Chapter 28 Scarlett
SCARLETT
I don’t go to the river. I don’t wander over the bridges. And I don’t stroll down the street to find a sidewalk café, grab a table, and watch the city go by as I dine alone.
I did that after Jonathan. I won’t do it now. This is not the same.
This is different.
This was merely a tryst. One that ended exactly when it was supposed to end.
No more, no less.
This is not a marriage that died and turned out to be a lie. I won’t invest it with that much monumentality.
That’s what I tell myself as I enter my building, then again as I head into the tiny lift that chugs noisily up to the seventh floor.
This was only a week.
After hunting for my key inside my purse, I find it quickly. I unlock the green door to my flat, toss my suitcase inside, shut the door behind me, and . . .
Drop my forehead into my hands.
“Fuck,” I mutter, then pinch the bridge of my nose. I slump my back against the wall, then slowly, at molasses speed, I sink down to the floor. Hitting it with a thud, I let out a long, hard exhale.
Like it’s dredging up my insides.
And it hurts so much more than I ever expected.
Closing my eyes, I give in, letting myself feel. I replay the last few days, the reel flickering before my eyes.
The train ride to Giverny.
The first night there in the bar, in the room, in the bed.
The next day at Monet’s house. The way we opened up, how we talked, and the things he said.
How we came together in Nice, Marseille, and Lyon. The stories he told me. The stories I told him.
It was only one week, yet my chest is like an empty cavern, and I ache, wishing that it hadn’t ended so soon, so cruelly. Because I’m not investing this with too much monumentality. I’m investing it with exactly as much monumentality as it deserves.
I fell in love with Daniel Stewart.
Not merely in a week, but over the last few years as I’ve gotten to know him.
As he’s been my business partner. As he’s made me laugh, made me smile, shown me respect and admiration.
I’m not simply grieving the loss of a one-week tryst. I’m not only mourning my one-week pretend husband.
I’m saying goodbye to the way the feelings built slowly but surely and steadily during the last few years. During all our dinners, our nights out, our time together.
As I let all that play before my eyes, a sob wracks my body from deep within. It lashes at me like a storm, rain beating hard and heavy against the window.
I let it rip through me, holding my head in my hands, my eyes stinging, my chest heaving. As the tears flow, I do my damnedest to mourn something that ended too soon.
The possibility of an us.
An us that won’t happen. But an us that would have been so spectacular.
That’s what I have to say goodbye to.
A chance at something great, something real, something amazing.
A few more cries. A few more tears, then my eyes are dry.
Drawing a deep breath, I stand, grab a tissue, and blot my cheeks.
There.
That’s done.
I roll my bag into my bedroom and set to work methodically unpacking, seeking comfort in routine, in the sorting of clothes and shoes into the hamper, onto the shelves. Then I put the bag away on the highest shelf in my closet.
I grab the hamper and take it to the washer and dryer stacked on top of each other in a hall closet. I shove in a load, pour some detergent, and start the machine, washing away the trip.
The memories.
The past few days.
I set my laptop and tablet on the worktable I use in my living room, and I turn to my old friend. My steady, reliable friend.
Email.
I’m hoping for a reply from Le Pavillon. But there is none.
My shoulders sag. A heavy weight sinks in me.
But that’s just as well, I tell myself. We only sent the offer a few hours ago.
And it’s the evening. Who’s working now anyway?
It’s all going to be fine.
I sigh, hunting through my phone for a new book on my reading app, finding a tale of two time-travelers in love.
Their paths are parallel. They don’t cross except once a year. That suits my mood. I start the story, but fifteen minutes later, the words are swimming on the page.
I have no idea if it takes place this century or a thousand years ago. I don’t know who’s coming and going in the past or the present. My trick’s not working. The book isn’t working. The solace in myself isn’t working.
Perhaps I need to tackle missing Daniel the same way I handled my marriage dying.
By walking around Paris.
I need my city.
Only this time I don’t need to do it alone. A smile tugs at my lips as I remember that Nadia is still here.
I don’t have to do everything alone. I don’t have to process the first horrible feelings by myself under a cloak of shame. I don’t have to share only with the river.
I have someone. I have lots of someones, from my parents to my friends. I dial Nadia.
“Bonsoir,” she says, her pretty voice floating across the phone.
“Please tell me you’re not out on a hot date with a wonderful Frenchman that I interrupted?”
“Shame on you for wishing I’m not dating,” she says, laughing. “I’m in my hotel room, packing for my return trip tomorrow.” A pause. “But it sounds like you need me?”
I swallow past a lump. “I do.”