Page 53 of Closer

“You are too drunk to drive, and I am not getting in the car with you. Also, you are not allowed to leave me here.”

“So, what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“We spend the night.”

I swivel on my stool to face her. “Together?”

“Non. Not together.Séparement. Different rooms.”

“Fucking killjoy.”

I slide my credit card over the bar and the waiter swipes it and hands it back to me along with the case of wine I apparently purchased. It’s heavy, and I’m way too drunk to be trusted with several glass bottles all at once, but I man up as we walk up the narrow path to the office.

Once inside, I set the case of wine on the counter and declare, “Your finest room, Gaston.”

“It’sgarcon,you idiot, and it means boy,” Brie says, shaking her head. “Gaston is a made-up character in a Disney film.”

“Oh shit, sorry. I don’t speak French.” The man looks at me with a raised brow and Brie covers my mouth to keep me from speaking.

“Un touriste typique. Il ne parle pas grand-chose, sauf stupide,” she replies in her usual rapid-fire French. I understood tourist and I’m pretty sure she called me stupid in there somewhere too. They both laugh. He looks at her. Really looks at her, and I have to fight the urge to beat his fucking head in because it seems the French just have this way of studying a woman as if she’s a delicacy. And yeah, okay, she might just be that, but if she’s not fucking me, she’s definitely not fucking this dickhead.Right? Except, she smiles back, and I don’t like the looks they’re exchanging.

“Comment puis-je vous servir, mademoiselle?”

I frown at Brie, “Did he just ask if he could service you?”

She rolls her eyes and gives me a look that pretty much says. “The adults are talking now,” before turning back to the jackarse behind the counter. “We need a room.”

“Juste une?”

“Deux.”

He taps away at his keyboard and frowns. “Je crains qu'il ne nous reste plus qu'une seule chambre pour la nuit.”

“Of course you do.” Brie sighs. “Fine, we’ll take it.”

“And we need your finest champagne brought to the room. Two bottles. And strawberries, with chocolate,” I say, because this guy is really pissing me off with the way he checks out Brie’s cleavage as I hand over my card to pay for the room and she signs the paperwork.

“Of course, monsieur.” The man takes the paperwork from Brie,

“Putain de rock stars,” Brie mumbles as she heads out of the office. I snatch the room key from the attendant, pick up my box of wine, and follow her out. The path to the cottages is dimly lit, and despite Angry French Girl and Flirty Desk Clerk, my buzz hasn’t died yet. I haven’t felt this fucking Zen in a long time. Long before Ali, long before Taint ever stepped out of the Ryan’s family garage. Funny that I should be feeling Zen now while the evil harpy at my side calls me names and drains my bank account dry.

Brie glares at me. “What?”

“Nothing. Just, I like France.”

She rolls her eyes and snatches the room card off the top of my precious cargo. “Everyone likes France. You’d have to be British or dead to not like France.”

“You know what else I like?” I glance up at the rolling clouds blotting out the stars overhead.

“Non. But I am certain you are about to tell me.”

“I like you. Even though you’re angry, and French, and kind of stuck up.”

“I am not stuck up. And what is wrong with being French?” The sky opens up, a deluge, a cleansing, and she shrieks, but I simply stand there and tilt my head up to it. Cold, fat drops spatter my face, drip into my eyes, and land on my tongue. Brie covers her hair with her hands, not that it does her any good. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I shout over the torrent. It’s soaking us through now. The button up she has tied over her dress sticks to her skin, and her mascara runs. I want to kiss her, but I don’t because she tilts her face up to the sky and laughs.

The box in my hands is heavy as hell, and it’s getting wetter by the second, which means it will likely start falling apart soon, but I don’t dare fucking move because I’ve never seen her free like this. I doubt she’s ever been free, not like this. She wipes the water from her eyes, smearing mascara onto her cheeks. I wanna rub it off. I wanna touch her, but I’m carrying a box of wine, and when she finally looks at me, her laughter dies away.

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