Chapter Fourteen #2
They had dined earlier in the evening at Le Refuge des Fondus, a hole-in-the-wall fondue restaurant on a side street in the Montmartre neighborhood that Vanessa had seen on Instagram.
The place—a long, dimly lit, graffitied cave—was so narrow that there was room for just two very long tables, and to get to her seat against the wall, Corinne had to climb over the table with the assistance of a couple of cute waiters. Not that she’d seemed to mind.
The meal had started innocently enough—meats, cheeses, olives, and potatoes served in little glass bowls and a kir—white wine with black currant liqueur—for each of them.
But then the fondue course—great steaming pots of melted cheese with giant baskets of bread cubes—had arrived, and along with it, red wine in baby bottles.
“Uh,” Shelby said, holding up the bottle in confusion when the waiter plunked it down in front of her.
Indeed, the English translation of the menu had promised a “baby bottle” of wine as part of the meal, but she had assumed that was a cute way of saying a small bottle.
Instead, the wine was served in the exact same container that an infant would drink from, complete with a rubber nipple.
“It’s, like, their signature thing!” Vanessa chirped. “All of their wine comes in these! Isn’t it fun?”
And it was fun, Shelby had to admit, even if the baby bottles reminded her of what she didn’t have. But the fondue was amazing; the place was loud and friendly; and they snapped dozens of photos toasting with their little baby bottles of red wine.
The problem was that the meal was too fun—and it was too easy to order a second round—and before they knew it, they were all stuffed full of cheese and bread, somewhat drunk, and posting food pics with abandon on Instagram.
“So you’re holding out on us,” Corinne said, leaning across the table and stabbing her fondue fork in Shelby’s general direction. Beside Shelby, Vanessa burped demurely and took another swig of her red wine. “Did you sleep with that hot bartender last night or what?”
Shelby glanced from Corinne to Vanessa. Both of them were staring at her hopefully. “We just made out,” she said with a small smile.
“Boooooooo!” Corinne said dramatically. “That’s no fun! You’re supposed to hook up in Paris to get Brandon out of your system.”
“Brandon,” Vanessa repeated bitterly, like it was a bad word. “Blech.”
Shelby smiled; at least her friends had her back. “I know. Instead, I got drunk and cried.”
“Oh, Shelb.” Corinne’s disappointment was palpable as she exchanged looks with Vanessa. “You cried?”
Shelby looked down, embarrassed. “I know. It’s ridiculous. And Russ was, like, the nicest guy in the world. But somehow, all I could think about was Brandon. Totally pathetic. And Russ deserves better.”
“You deserve better,” Vanessa said sharply. “This is about you, Shelb, not about Brandon or some random bartender.”
“He actually owns the bar,” Shelby protested weakly, and Corinne rolled her eyes. “Really, he was a nice guy.”
“You’re not supposed to meet a nice guy,” Corinne said. “You’re supposed to meet a hot dude who takes you to bed and ravages you and makes you forget all about the fact that Brandon ever existed in the first place.”
“I know,” Shelby said in a small voice as the waiter arrived with three servings of chocolate mousse.
The other two girls ordered a third round of drinks, but Shelby, whose stomach was already swimming, declined.
“I’m supposed to go see him tonight, actually,” Shelby added in a small voice, and both Vanessa and Corinne whooped and shrieked their approval, earning them annoyed looks from the groups on either side of them at the communal table.
“Good,” Corinne said. “We’ll go have some more drinks first, and then you can go meet up with him. This time, no crying. You’re getting laid.”
After they’d polished off their chocolate and paid the check, they stumbled down the cobblestone streets and stopped into a maroon-awninged bar called La Fourmi.
They ordered two plates of french fries and a bottle of à Temps Perdu red wine and giggled as French guys flirted with them, and then they walked farther down the Boulevard de Clichy to gawk at the red neon windmill of the Moulin Rouge before wandering down another side street and into a lively bar called Le Valois, where Corinne ordered a round of Tequila Bang shots with salt and lemon.
The girls were just ordering a second round when Shelby’s phone buzzed.
Maybe it was Russ, calling because his shift was almost over. The girls weren’t wrong; the best way to get over Brandon was to get under someone else, right? And why not Russ? Just because he seemed like a thoughtful guy didn’t mean he couldn’t be a fling, as long as she was honest.
But then she pulled out her phone and checked the caller ID and her heart skipped. It was Brandon. They hadn’t spoken in more than a month.
“Hello?” she answered breathlessly, already moving toward the exit.
She half hoped one of the other girls would snatch her phone away and save her from herself, but neither of them seemed to notice her leaving; they were flirting with a charming French bartender, who was offering to mix Vanessa and Corinne a specialty cocktail that he claimed he reserved for only the prettiest girls.
“Shelb?” Brandon’s Southern twang should have sounded wrong to her in the midst of Paris, but instead, it made her stomach hurt, because it hit her like a bag of bricks how much she missed hearing it. “I can’t hear you. Where are you?”
“Paris,” she said, stepping outside onto the rue de Bruxelles, which was blissfully quiet once the door to the bar behind her closed.
“Paris… France?” Brandon sounded incredulous. “Who are you with?”
“Corinne and Vanessa,” she answered automatically, without bothering to think about the fact that it was no longer his business.
He chuckled, low and deep. “And here I thought you were just reposting their pictures to make me jealous.”