Page 26 of Enemies to French Kisses
“You know what I mean.”
He sighs. “I do. And thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” The line is quiet between us. Perhaps one of the great things of being friends since grade school is that we don’t have to fill every moment with words. Though I know he has more on his mind than he’s letting on, as he has let out three sighs in succession.
“Tell me,” I say as he lets out yet another sigh. “You’re going to hyperventilate at this rate.”
“Charlotte stopped by.”
A groan the size of my total lung capacity fills my apartment, and Delia gives me a dirty look from her napping place atop the scratching pole.
“I knew you were going to react that way.”
Charlotte. Another school friend, but friend in those air quotes the Americans use in films. She forced her way into our lives then and hasn’t let us be since.
I’m being ungenerous. Charlotte does her best. It’s just that she’s a natural user of people. She’s sweet and kind and is there when you need her—as long as she needsyoufor something. Status, opportunity, arm candy…
If only I had known that before our disastrous three-year relationship.
“Please tell me you told her to take a hike to Italy.”
“Marc…”
“Why do you have such a soft spot for her?”
He doesn’t reply. He feels sorry for her. Guillaume always was better at reading people than I was. I let them in, let them have every bit of me, and then when they let me down, I feel it to my core.
It’s a bad habit.
“You told her I’m on vacation, right?”
“I did.”
“In Bali?”
“Not exactly.”
My doorbell rings, shocking Delia out of her sleep and sending her under the sofa.
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“Sorry, buddy.” He hangs up before I have a chance to share my choice words with him.
I open the door, knowing what awaits behind it.
“Charlotte…”
She steps in, her perfectly windswept hair tickling my nose as she kisses my left cheek and then my right. Without a word, she hands me her coat and marches into the living room, standing in front of the sofa.
“Won’t you have a seat?”
“Thank you, Marc.”
She adjusts her calf-length white cotton skirt as she sits down. I used to love how she was like a breeze, every fabric and lock of hair gracefully falling happenstance with the wind.
That was before I learned how many hours and how much effort it took her to look effortless.
“What brings you to this part of town?” I already know the answer.
