Page 61 of That Weekend in Paris
—John Keats
I TAKE EXTRA care getting ready for dinner, spending quite a few extra minutes in the shower, shampooing my hair, conditioning it, and then blow-drying it straight once I’m out. I spend extra time with my makeup, too, not wanting it to be so heavy as to be noticeable, but hoping I have succeeded in smoothing out my skin’s imperfections and giving myself more eyelashes than I was born with. I wear the basic black dress I had brought with me. It’s sleeveless and hits at mid-thigh, the neckline simple. I hope it’s elegant instead of too plain, but it’s the kind of thing I’m most comfortable in.
I throw on a pair of low-heeled sandals, add a spritz of perfume and knock on the adjoining door between our rooms.
“Come in,” Klein calls out.
“Hey,” I say, feeling my eyes widen a bit at the sight of him. He looks gorgeous. He’s wearing jeans and a white-collar shirt with a navy blazer. “This too formal?”
“No. You look great.”
“Thanks. You look amazing,” he says, taking me in with eyes that clearly remember our kissing in the orchard a couple of hours ago. But then I’m remembering, too.
“Right then,” he says. “Should we head on down to the restaurant?”
“Ready when you are.”
We take the long corridor to the stairs, walking side by side, our hands close, but not touching. It’s not difficult to find the restaurant from the main lobby. The smells lead us straight to it. A young woman at the entrance greets us with a welcoming smile. “Welcome,” she says. “You have a reservation?”
“Yes,” Klein says. “I’m not sure whose name it was put under, but either Matthews or Blake.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Matthews, we are so happy to have you.” She pulls two menus from the back of the stand beside her and says, “Follow me, please.”
The dining area is an enormous room overlooking the backside of the château. A stone terrace is visible from glass doors. Tables are strategically arranged around the room to somehow make the vast area seem cozy. Each table has a warmly lit lamp at its center. There are several other guests already dining. The hostess leads us to a table for two in a corner of the room. “Your waitress will be with you in just a few moments. Please do enjoy your evening,” she says.
The waitress arrives within a few seconds, smiling a welcoming smile and handing us each a menu. She makes small talk in admirable English, telling us about a few of the feature specials for the evening. We listen intently, and when she gives us a few minutes to consider the options and leaves the table, Klein looks at me and says, “This is going to be a tough one.”
“I know. Everything sounds wonderful.”
In the end, when she returns to take our order, we both ask for versions of our various choices, me an assorted vegetable plate, Klein a delicious-sounding risotto dish. When he suggests that I order some wine if I would like, I decline. “I don’t need it,” I say.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t drink around me,” he says. “I understand that other people can have a casual glass of wine, and that’s all it is, and I’m fine with that.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “When you’re with intoxicating company, who needs it?”
He laughs outright at this, and I roll my eyes at my own bad joke. “Sorry,” I say.
“No, I’m happy to be thought of as intoxicating,” he says.
We opt for a bottle of sparkling water with lime instead, and I don’t know if it’s the bubbles or my own ridiculous level of happiness that makes me realize yet again that I do not need alcohol to be completely happy around him. Talking with Klein is so easy. We drift from one topic of conversation to another, the seams in between as smooth and fluid as if we have known each other all our lives.
At one point, I question this. “Why is it so easy to talk to you? I mean, I know we have a lot in common, the music business, of course, but I don’t know,” I say, lifting my shoulders, “it just seems like I’ve known you forever.”
He looks at me for a long, drawn-out moment and then says, “That makes me happy to hear that, Dillon. I actually don’t have a lot of close friends. I’m glad to know that you and I have that.”
His words should buoy me into another level of happiness, and, in a way they do. I wonder, though, if he wants me to know that friendship is all that he has in mind. So what if it is? I can certainly use a friend in my life. Truthfully, neither of us is in a place to consider more. I think about that kiss earlier this afternoon and wonder if he’s regretting it or what it might have implied to me.
I decide to let him know he doesn’t need to worry about that. “We all need friends, Klein. I know I do, and if you’re thinking that I’m assuming we might be more than that because of this afternoon—”
“Dillon,” he says, quietly interrupting me, “I loved what happened between us this afternoon. But my life is kind of a mess right now. Honestly, you don’t deserve to be pulled into something I haven’t even gotten figured out yet.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “My life is pretty screwed up right at the moment. It would be wrong of me to let you think I am in a place—”
“I don’t,” he says, gently cutting me off. “I’m happy to live whatever this is in the moment. I sure didn’t expect to come to Paris and end up doing this with you. But it’s been one of those unexpected pleasures I will always be grateful for.”
Somehow I think I hear a gentle letdown in this, but decide that the right thing to do is enjoy what we have here and now for what it is, without expecting it to ever be anything more. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
We finish the remainder of dinner under a new haze of weariness. Maybe it’s just that both of us have decided we don’t want to be the one to break this unspoken path of neutrality, but somehow throughout the remainder of the meal, our conversation feels stilted, as if we’re back at a point of two people not really knowing each other, and so finding little to talk about.
