Page 38 of Grape Juice
The train runs alongside us while we drive. It announces its presence with a crescendo of hisses and chugs, skulking along like some haunting taunt, an alternate ending. While we drive, towns and small appellations rising and falling on either side of us, we tell stories. First kisses, sports games, driving lessons, apartment moldings. Therhythm of it all, the eager back-and-forth of prompting questions, my own thirst to understand the texture of the world that created him—well, it all makes me feel like we could keep going for all of eternity, drive clean off the end of the earth.
XIX
Then we’re in Paris. Undeniably in the world, no longer sheltered in our idyllic vineyard enclave. In the city, there are metro signs, commuters, high heels, reasons to spend money. The soft edges of him in this cosmopolitan place with big noises and hard lines feel both misaligned and ideal.
Once he parks the car, we stop for an espresso. I relish the easy lilt of his French as he orders. I’ve never seen him wield a credit card before, hold a to-go cup. It’s as if I’m just learning that he’s made of flesh and blood, the same stuff of my own body. Until now, it had seemed entirely possible that I’d made him up—that this whole month had been a dream, soon to be interrupted by a clanking radiator, the signature tune of New York. But here, in the tenth arrondissement, the realness of him is undeniable. And holding his hand, traipsing together through this city I love, makes us real too.
We are not some wine-country apparition anymore. We are two people walking next to each other on the sidewalk.
And we are now on the doorstep of Henri’s bar.
From the outside, it’s just how I’d pictured it: glassfacade, old moldings, tiled floors. He extracts the keys from a lockbox and jingles them. “Something else that sounds like Champagne to me,” he says, then grins and kisses me before setting about the monumentally poetic task of unlocking the front door.
It squeals open gradually, and in he goes, inhaling the air, now his. I watch as his eyes search the room—careful, precise, hungry. I can almost hear the whir of his brain in action, considering improvements and conjuring layouts.
“OK, let me tell you what I’m picturing.” He hops from one foot to the other, vibrating with buoyant energy.
With a series of jubilant, exclamatory gesticulations, he explains what the curtains will look like, where the two-tops will sit in rows beside roomier booths. The bottles on display, the framed artwork, the pass where snacks will arrive, plated, from the meager kitchen. “When you come, here’s where you’ll sit.” He bounces over to the farthest end of the bar. “Corner spot, so I can kiss you each time I refill your glass with something you’ll say tastes like the sound a bell makes—or whatever Alice thing it is that day.”
I can picture it too, with a fiercely terrifying clarity. I want it. I can almost hear the sound of it. I walk over and stand in the spot where my stool will one day live. I feel the corner of the bar there with my fingers, try to read something of the future in it, as if carved in braille.
Then again, I know full well thatfutureis a cursed word. That I should check the time. Should Google our airport ETA. But instead, I stand stock still. “I like it here, this bar.” I say the words before I have a chance to overthinkthem. “I want this spot”—I knock the surface in front of me—“I want this spot to be mine.”
When he kisses me, I feel carbonated. I vow to remember the taste of him at this particular moment, the hard press of his mouth and the jut of his hip against me. I feel like I could count the molecules moving between us. I slide my hands along his ribs, wanting to count them too.
“Listen.” He holds my shoulders, and I look up hesitantly. “I’m not going to tell you I love you, so don’t panic, OK? But before I take you to the airport, I need to tell you that I don’tnotlove you either.” He pauses and rests his palm against my cheek. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about precisely how I want to say this: Between us, we have this needless and nonpossessive thing. This thing people are always trying and failing to achieve... I guess that’s what I’m trying to explain. You owe me nothing; Iwantyou to owe me nothing. But, fuck, you’re the biggest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. And I’m so glad that you happened.”
Tears well in my eyes once more.I love you.To me, the phrase had often sounded pleading:Still me?But Henri’s version of the thing feels rinsed of need.
I step toward him and wrap my arms around his waist, and he curls himself over me, holding me with such steadiness, I feel like we’re a landmass.
I know—have long known—that he’ll keep on happening to me even after he is gone. Or rather, after I am.
“I don’t not love you too.” I let my tears fall and press my face, damp, into his chest. “And I... I don’t know.”He holds me one degree tighter, and he rests his lips above my ear. “So what now?” I ask him, my voice muffled by his T-shirt.
“I don’t know.”
“D’accord; je sais pas.” I don’t know either.
“You know... a month or two in Paris would do wonders for your French.”
I swat at his arm.
“I’m serious.”
“No you’re not.” I’m afraid to look at his face. I hold him as if someone might come pry us apart—as if I’m not the person responsible for extricating myself.
“As a heart attack. That’s an Americanism, no?”
I laugh and flip this over and over. Emma’s words thrum gently in my ears. “What if...” I start. “What if I were to stay one more day—help you pick some paint colors, eat dinner on the floor, christen the space. Change my ticket. Not a big deal, right?” I can’t believe myself.
“Really?” Boyish enthusiasm lights up his face as he takes a step back to read mine.
“Really.” I wait for this to feel like a terrible idea. Like some juvenile flight of fancy. But it doesn’t.
“OK, one more day, then what?”
“That’s as far as I’ve made it.”
