Page 62 of Enemies to French Kisses
“She decided to enlist.”
“WHAT?”
He shrugs. “There’s more context but I see a waiter just over there…” Marc lifts a hand to call over a man with a tray of…No, not that.
“Escargot?” The waiter holds out the tray of shells stuffed with green mush. I accept a napkin and against my better judgement pick one from the bunch. Poor little guy.
The corners of Marc’s mouth turn upward on seeing my expression. “Let me guess. It’s your first time.”
“You could say that,” I grumble. I’d hoped the hype about snails and frogs legs had been urban legend and not finger food at an engagement party. But here we are. “Why is it all green?”
He chuckles. “Parsley and butter.”
“And I eat it just like… that?”
He holds his up in front of me, and I have flashbacks of every children’s book I ever read with a cute little snail getting into trouble in the hydrangeas with his other garden friends.
“These ones are already prepared for you. Normally there are tongs and a fork to dig it out—"
“Ew.”
“—but these you can simply suck into your mouth.” He puts the shell to his lips and inhales. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s a garden creature, it would almost be sexy the way he keeps his eyes on me as he does it.
But it’s a snail, and I’m going to have to eat it.
“When in France…” I put the shell to my lips and suck as quickly as I can.
Fatal move.
The literal slimeball is stuck in my throat. I can feel it clawing at my esophagus, grasping for dear life except that my brain knows it’s been long dead.
Which I’m going to be too if I don’t get some air in quick.
I grab at my throat, and in an automatic reaction Marc smacks my stomach and I cough. The creature flies out of my mouth into the palm of my hand… and now I am triply horrified.
My eyes are full of shame as I look at Marc with the thing in my hand, so I pop it into my mouth and chew.
His expression does a one-eighty from frightened to bemused to downright tickled as I chew, and chew, and chew.
“You worried me for a second there.”
“I wa-hooried hoo,” I manage to say as this slippery slider goops across my mouth. There must be some kind of flavor, but all I’m getting is rubber band squidginess and I once again wonder who in their right mind saw a snail on the ground and thought ‘hmm, might be yummy.’
And… I swallow.
I down a gulp of champagne to forget the sensation and the whole scene I just created. I know people are looking at me. I can feel their disdain from here, but Marc doesn’t seem to care. His eyes and cheeks and lips are smiling. All of him glows in a way that is disproportionate to my snail drama.
Just like that, his face melts and he looks at his feet.
“Laura…”
I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t.
“I need to talk to you. It’s very important and I’ve been waiting for just the right moment.”
Could this be it, is he finally remembering the truth about who I am, and who we are—or rather—who wearen’t?
“What is it, Marc?” My throat is scratchy. Must have been the near-death choking on a garden creature thing.
