Chapter Fourteen
Kayla made it to the Bistrot Le Champ de Mars two minutes before the time she’d agreed to meet her father, but already he was there, sipping a slender glass of beer on the patio. He raised a hand in greeting when she arrived, and she hurried over.
“You look like your mother when you are frazzled,” he said in greeting as she fumbled with her work bag and the rolled-up painting before dropping into the seat beside him.
“I hope that’s a compliment,” Kayla said with a half smile. He’d made it clear since she’d gotten here that he had no regrets about cutting things off with her mother all those years before.
“Mais oui,” he said as he beckoned to a waiter. “What would you like to drink, Kayla?”
She ordered a glass of rosé and settled back in her chair, trying to get ahold of herself.
Between the conversation with Nadim in the park and the awkwardness she felt around her father, her nerves were jangling.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, because she couldn’t think of any other way to open the conversation.
He took a sip of his beer as he studied her. “You are my daughter. Of course I would meet you if you asked.”
“Well, that’s kind of the thing,” Kayla said, Nadim’s words replaying themselves in her head.
Perhaps he feels he doesn’t know how to be a father.
“I haven’t seen much of you since I got here, and I just thought, well, maybe I should just come right out and tell you that the main reason I moved here was to get to know you. ”
“To know me?” He looked genuinely confused.
“Yeah, I mean, you’re my dad,” Kayla said.
She could hear Nadim’s voice in her head again: Maybe he’s even feeling guilt over his absence from your life, and he doesn’t know how to face that.
“I just want you to know that you not being there during my childhood… It’s okay.
You know? I feel like this is a second chance for us. I hope it is, anyhow.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Kayla, me not being there during your childhood… That was because of choices your mother made. She could have stayed in France, but she chose to raise you in the States.”
Kayla bristled. “But… she said you didn’t want to be with her. How could she have stayed? Her tourist visa would have run out.”
He shrugged. “She could have found a way.”
“But…” This wasn’t going how she’d thought it would.
“Even if that’s true, I was only a phone call away for all those years.
If you’d wanted to know me, you could have called.
At least to, like, say happy birthday or something.
Not that I’m blaming you,” she added hastily, not wanting to push him away.
“It’s just, well, I don’t really think that was about my mom’s choices, exactly. ”
He shrugged again, his lips pursed, and something occurred to her.
“Wait, do you even know when my birthday is?”
His gaze slid away. “I’m terrible at recalling dates, Kayla.”
“Right, but… I’m your child.” She felt a swell of sadness. He’s lucky to have the chance to get to know you, Nadim had said, and Kayla had come here buoyed by hope. But now, she was deflating by the second.
“Well, do you know my birthday?” He arched an eyebrow at her, a challenge.
“July tenth,” she said without missing a beat, and he looked away from her again.
“All right, yes, fine, so your mother told you the date. I’m not sure what that proves, Kayla.” Before she could reply, he gestured to the rolled-up canvas in her hand, changing the subject. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, just a painting,” she said, flustered.
“A painting?” he repeated, sounding amused. “Did one of those street artists by the Seine con you into a print of the Eiffel Tower for your wall back home?”
She hated the way he made her feel as if she didn’t belong here, as if she was just a silly visitor to a city that was only his. “Actually, it’s a painting of me.”
His eyebrows rose slowly. “Of you?”
She nodded, and his eyebrows went up even farther.
“And here I thought you were working in that home for old people. Instead, you’ve been wandering around Paris serving as an artist’s muse?” He chuckled.
“No, of course not. This just kind of… happened.”
The waiter arrived with her glass of wine, and when he whisked away again, Kayla looked up to find her father studying her pensively.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, it’s just… Well, I suppose it isn’t my business, but a na?ve young girl like you… I am just concerned you are being taken advantage of.”
She frowned. “He gave me this as a present. How would that be taking advantage of me?”
Her father reached for the rolled-up art. “Let me take a look.”
She wanted to tell him no; his skepticism was souring the moment, and his outstretched palm felt like an invasion of her privacy. But she found herself reluctantly handing the painting over and watching as he unrolled it and studied it for a long moment, his lips pursed.
Finally, he looked up at her. “You are sleeping with this artist, yes?”
She was so startled by the accusation that she choked on the sip of rosé she’d just taken. “What?”
Her father looked back at the image. “Yes, the way he painted you, it is done with the eyes of a lover.”
“No!” She wanted to snatch the painting back before he could ruin it for her further, but she was afraid of tearing it. “I’ve only known him since yesterday.” She might even feel flattered that her father was trying to protect her honor, except for the fact that he seemed amused rather than upset.
“Anyhow, it isn’t as if you’ll stay here in Paris, will you?” he said with a shrug. “Which is perhaps part of the appeal. These street people target tourists, you see.”
“He isn’t a street person,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not a tourist. What do you mean that I won’t stay?”
He stared at her for a moment. “I assume this little vacation will come to a close soon, yes? You were not raised here.”
“Yes, I’m aware of where I was raised. But I’ve studied French since I was a kid. I’m trying to make a life here for now. This isn’t a vacation.”
He shook his head. “But you are American, not French.”
“I’m both,” she said. “I have dual citizenship through you, don’t you remember?”
“Bah.” He thrust the painting back toward her.
She took it and rolled it carefully back up, already feeling like it had been sullied.
“People should stay where they are. Fine, come for a visit. But staying? It’s a burden to our social system.
You don’t want to be contributing to the immigration crisis, do you? ”
“The immigration crisis?” she repeated, trying to keep her tone even, though it was getting harder by the second.
“These people flowing across our border from all sorts of places…” Her father leaned back and took a sip of his beer. “People should stay where they belong.”
“And where exactly is it that you think I belong?” Kayla asked stiffly.
He shrugged. “I can see that you do not agree with me. But you Americans, you’re part of the problem, aren’t you? Coming and traipsing through Paris with your loud demands in English and your expectation that your culture should be accommodated.”
“I’m not like that,” Kayla protested. “Nor are the majority of Americans. And besides, isn’t tourism a huge part of the economy here?”
“I’m not talking about tourists, not really,” her father said, taking another casual sip of his beer. “But if we let the whole world in, we cease to be France. Our culture becomes diluted. You must see that.”
“Or maybe opening up a society to more viewpoints makes it better,” she snapped.
“And maybe you’d be better off if you welcomed people like me—who care about your country and want to be a part of making it stronger and more beautiful.
Instead, you’re closing your mind to anyone who isn’t just like you. ”
“Ah.” Her father leaned back in his chair. “Now you sound just like your mother. She had a temper, too, if I recall.”
She felt a stab of regret. “I don’t have a temper,” she said, trying not to sound as outraged and disappointed as she felt. “I’m just saying that I don’t agree with the things you’re saying.”
“Kayla, calm down. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m the embarrassment?” She could feel herself getting angry again.
“No, I think that distinction is yours. You have a daughter who has moved halfway across the world because she’d like to know you, and instead of taking that opportunity, you’re telling me I don’t belong here because it’s not where I was born.
But you know what? Maybe it’s closed-minded people like you who don’t belong. The world’s changing. Catch up.”
Without waiting for a reply, Kayla stood, threw down a handful of euro coins for her wine, and strode away from the table, out onto the sidewalk, resisting the urge to look back.
The devastation began to set in before she’d gone a block. What had just happened? She’d tried to tell her dad that she forgave him for his absence, and somehow, it had spiraled into a conversation about whether she had a right to be here? She felt furious and lost and deeply hurt.
Her head spinning, she passed by her own street, the rue du Général Camou, on the right, and a few minutes later crossed the quai Jacques Chirac into the riverside esplanade.
She knew it was illogical to hope that Nadim was still there and could help untangle the conflicted way she was feeling, but she had nowhere else to go.
She hadn’t made any real friends in Paris yet.
A handful of couples strolled near the river, and another pair was making out on a bench. But there was no sign of Nadim, and as Kayla turned to trudge back to her shoebox of an apartment, her heart was heavy.
What if she was the biggest idiot in the world for coming here to try to establish a relationship with her dad? And what if, at the end of the day, her father turned out to be a man she didn’t particularly like at all?
Shelby’s friends were very, very drunk.