Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (21 page)

Jean-Paul orders two more drinks and a basket of fries made the French way, thick cut, with a side of mayonnaise.

“Isn’t it strange how we’re afraid to say what we truly think or feel?” I say slowly. “And then there’s our parent’s expectations, which is a whole other complication filled with expectations. Why can’t we just live our own lives the way we want to?”

He leans forward, his hair falling into his eyes. I stick my hands under my knees so I won’t be tempted to smooth that thick softness back into place. “Chloe, do you think there is such a thing as a soul mate? I mean, someone made especially for you. Someone who takes your breath away every single day?”

What a question! How can I answer that when he’s reading my mind again? “I hope so,” I finally say, then want to slap my forehead. How noncommittal can I get! But how else do I answer a question like that?

At the same time, I want to know the answer to that question, too. I thought Mathew
was
all that—my soul mate, the guy who takes my breath away. At least he did six months ago. I go back and forth between feeling like I love him and then being so angry and jealous and nervous about giving my heart and soul and body—and trust—to him. My doubts are tangled and messy—about the type of person Mathew is, what he’s becoming, and if our lives are going to truly match. And then there is the sexual aspect of our relationship—the things he wants me to do that I’m not ready for. The dream of a perfect honeymoon with no other ghosts between us. Mathew won’t wait for me forever. I’ve been realizing that in a big way the past two weeks.

It’s only a matter of time before I give in to his sexual demands or he finds somebody else who will.

Then there’s Jean-Paul, who takes my breath away. Not every day, but every single second. In a new, fresh way I’ve never felt before.

He leans back in his chair now, his eyes scanning my face and for all I know, maybe he really can read my thoughts because while I know he’s talking about his relationship with Mireille, he could be talking about me and Mathew. “Do you think we’re too young to know about real love?” he asks now, earnestly as though I’m supposed to have all the answers. “I worry about that, Chloe, but how do you break up with somebody after so long? How do you know if who you’re with is right—or wrong?”

“I have the very same questions,” I admit. “The problem is that I don’t come up with any good answers. Only more questions.”

“I feel exactly the same,” he says with a smile, finishing the last of the fries. Then he stands to pay the bill. “
Un moment, s’il vous plait
.”

I put my hands on the wrought-iron chair arms, feeling a light breeze touch my face. The aroma of goat cheese and wine and pasta drifts like perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles at me, briefly touching my arm as if to make sure I’ll stay for the few minutes he’s gone. “
Bon
.”

I gaze at the back of Jean-Paul’s blue shirt as he maneuvers to the cashier, asking for the check. French chattering fills the air around me as tourists and shoppers and friends pass on the streets. A waiter brushes past our table with a tray of tall glasses and bottles of various drinks.

I can still feel Jean-Paul’s hand on my skin. All he said was that one simple word, but it makes me wonder what’s next between us.

Two Weeks Earlier

Mathew leaned over to kiss me on the construction site, dirty and sweaty, still chewing the last of his hot pastrami sandwich.

“Ooh, you need a shower.”

“This is how men work,” he grunted and I couldn’t help laughing. “At the end of the day, we get to come home to our woman. So are we on for
tomorrow night?” he added, lowering his voice so the other guys couldn’t hear.

“I’m bringing some fantastic French food to inspire myself for the trip—”

He pursed his lips and I could tell he wasn’t as excited as I was. “How about a couple of steaks? You know I don’t go in for fancy food.”

“At least give it a try. Besides, it’s my cooking. Doesn’t that mean something? I’m making some pastries for dessert, too.”

He gave me a meaningful look. “Can’t I taste you instead?”

I tried to smile without biting off my tongue, but his comment made me squirm.

“My parents are leaving earlier than planned, a matinee or something. Got the wrong tickets so they’ll be home sooner.”

“We don’t need Josh then. Call me when they get back and I’ll come over, okay?”

“Man, then we can’t—you know.”

“It’s better for you,” I told him lightly, even though we’d talked about this a hundred times and the topic was getting old. “Teaches you patience and fortitude.”

“But I don’t want to learn patience,” he said, leaning into me. “I want you.”

Okay, call me a wimp because I couldn’t help it. I was a sucker for his smooth words.

My cell phone rings before Jean-Paul gets back from paying the bill, and my heart jumps strangely inside my chest. It’s Mathew. At last. After playing phone tag for two days and listening to his infuriating voice message, he’s finally calling.

“Hey,” I say, feeling cautious.

“Hey, Chloe, how’s it going?” It’s Mathew speaking back at me, and it feels very strange to hear his voice. So familiar, and yet so distant, too. Crazy déjà-vu crashes over me as the memories of that horrible last night in New York hit me. I feel as though I’m living The Worst Night of My Life all over again. I didn’t think it would still feel so fresh, but I’d been stabbed in the back by my best friend—my boyfriend.

During this trip to Paris, I kept stuffing that night into a dark corner of my mind, but after a day at Jean-Paul’s shop, baking delicacies with his mother, going to the hospital, jumping out of a taxi, sightseeing with Jean-Paul, and talking with him in the private solitude of the Opera House, I feel as though I’ve lived another life already.

I wish I could erase all the old memories. Get rid of my old life. I don’t think I want that life any longer. Mathew and I have been together a long time and we’ve talked almost daily while I’ve been on this trip, but it suddenly feels as though I hardly know him. There are so many secrets between us.

“My mom told me you’re lost over there,” Mathew tells me, “But you don’t sound lost.”

“I missed my tour bus so I’m still in Paris, but I’m totally fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m perfect.” I back up, trying not to sound so eager. “I mean, everything is going to be okay. In fact, I can get a taxi all by myself and get to the airport in the morning. And—I’ve already been in touch with the tour people,” I add, thinking about Gerald Polk. “So it’s all good. I’ll be home at the originally scheduled time tomorrow.”

“Well, that sounds easy. I had the impression it was more of a crisis.”

It is, I think to myself. I’m having a crisis of my soul. “The story probably got bigger by the time you heard it, especially since I sprained my ankle a little.”

“Can you walk or do you have a cast?”

“It’s just twisted, but I’m being careful. And then I get to rest it on the airplane,” I say, laughing stupidly like I’ve just made a joke.

There’s a moment of silence and I see Jean-Paul returning. He smiles when he sees me watching him and I smile back, trying to keep the grin from spilling all over my face and exploding into the air and across the sidewalks and drifting into the flower boxes, but I don’t think I’m very successful.

“You working today?” I casually ask as Jean-Paul slides back into his chair across from me.

“Uh, yeah. I guess my mom told you.”

“Your voice message told me more,” I bite back. I can’t help it. I still feel ticked off.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you about the musical, Chloe,” he says and the whine in his voice irritates me. “I just heard about it myself last night.”

I feel like a robot, trying to let it wash over me, fighting to stay neutral and calm. “I understand.”

“Hell, don’t get mad about that!”

I hate it when he cusses at me. “Is there something else I should be mad at—that I’m not already upset about? Maybe we should clarify your statement.”

“Cut it out, Chloe. I can’t take it today.”

My smile freezes on my lips as every bone in my body wants to explode.

Jean-Paul lifts an eyebrow. “You okay?” he mouths to me.

I nod my head tightly, but get up from my chair and walk to the corner, not wanting Jean-Paul to overhear. “
You
can’t take it, Mathew?” I whisper fiercely into the phone. “What about
me
?”

“I don’t want to fight, okay?” He sounds resigned. “Let’s save it for when you get home tomorrow. That’s when we’re supposed to talk, remember?”

I take a breath, struggling for control. “How can I forget?”

I don’t want this conversation to spoil my last hours here in Paris, and it’s starting to. I just wish Mathew would be upfront with me. He keeps denying that anything is going on with Parvati. Even if there isn’t, she’s still poisoning our relationship—and he does nothing to stop it.

We say a tentative goodbye and I hang up, staring out at the busy Champs Elysées, feeling the heat of the road, the breeze of congested traffic blowing past my face. Mathew and I are not going the direction I want to be going. His plans became my plans by default. But what if I want to be a foreign exchange student? What if I want to go to a different college, and have roommates and make new friends?

Even if I never see Jean-Paul again, meeting him has made me realize for the first time that there might be somebody else besides Mathew out there waiting for me—maybe even my soul mate. I’m not sure I could call Mathew a soul mate. Maybe a soul fling—or a date for Prom. It’s painful to grasp that we don’t have much else going for us, except choir and the familiarity of Eleanor Roosevelt High. And even then he’s the singer, not me.

Shame creeps up my neck. I looked good on Mathew’s arm, and I liked the status of acquiring the gorgeous guy from Texas. Now that really shows a lot of character on my part! It’s taken me awhile to wake up and see what’s going on in my very own life. It’s painful to think that I could be so stupid and shallow, but it’s time to start being honest with myself.

Of course, Mathew still denies anything happened with Parvati, even when he was caught red-handed. He assures me everything is great, we’re good, quit being so suspicious. His voice repeats the same old words, and I’ve spent weeks trying to get myself to believe them.

Whatever. I’m starting to get bored.

Once Sera admonished me, “Follow your instincts. Instincts are usually right.”

My heart, my gut, my head—maybe it’s all the same thing.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” my dad’s voice whispers in my ear. I think it means the same thing. He was telling me to figure out my own dreams. Figure them out, keep my integrity, do what
I
want to do—and then go for it.

“Are you okay?” Jean-Paul asks when I return to the table.

“I think so,” I say, giving a small laugh. “But I’m not really sure.”

I watch him turn off his cell phone. He must have just made a call himself—or received one.

“What’s up?” I ask, dying of curiosity.

“Just Mireille.”

Oh.
I wait to see his reaction. I’m not sure if this is good news or bad news. Especially after what he told me earlier about their relationship.

“This morning she told
Maman
that she has decided to quit working at the shop.”

“But it’s only for a day or two a week.”

He shrugs. “Mireille has been offered a position to help her uncle at the university as an assistant for the summer. It’s perfect and will give her good experience.
Maman
told her she didn’t have to make a fast decision, to keep both jobs if she wanted to since the assistant position doesn’t pay much, but Mireille is adamant. I guess you could call her strong-minded.”