalanche.

T
HIRTY
-
SIX

Jay got home around nine that evening.

I had spent the rest of the day wandering the Montmartre area, walking up the stairs to Sacré-Coeur, taking a lavender bubble bath in his claw tub, and trying not to text him too often. I figure nothing is less attractive than an insecure woman—which is why we women try to hide it so frequently.

I knew I was rewarded when I heard Jay come through the door and cheerfully call out, “Honey, I’m home!”

I appear in his bedroom doorway wearing nothing but his robe and a smile on my face. “I missed you,” I say seductively.

Jay’s face lights up as he walks up to me. “Wow. You wear my robe well.” He puts both hands on my waist and pulls me into a romantic kiss.

“Thank you,” I say coyly, “I was just getting ready for dinner. Where are we going?”

“Verjus.”

“You know, when you do things like that with your lips, you’re just begging to be kissed,” I flirt.

“Verjus,” he repeats, making a show of puckering up his lips. He gives me another kiss, and we make out for a minute or two. I try to pull him to the bed, but he stops me. “I made reservations, but we have to get cracking. How quickly can you be ready?”

“Ten minutes?”

“The perfect woman. Let me go change my shirt.”

As Jay heads to his closet to pick out a shirt, and I start getting dressed, I ask, “So how did everything go?”

“Oh, awful,” he says from inside his closet. “But it’s fine now. I just never should have slept with a client.”

I freeze as I throw on an elegant, little black dress I picked up from a shop on Montmartre today. “Wait. What?”

Jay walks out of his closet, shirtless. “Women just amaze me. You work closely with someone for a few months, things happen after too much wine in the middle of a business trip in a faraway land, and suddenly you’re the bad guy because you didn’t make it out to be more than it was.”

Wow! I have no idea what to do with that statement.

Jay begins buttoning up his shirt, and despite myself, I hate to say good-bye to that perfect chest, if only for the next few hours.

But back to the matter at hand. Seriously, he just casually tells me he left me today to see a woman whom he has slept with?
What
am I supposed to do with that information?

I finish zipping up my dress as I try to casually ask, “So how long ago was that?”

Jay looks up to the ceiling and squints, trying to remember. “Well, the first time it was … let’s see, the Christmas decorations were up. Two and a half years ago? Then the time after that was…”

After he didn’t call her, there was still a time after that?

“Hmm … I don’t know.” Jay continues to think. “Summer. Cannes. Yeah, so that would have been last year. And then … I don’t know … a month or two ago.”

If I wasn’t dating him, I’d say this guy was a douche.

But that’s not a fair accusation. I don’t know the whole story. Which I think I convey beautifully when I conclude, “You’re kind of a dick to women, aren’t you?”

Jay seems unfazed by my observation. “Don’t act all insecure. That first time, she had just turned forty and wanted some young guy to play with. But then, you know how some women get the next morning. ‘Oh, I don’t want my number to go up. This has to be love or it doesn’t count.’”

I will be forty in a little over seven years. Was that supposed to make me feel better?

I’m trying not to be mad, but I have to ask, “With all due respect, not being jealous here, but are you leaving Paris for New York because you’ve slept with all the women on this continent?”

Jay not only doesn’t seem angered by my accusation, but his face lights up. “You know? A little bit. I
love
that you get me.”

And he walks back into his closet to retrieve a tie.

Seriously—what the fuck?

*   *   *

As we take a cab over to the first arrondissement, I decide not to pursue any further my line of questioning about Jay’s harem. Not because I don’t care—oh, how I care!—but because I’m not sure I can handle his answers.

I am rewarded for my discretion with Verjus, a lovely restaurant near the Louvre that was actually founded by a few expats from Seattle.

We start in the bar downstairs, splitting a beautiful bottle of Beaujolais. At one point, Jay takes my hand, stares deep into my eyes, and tells me how beautiful I look. Hard to stay frosty after that.

We are soon upstairs, having what is probably the best meal of my life. We both choose the eight-course tasting menu, which includes foie gras, sea bass, duck, and the most melt-in-your-mouth beef. By the time we finish the cheese course, I have giggled, flirted, fed him, and even rubbed his leg occasionally. Between the wine and his charm, I am slowly relaxing and enjoying the evening.

Famous last words.

“Jay?”

Man, I cannot catch a break here.

Of course. Another gorgeous female voice with a lilting accent saying his name. I turn around to see … Good God, this one’s a model I have actually seen on TV. Six feet tall, maybe twenty-five (maybe!), flawless mocha skin … Are you fucking kidding me?

Okay, well, at least this one is happy to see him. Maybe she’s just a friend. Jay stands, they kiss each other on each cheek, and then begin rapid French. At some point, he gestures to me. “Chloe, This is my friend Melissa.”

Or maybe
I’m
just a friend.

“It is wonderful to meet you, May-lee-sah.” Chloe smiles brightly and gives me a kiss on each cheek.

“You too Chloe. I’ve heard—I make a point of looking right at Jay as I say—“so little about you.”

Chloe laughs. “Well, of course not. I was just his en-ess-ah for a while. Why would he bring me up?”

Jay tries to cover up a wince. He’s been foiled again, and he knows it.

“En-ess-ah?” I repeat to Chloe. “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word.”

“Not word,” she says in her beautiful lilting voice. “The letters en, ess, ah. In English, NSA.”

She looks at me expectantly, but clearly I’m still confused. Finally she clarifies. “No Strings Attached?”

“Oh … NSA,” I repeat, as though it suddenly makes sense. I paste an awkward smile on my face.

“Yes, I have a husband, but he is older. And I love him, but sometimes I need to be around someone who is young. Someone who can give me the sex I want, the fun I want, but not the children I want.”

I must have looked startled because she quickly backtracks, “Not that he won’t make a great father. You will have many beautiful babies, I am sure.”

Chloe turns around to scrutinize a table of four across the room. “I must return to my friends. Very nice to meet you.
Bonne chance
.” And with that, she once again kisses me once on each cheek, does the same with Jay, and takes her leave.

The waiter comes to clear our cheese plate, and Jay and I are quiet. Once it is just the two of us, Jay smiles and jokes, “You have to admit, I have had the worst luck keeping my women apart today.”

I force a smile. “Indeed.”

The waiter brings us our next course, a lovely ganache-filled cake with a paired wine. He describes the dish in both French and English, then disappears.

Once we are alone again, I ask Jay, “So are you not in love with that one either?”

“In love with Chloe? No, she’s too young for me, and besides, she never eats. Long term, that would drive me crazy. No, she’s like you.”

Somehow being compared to a twenty-two-year-old model isn’t doing it for me right now. “She’s like me how?”

Jay takes a bite of his dessert. “You know, she’s great and I adore her. We have fun. Just like you and me.”

Oh, shit.

Jeff once told me that contrary to what women want to believe, men always tell the truth. If they say they don’t care where we eat tonight, what they really mean is they don’t care where we eat tonight. And if they say they’re just having fun … well, there it is.

“Are you okay?” Jay asks. “You look weird.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I assure him in a confident voice. “Just thinking about my flight home.”

Get out. Just get through the next twelve hours, don’t take anything personally, and get on a plane in the morning. This guy is a bon vivant, and he’s not going to change for you, or any other woman for that matter. He loves you, but it’s his own weird-ass brand of love, and nothing you do will ever change that. You are old enough to know.… Just be happy with what you got, and get the hell out.

“I’m afraid I had to move it up a few days,” I say as I take my spoon to enjoy the first bite of cake.

Jay looks genuinely shocked and hurt by this. “What? Why?”

“Oh, um…” I put my spoon down and swallow my dessert. “I have this job interview at a charter school that just came up, and they start their year early so … I need to go sooner than I thought.”

“But you just got here.”

“I’m sorry. I got the e-mail earlier today. It’s a job I didn’t think I had a shot at, and I really need to jump at the chance.”

Despite my cool on the outside, my mind is racing on the inside: What is wrong with me? Why doesn’t he want me? And if he doesn’t want me, why is he being so nice? Even if I’m good in bed, that would be no reason to have me fly all the way out here. Or would it? I mean, it really doesn’t require much effort on his part to have a woman just magically show up in his bed. He gets to play Mr. Perfect for a few weeks, knowing that sooner or later I’m going away. Knowing there’s nothing to get attached to.

Okay, so I may feel like an idiot, but at least I am an idiot who is almost thirty-three. And that is actually way better than being an idiot who is eighteen and has read too much
Twilight
and listened to too much Maroon 5.

Right now, I want to read
58 Bad Boyfriend Stories
while listening to Pink. It’s progress.

“All right. Well, when were you thinking of leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he repeats, startled.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you. I just … I really need to go.”

“Can’t you at least stay until Monday? You’ve got to see Notre Dame before you go, and at least a few more museums.”

He’s right. Yes, I need to leave, but there’s no reason not to enjoy the weekend for what it is.

“Okay, Monday,” I agree, pleased with myself for keeping in control of the situation.

“Great,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Let me change some things around Monday morning so I can take you to the airport.”

“No need. I’ll take the train.”

“No, at least let me take you to the airport.”

Proud of myself for getting out of this sticky situation with no drama, I quickly decide to go with the flow. “You know what?” I say, taking a huge spoonful of dessert, “that would be great.” I pop the insanely rich confection into my mouth. “So, my only weekend in Paris. What’s next?”

Jay pulled out all the stops for my last weekend. After dinner, we walked hand in hand around the city, then stopped at Bar Hemingway in the Ritz Hotel, considered by some to be the best bar in the world. I thought I’d be intimidated by the snooty attitude, but we had a delightful waiter who spoke perfect English and made me feel like a cherished guest. I had a raspberry martini, Jay went with a French 75, and we nursed our drinks and held hands and talked about the good ole days. Then, we headed out to the Eiffel Tower, made out a bit, then went home.

Where we cuddled and did nothing else. Jay made an attempt, but I think we both knew we were kind of done. And that that was okay.

I slept in one of his T-shirts.

T
HIRTY
-
SEVEN

Late that night, after Jay falls asleep, I tiptoe into his living room, pull up Skype on the computer, and call Jeff.