Page 52 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Yes?”
“Will you stay here tonight?”
I don’t know where ‘here’ means, but if that’s what he needs, I’ll do it.
“Laura, Laura.”
He takes my hand and pulls me toward him. I don’t move for the next four hours, the bliss of his arms around me keeping me awake and fulfilling a part of me I didn’t even know was missing.
CHAPTER21
Marc
The duvet liesheavy over me. The last thing I want to do is break the magic of this night, her arms entwined with mine, the warmth of her body. I want this feeling to last forever.
I turn toward her and brush the hair from her face, my fingertips lingering on her skin for a moment. She stirs in response, but does not wake. I trace my fingers along the curve of her neck and down onto her collarbone, as if to remind myself of the beauty that lays before me in flannel pajamas.
The sun peeks over the horizon and casts its early morning light into the room, washing over us like a gentle wave. I take in every detail; how she exhales softly in sleep, how a few strands of hair stick out at strange angles no matter how many times they are brushed back, even how tiny freckles appear when viewed up close. This is what love looks like—peaceful yet passionate all at once.
I let the sensation of destiny peeking in on us linger, as I drift back into a dreamless, pleasant sleep.
* * *
She’sup and gone by the time I rouse again, the sound of pans clanging the only sign that she was once here with me.
I pull the covers up to my chin the way I did when I was a child. The day ahead holds its secrets, secrets that I might have to steel myself for. That’s what happens when I find myself with my crowd of friends from early days—it’s all about the show.
I used to love working a room. That feeling of walking in a stranger and finding my people in a network of potential business partners—it’s what I love about my job. But tonight will be different.
Forget investment in biotechnologies for the future, this is an engagement party that will be the talk of the town. Gabriel and Amelie love to show off the glamor of their lifestyle (they will certainly mention their yacht in Saint Tropez), boast about their education (SciencePo and La Sorbonne), and offer me the occasional dig for my lack of a real relationship other than Charlotte—a relationship that everyone knew was doomed from the start. But they are loyal friends, and certainly know how to put on a party. After all, they have made a life for themselves online as influencers.
I’m happy for them, certainly. But this wedding is more about creating hype online than a celebration of love. It’s their choice, and it’s what they want. I’ll be there to support them, despite the comments they make, because friendships that have lasted this long are worth preserving.
For all my parents’ flaws and the complicated relationships in our family, one thing was certain: they were authentically themselves. Equal partners, taking on the world together, until the end of their days. Their wedding was small and intimate, and it lasted for days. An expression of love, not a show.
That’s what I want. Not a massive event where everyone must “ooooh” and “ahhhh” at the décor, dresses, and gastronomic creations. A wedding lasts a day. A marriage is for life.
But this is the choice Gabriel and Amelie have made, and for that, I will be there.
For years, I have endured their chiding, the laughter they employ to judge me for holding out for “the one.”
Maybe that’s why the ceiling looks so interesting to me this morning. I don’t need another reminder of the mess I’ve created with the woman who is so firmly latched onto my heart that I can’t, and don’t want to, imagine a future without her here. Laura is clattering in the kitchen—she’s remarkably uncoordinated when it comes to cooking. When the timer goes off for the pasta but she hasn’t yet prepared the sauce, she gets a look of youthful panic for getting the timing wrong and mutters about what she’d do “for a plate of grits.”
It’s adorable.
Mumbles reach me across the apartment—has she taken to talking to herself? One of her friends stopped by to drop off her clothes, but it’s way too early in the morning for a social visit. The sun has barely risen.
She must be on the phone, likely someone from home in America. From my spot in bed, I can’t make out what she’s saying. But if I stick my ear to the door…
“—did you try explaining?” Her voice is soft not only in volume, but in tone. Almost motherly. It’s another side of her I have yet to discover. Some people want to travel the world to see new things, learn about exotic places, embrace a new culture. I want to do all of that in my living room with her.
“Whoever she is,” she continues, “she might understand if you lay it out truthfully. No, don’t interrupt. You need to know that us women appreciate the truth even more when it’s hard to be said. The truth.”
She stops for a reply, but the weight of her words hits me straight on.
The truth.
I’ve been avoiding the truth for a week.
