Page 8 of Enemies to French Kisses
“I’m okay, Gina.”
“You’ve been standing here by yourself for a long time.”
“I just wanted to pretend I was home for a minute.”
“I see. In that case, I’ll join you.”
I hear her breathing beside me. We can stand like this, our eyes closed with the Sacre Coeur rising behind us, for just a little longer.
Something different pulls at me, and I open my eyes. I sense someone’s eyes on me, but I can’t tell who it is. In Paris, being observed is a way of life. If I got uppity every time I thought someone was watching me, I’d never walk down the street. Still, something feels different.
As I blink my eyes open, the skyline sharpens before me and I have to catch my breath.
The golden rays of the setting sun dance across the stone walls of Paris as its edges begin to glow in shades of bright orange. The fading sunlight paints the city in a cottony softness, dark shadows gliding over the cobblestone streets. A gentle breeze whispers through the trees and stirs up sweet smells, the scent of spring flowers and freshly baked bread, even in the evening. Working people make their way back home through narrow, crooked alleys that I can see from up here. Small groups of men sit outside at a wine bar, chatting and smoking cigarettes, as a mother calls out to her children. Even with my limited French, I can make out that international tone of voice telling them to come into the house before night falls. It’s simply magical.
Then why do I still have this strange feeling?
I turn around, but there’s only Gina, smiling at me in that demure way she does to hide when she’s worried about someone. The rest of the girls are dancing and trotting, except for Annelise who claims she has two left feet. But even she is watching the dancers from the sidelines, deep in conversation with an older lady. On the other side of the square, street artists sell their work amidst the organized chaos of locals and tourists enjoying an evening out.
It doesn’t seem like anyone in particular is watching me, though there are at least a couple hundred people milling around thebal trad.Tourists and locals bustle through the lot of them.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Gina’s eyes glisten as she looks out over the distance. “Don’t you wish we could bottle it up and take it home with us?”
“Brian would love thebal trad. He’d be in there, dancing with the best of them.” A lump I wasn’t expecting grows in my throat. It happens every time I think of my little brother. Paris would never be his thing—he’s way too much of a homebody. But he happily listens to every story I have to tell, however dull or mundane. And he always has my back.
I would have loved to share this view with him. Even my backwoods little bro could appreciate the magic of this skyline.
The music of thebal tradsoftens for a break. The streetlights cast a warm orange glow on the cobblestone street, illuminating a few couples who are sharing a romantic moment or two. Only a solo accordion player carries on, playing a tune that everyone thinks of when they hear the wordParis, though I don’t know what it’s called. But suddenly, I feel like I’m transposed into 1920s France, and—
Who is staring at me?
I whip around, catching sight of someone’s back and if I didn’t know better I would say it was…
Marc?
It’s not him. It’s just a man marching through the crowd. Why would I think of Marc of all people now?
“Are you okay?” Gina lays her hand on my arm.
“Yeah, of course.” I shake my head. “It was a great day and all with the announcement, maybe I’m just tired…”
I couldswearthat was him! Something in the swagger, but the hat is definitely not Marc’s style, and that woolen coat? No way.
The man turns, and I can make out a bushy moustache. That answers it; there’s no way that Marc could grow a moustache in a matter of hours. It’s just my brain playing stupid tricks on me all over again.
“Laura…”
I know that tone of voice. The truth serum that Annelise has in her eyes is also in Gina’s voice.
Gina wolf-whistles, and next thing I know, it’s a Sage-tervention with the girls huddling up in the way they’ve done since we were at grade school, and I knocked out Johnny Blair for touching my backside.
They circle around, Natalie standing right in front of me.
“Laura,” Natalie begins, “you know what this means. It’s time to dig in and share those feelings you love so much to ignore. What’s up?”
There’s something about being surrounded by hometown love that makes missing my brother sting a little less.
“It’s work.”
