Page 10 of That Weekend in Paris
His trademark wide smile is guarded when he says, “Hey, Dillon. Good to see you.”
“You, too,” I say, overcome with a sudden urge to giggle like a starstruck fan. I compose myself and add, “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Sure. Where would you like to go?”
“Okay if we walk? There’s a café not far from here.”
He waves a hand for me to lead the way. I struggle to find something to say that doesn’t reveal how nervous I am or the fact that my hands are shaking.
We walk side by side through the main door of the hotel and down the street. The sun is bright against a blue sky. The air is warm but without humidity.
“How have you been, Dillon?”
I start to give him a lighthearted response, but something in the weight of the question tempers my answer. “I’m making my way back.”
“I’m sorry to hear about you and Josh. I thought y’all were?”
“Me, too. And thanks. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. But people change, and sometimes end up being different from what you thought.”
“Yeah,” he says. “They do.”
I want to ask him what he means, but we’ve reached the entrance to the café, and I walk up to the hostess, asking her if we can have a table outside. And then I remember that Klein might not want to sit in an open area, so I ask him if this is okay.
“It’s not a problem,” he says.
I notice then that he isn’t wearing his customary ball cap. In most of the photos I’ve seen him in since he got famous, he’s worn one pulled low over his eyes, sometimes with sunglasses, sometimes not. I suppose he’s not as likely to be recognized here as in the United States.
We sit, and the waitress brings us two menus. I look at Klein. “Early lunch?”
“Sounds good,” he says.
“I don’t think my body knows what meal it wants, but I’m hungry.”
We peruse the menus for a minute, the silence awkward, compelling me to lighten it.
“Are you looking forward to the concert tonight?”
He meets my gaze with a polite answer. “Yes. I’m grateful to have the opportunity. It’s an amazing place to be able to play.”
“I can’t wait to see the show.”
“Thanks. For coming, I mean.”’
“Of course,” I say, and trail off, awkwardly. I wonder why things feel so strained between us. I try to remember if it ever felt like this when we talked in the past. I don’t think so. Admittedly, our conversations have mostly always taken place under the constrains of professional settings and other people being present. But I don’t remember ever being this tongue-tied with him.
The waitress returns, and I order a green salad and the braised artichokes. Klein asks for the mozzarella cream tagliatelle.
We make small talk for a few minutes, and I remember the way he has of turning the conversation back to the person he is talking to, making it about them as much as he can. I wonder where he learned this, or if he knows how much it makes others like him.
“Are you writing much these days?” he asks.
“Not as much as I’d like to be. The brain isn’t cooperating. I guess it’s the separation and life being in flux.”
“Temporary writer’s block, I’m sure.”
“Have you ever had it?”
He hesitates, glances off, and then says, “Yeah. Kind of been going through that for a while now myself.”
