Page 7 of Rosé with My Fake Fiancé
Lunch delivery. No wine, but I’ll have some with dinner. Alright, back to my tour. Love y’all!
I get back a chorus of messages, hearts and kissing emojis, and I put my phone away.
“Do your friends live in the States?” Luc asks.
I moan around the bite of my sandwich. Inside the crusty bread is grilled vegetables and fresh mozzarella, and wow, it’s good. Luc’s eyes flick down to my mouth, one side of his lip curling up, and a flicker of heat in his gaze. I blush, and I quickly dab my lip with a napkin. Jesus, I’m making sex noises over a sandwich.
I swallow and return to Luc’s question. “Actually, they’re all moving to Europe, too. Jade accepted a position in Madrid for a year, and she proposed that we all move over here. I’d always wanted to live somewhere else, and I’m forty-two years old, so I’m at the point where if I want to do something, I probably need to start doing it.”
Luc nods. “And the others?”
I bite off more of my sandwich and chew and swallow before answering. Here I am, sitting in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, eating a simple yet delicious sandwich while sitting in the shade of a tree on the streets of Paris. It feels everyday, and yet not.
“Sara was absolutely not going to come to Europe. She has one daughter, Zoe, in college, and they are inseparable. But then Zoe applied to study abroad in Munich, and they accepted her for a program that starts next week. Sara’s a yoga instructor and teaches online lessons since COVID, so she is moving to this cute German spa town—close to Munich but not too close—and focusing on her business. That’s actually how we all met; at Sara’s yoga classes. Then we started going to a nearby wine bar afterward, and now it’s been a decade of friendship.”
Luc’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yoga and wine.”
I laugh and pull an errant strand of my blonde hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear. “I know, so bougie. I still do yoga with Sara, but Emma never attended all that regularly because she was too busy, and Jade often traveled for work. Anyway, the last of our group is Emma, and I thought there was no way she was going to come. She’d never even had a passport. But she’s divorced and her three kids are off at school and they helped usconvinceher to find a business school to attend to finally get her MBA.”
Luc exaggerates a thoughtful face, his thin lips canting to the side. “All right, I forgive them for abandoning you.”
I laugh. “I forgive them, too. They are pretty great, and it’s fine. I don’t mind being by myself.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend or partner?”
Talking about my ex is a lot less fun than talking about my best friends. “I broke up with someone five months ago. Or, well, he dumped me.” My sandwich is gone now, so I crumple up the paper wrap and hold it in my lap, the corners poking the soft skin of my palm. I wasn’t just dumped. James dumped me for a younger woman. I saw photos on James’ Instagram before I unfollowed him. The reminder is like a cold dump of water over me. Age-appropriate women for Luc are probably in their twenties.
“He didn’t deserve you,” Luc says. It’s a kind thing to say. Luc is a sweet guy, and it’s a good reminder that there are nice men out there. It’s just too bad that the ones in their forties are probably not single.
“Well, thank you, but I thought he did. I thought...well, I thought he was going to propose. We’d talked about it, and I had this silly idea that he would propose at the Eiffel Tower.”
I flush, embarrassed that at my age, I wanted something so cheesy, but I did. I wanted the romance of Paris. No one had ever proposed to me before, and I thought finally I’d found the one.
Sometimes, I think what I am actually mourning in my breakup with James is the death of the hopeless romantic in me.
In this sense, I wish I could be more like Jade. She never married and never wanted to. She’s had a few serious relationships, but no breakup has ever broken her heart.
Or perhaps she just guards her heart too well.
“Ah,” Luc says, turning to me and placing his arm on the backrest behind me. “A little cliche, yes?”
“A little dumb. The Eiffel Tower is dumb.” I’m so indignant that Luc laughs. “What? It’s true. Its value is purely in tourism, and it just cements this nebulous idea that Paris is the city of love, which is ridiculous. Paris can be just as un-romantic as any other city. There are moments of love and heartbreak everywhere. A romantic gesture here is just disguised because it’s actually unoriginal and cliche.”
“Or any other city can be just as romantic as Paris.”
When I glare at him, he winks at me, easing the sting of his counterpoint. “You’ve grown up here, right?” I ask. “Surely, you’re tired of the tourists and the pressure of romance.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” he says, and his hand cups my shoulder, squeezing. “I still believe in romance and love.”
I open my mouth to argue that I never disparaged love, but the words don’t come out. Do I still believe in love? Or have I become cynical even in that? There’s a difference in believing that love exists and believing that love existsfor me.
Instead of answering, I stand. “Time to go?”
At Luc’s nod, I toss my balled-up paper into the trash, ready to move on from thinking about my loneliness.
4
Luc
