Chapter 17 Claire
CLAIRE
Six Years Earlier
“C’est magnifique,” I comment as we pass a fountain, headed toward the glass pyramid that’s far more impressive in person than in photographs.
To my left, Otto grins. “Tres bien.”
He’s been teaching me some basic French phrases. We started with, “Tu peux m’appeler un taxi?”—Can you call me a taxi?—so I don’t get stranded again. I also bought a portable phone charger, just in case.
“I can’t believe this place exists,” I say, switching to English because I have no clue how to say it in French. “Just right here, in the middle of the city. It’s like stepping back in time. Is this what Kluvberg is like?”
“Parts of it,” Otto replies. “There is a big art museum opposite Dom St. Liobarda, on the other side of the canal.” He grabs my hand, tugging me to the left of the glass pyramid. “Entrance is this way.”
My entire body buzzes from the sensation of his palm pressed against mine.
“That’s the German goalie,” someone whispers in English, walking past us.
I glance at Otto. If he heard the comment, he doesn’t react to it.
I’m accustomed to soccer being overlooked. Lincoln has a reputation for being a pipeline for professional athletes, but the powerhouse football team steals most of the interest on campus. No one has ever recognized me or looked starstruck.
Forty million.
That’s how many results come up if you search Otto Berger. I did, once, curious about his age—twenty-three—then quickly shut off my phone like I had been caught doing something forbidden.
He’s twenty-three, and his name has forty million results.
I saw a man who might have been Matt Damon at a restaurant in Cambridge once. That’s the extent of my celebrity exposure up until now.
We reach the main entrance, flanked by twin columns. A group of tourists slows as they walk by, headed in the opposite direction, all staring at Otto.
Again, he appears oblivious to the attention. Or very used to it. In Germany, he must get recognized everywhere.
Repeating c’est magnifique feels redundant—and I don’t know any other impressed French praises—but the entrance to the Louvre is as dazzling as the exterior.
Boston is full of historical buildings. But history is relative. When you’re walking into a palace that was built in the thirteenth century, events of the 1700s sound comparatively recent.
The Louvre is a work of art, housing works of art.
We wander through gallery after gallery, filled with priceless paintings and sculptures. Between rooms, I peer at the map provided by the woman at the admission desk, trying to navigate through the numbered maze.
When I mentioned to Otto I wanted to visit the Louvre to see a specific painting, him offering to accompany me never occurred to me. Him actually coming seemed improbable. But here he is, reading placards and pointing out signs so I can orient us on the map.
Finally, we reach the right room.
I stare at Les Murmures de l’Aube, struck by the strange, surreal sensation of familiarity amid foreign.
I’m far from an art aficionado, but I would recognize this particular painting anywhere.
A framed print of it has hung in my parents’—now my mom’s—bedroom since before I was born.
The English translation is The Whispers of the Dawn, according to Otto.
For someone who claims his French isn’t that great, he seems awfully close to fluent.
I peer as close as I dare to, under the watchful gaze of the docent stationed in the doorway, afraid to accidentally activate a sensor and set off the alarm.
Les Murmures de l’Aube is simple, comparatively, to some of the other works we’ve walked past today.
A woman in a pale blue dress stands, barefoot, at the edge of a mist-covered lake.
Her face isn’t visible, gaze fixed on the horizon, where a church spire is barely noticeable through clumps of fog that veil a flock of birds in flight.
The palette is muted, the brushstrokes precise.
It has the haziness of a memory, the scene salient yet half remembered.
I asked my mom once what the woman was waiting for, and her answer stuck with me.
“Maybe she’s not waiting for anyone. Maybe she’s simply standing in the stillness.”
“Are you named after her?” Otto asks. He’s looking at the card that lists the name of the painting and the artist—Claire Marquant.
I nod.
“Did she paint anything else?”
“Nope. Just this.” I stare for a few more seconds, then step back. “Okay. I’m ready to go.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I’m also starving, a fact that becomes obvious when my stomach gurgles in the next gallery. We practiced for two hours this morning, and then I scarfed down a quick lunch before meeting Otto.
Otto hears it, smirking as he suggests, “Dinner?”
“Dinner sounds good,” I say, secretly thrilled that he’s suggesting we extend our outing.
I’m not sure it’s that secret at all actually. I think anyone who looks at us would be able to tell that I’m giddy around him.
We wind up eating at a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant Otto claimed was excellent—he was right. Then we stop for gelato—sorbet for me—and walk along a lit street that runs parallel to the Seine with our dessert.
Twinkling lights illuminate the bridges. Lush leaves sway overhead, dancing in the warm breeze.
It reminds me a little of the path along the Charles River, where I like to run. I tell Otto about it, and he asks me more questions about Boston.
We finish eating but continue walking. There’s something magical about being in Paris, but it’s infinitely more special to be exploring the city with him. We could be anywhere, and my stomach would still be filled with bubbles and butterflies.
An older man is playing the violin right next to one of the pedestrian bridges that crosses the Seine.
“Want to dance?” Otto asks as we approach the music.
I glance at him, startled. “What?”
He doesn’t ask again. He grabs my hand, pulling me closer to the musician. Other people are dancing—a few older couples and a little girl with her parents—but that doesn’t alleviate my self-consciousness as Otto spins me and then pulls me into his chest.
I tip my head back so I can see his face. “I’m not a great dancer.”
“You are good at other things.”
I smile. “Like French?”
He grimaces a little. “Like keeping Hanna Bjorn from scoring.”
I was happy when we beat Sweden, but that’s nothing compared to how I feel, hearing Otto compliment my playing. I got subbed in during the second half, and I think there’s a decent chance I performed well enough to make it on the field again.
I played in an Olympic match.
And if I can do that, I can be bold enough to ask, “What about kissing? Am I any good at that?”
His eyes flare with heat, fingers flexing around mine.
I thought our kiss was good—life-altering really—but it didn’t progress any further before Beck called him and Otto snuck out of my room.
And he hasn’t initiated one since. He’s the only hot, famous athlete I know, but I’ve met plenty of guys.
Not a single one has advocated for taking it slow.
“You know you are,” he says huskily.
“Then why haven’t you kissed me?” I practically whisper the question. If we weren’t pressed so close together, I doubt he’d have heard it.
“Because…” His eyes close briefly. “Because I am trying to—I have never done this before.”
“Dance?” I quip. “It was your idea.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I am not sure how to say this.”
“Try.”
“This is different. With women, I usually just…” He clears his throat. “When I kiss you, I know I am not going to be able to stop. And I want to kiss you—kiss you everywhere. But I want this to be more than that too. It is different with you, Claire.”
Maybe it’s a line. Maybe this is his big move—acting like I’m the one who’s different from the many who came before.
But I believe him.
“It’s different for me too,” I say, and a full smile breaks across his face. “And I’d really like you to kiss me, if you can control yourself in public. I don’t know what France’s public indecency laws are—”
His mouth covers mine, and I forget what else I was planning to say.
My phone buzzes while I’m snuggled up against Otto in the back seat of a taxi, headed back to the Village. I sigh when I see Nolan’s name on the screen, quickly turning it over.
“Your ex?” Otto asks in my ear.
“Yep.”
“Answer it.”
I glance at him—surprised and…hurt. He wants me to talk to my ex? If the roles were reversed, I’d be thrilled to see him ignore the call.
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“You said he keeps calling. Tell him to stop.”
“I have,” I grumble, but I grab my phone and hit the green button.
I did tell Nolan not to contact me before leaving campus. But not since, and he obviously needs a refresher. My conflict-avoiding self hasn’t wanted to deal with it.
I answer the call with a curt, “Hello?”
A long pause stretches before Nolan says my name in a startled tone that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to answer any more than I was planning to.
He clears his throat twice before saying, “Hi.”
“Why are you calling?” I’m proud of how assertive I sound.
“I, uh, I just…”
I nearly smile, listening to Nolan fumble for an excuse. We didn’t part on ambiguous terms. I was very clear our relationship was over, and the extent of our communication since has been me ignoring his attempts to talk to me. He hasn’t had to justify the pestering since.
“I’m in the middle of something,” I say impatiently. “What is it?”
“Why’d you answer if you were busy?” Nolan shoots back, finally locating his usual petulance.
“Because I’m sick of you calling and texting! We broke up, Nolan. We’re done. Over. Finished. What else do you want to talk about?”
“You don’t really mean it,” he says, sounding very much like a child who had a toy taken away. A distracted toy that never gave him the attention he wanted. Until now, when my limited attention is apparently better than none.
“I do mean it. I…” I plan to add more, but the warm pressure of Otto’s palm landing on my bare knee steals the rest of the sentence.
My eyes fly to Otto. He’s already watching me, one cheek creased with a dimple.
I feel my pulse everywhere. My fingertips. My knees. Between my thighs.
I try again. “I told you before I left campus that we were over.”
Otto’s thumb moves, rubbing tiny circles. It’s innocent. I’ve never ever thought of my knee as a sexy spot. But I’m already so wet that I can feel my underwear clinging.
Nolan’s talking again, but I’m not listening to a word. It sounds garbled, like I’m underwater and he’s above the surface.
Otto’s hand is sliding higher up my thigh. Slowly, so slow that I want to grab his hand and yank it higher. I feel dizzy, sucking in an unsteady breath.
Okay? Otto mouths, watching my expression carefully.
I nod rapidly, and he grins.
“Claire!” Nolan’s annoying voice cuts through the blissful haze.
Otto’s palm is halfway up my thigh now.
Our cab driver is oblivious to anything happening in the back seat, awash in shadows, talking in rapid French on the phone. The radio is on, playing a pop song with foreign lyrics. Horns honk around us.
I spend a lot of time recalling the past. Worrying about the future. Right now, I’m entirely consumed by the present.
His hand is under the hem of my dress, pulling it an inch higher and revealing the paler skin usually covered by my soccer shorts.
I track its progress like it’s the most fascinating sight I’ve ever seen.
I better understand what Otto said earlier, about not being able to stop.
I don’t care about anything except him continuing to touch me.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Nolan. Keep calling, I’ll block your number.”
I hang up the phone without waiting for a response. Roll my head to look at Otto.
We stare at each other.
His hand is still. About three inches from where I really want him to touch me.
“Can we go somewhere else?” I whisper. “Somewhere we won’t have to stop?”
Otto holds my gaze. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I’ve never been so sure. Never wanted anyone more.
He smiles, then leans forward and says something to the driver in French.