Chapter 35
Jackson and I are gentle with each other over the next couple of days, but then we have to throw ourselves back into work—it’s early August and the launch is in three and a half weeks.
étienne has gone to check out an ex-competition rally car with Dion in Toulouse and I figure it’s probably a good thing that I have some space to process everything.
I can’t deny that Jackson’s fears about his motives have been playing on my mind.
But if Mellie is right, and étienne is holding back because of my feelings for Jackson, I somehow need to convey that he has nothing to worry about.
On Thursday night, I’m standing outside Mellie’s stall at the market when a strong arm wraps around me from behind. I squeal as étienne pulls me against his chest and lifts me off my feet.
“I’m stealing her away!” he jokily calls to Mellie as he walks backward a few paces.
Mellie and I are both laughing as he sets me on my feet. I spin around and he grins and plants a kiss on my lips, his hands on my waist.
“That reminded me of when we went swimming ten years ago,” I say with a smile. “Do you remember acting out rescuing me?”
“Oui,” he replies. “And I remember you doing the same with me. It was very hard to stay still,” he says with meaning.
“When did you get back?”
“Yesterday,” he replies. “I saw you from over there.” He nods toward the outdoor café behind the bandstand.
He saw me through this crowd? That takes the sting out of him not telling me that he was home.
He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, seeming a little hesitant. “Can you come with me for a bit?”
“Where to?”
“Margot and Francois have just got engaged.” Francois is his graphic designer friend who’s been working on our online graphics. “We’re celebrating. Join us for a drink?”
“I’d love to.”
“I’ll just say hi to Mellie.” He breaks away and jogs over to her stall.
I hear her call out a warm “Bonsoir, étienne!” and as I watch he ducks behind the counter to say a proper hello.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mellie’s eyes are dancing as she smiles up at him.
She directs this smile toward me as étienne jogs back over and snatches my hand.
The festoon lights strung from the branches of the plane trees are bright over our heads and the band is playing its usual repertoire of traditional French music as we weave through the market toward the café.
étienne’s friends are spread out around a few small tables and as soon as Dion spots me he’s on his feet and giving up his red plastic chair, hunting another out for himself.
Everyone else rises to greet me with kisses, and Francois and Margot both accept warm hugs as I congratulate them.
As I sit down, I can’t help but think that if this was such a casual thing between étienne and me, why would he keep bringing me into his circle of friends?
The love he has for his “brothers,” as he calls them, is strong. He and his friends live by the motto of France: Liberté, égalité, Fraternité. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.
If étienne feels love for his friends, and he counts me as a friend too, surely he’s capable of loving me?
It’s Sunday just over a week later. We stayed at Les Saules last night for the first time together. étienne had arranged for a new double bed to be delivered to replace his childhood single.
He’s still asleep, but I’ve been trawling through the pictures Léo has sent me, trying to figure out how best to curate Garage du Rallye’s Instagram account.
Would it work better to feature each car restoration as a single project on the grid?
Or should it be a bit more haphazard so that he can include other things that interest him too?
I imagine photographs of his rows of Michelin Men, vintage posters and old ceramic signs, as well as close-ups of the faded painted advertisements on the outside walls. This is going to look so cool.
We forgot to close the shutters last night—actually, we didn’t forget, we just had other more pressing things to do—but now I glance out of the window and see that the foothills are bathed in light. The sun hasn’t reached the house yet so it’s still relatively cool.
I look across at étienne, assuming that he’s still sleeping peacefully, but I’m surprised to see that his eyes are open and there are small furrows between his brows as he stares out of the window.
“Good morning,” I say.
He starts and turns toward me. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
That didn’t sound very definitive.
I still haven’t told him about Jackson—I haven’t found the right moment—but maybe now is a good time.
“I need to tell you something,” I say carefully, putting my phone aside.
He looks immediately on edge.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, touching his arm. “It’s nothing bad. It’s just that Jackson and I have been talking. He guessed that we were trying to make him jealous.”
étienne’s eyes flare wide as he stares at me.
“But he said that it worked. He admitted that he has feelings for me. He actually said that he thinks he’s in love with me,” I relay tentatively as I sit up and turn to face him properly.
He’s as still as I’ve ever seen him. “But I don’t feel that way about him, étienne. I told him how I feel about you—”
“Don’t fall in love with me, Grace.” He looks away as he says the words.
I recoil. “It’s already happening. And you could love me too, I know you could, if you let yourself. I know you’re—”
“No, you don’t know,” he snaps, swinging his legs out of bed. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“étienne, that’s not true.” I stare at the curls on the back of his head. “Of course I know you.”
“No,” he says with a hard look over his shoulder. “You don’t.” His jaw is clenched, his expression dark. After a pause he asks, “Was he hurt?”
“What?”
“Jackson. When you turned him down. Was he hurt?”
I’m surprised not just by the question, but by the tone in which it’s asked. There’s not a trace of concern, not an ounce of sympathy.
“Yes. He was,” I reply with trepidation.
I see a cruel glint of satisfaction in his eyes and it hits me like a lightning bolt: Jackson was right. It is personal.
“Why do you want to hurt him so much?” I ask, stunned.
He gets up and swipes his shorts from a nearby chair, yanking them on.
“étienne!” I slide out of bed and cross the room to him, wearing only his T-shirt that I dragged on in the middle of the night.
“What’s this really about?” I place my hands on his bare chest as he glares out of the window.
I reach up to brush his hair back from his face, my thumb inadvertently tracing the small scar bisecting his right eyebrow.
He flinches away from my touch, his eyes suddenly racked with pain as he looks down at me. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
I’m flummoxed. “Remember what?”
His expression is indecipherable. He’s open and exposed and yet totally shut off at the same time.
“This is not working,” he says bluntly as he sidesteps me. “It’s better that we end this now before I hurt you too.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I warned you not to get attached,” he says angrily.
“I can’t just switch off my feelings!” It’s as Mellie said. “And neither can you!”
“I can and I will and I have.” He stalks across the room to the door. “I’m going out.”
“Well, take your fucking T-shirt with you!” Hot tears sting my eyes as I drag it over my head, ball it up, and launch it at him.
He catches it, and for just a second agony blasts away his fury and his eyes are full of regret, but then the look is gone—and he is too.
I break down to the sound of his car revving through the gear changes.
He’s scared, he’s confused, he’s been through a lot… I keep telling myself these things as I pull his door closed behind me.
I waited at his house for almost two hours, but he didn’t return and I’m not sure what to do. I want to try to talk sense into him, but I don’t know how much time or space he might need before he’s receptive to hearing me.
It’s possible that he’s tried calling or texting—I wouldn’t know as the reception is so patchy out here—but when I’m back in Mellie’s car and have traveled a little way down the lane, I pull over and check my messages.
There’s just one, and it’s from Jackson.
He’s sent me a picture of a very old and dirty-looking tennis ball along with the message: Do you think this is the one we lost when we were 15? !
I smile through my tears at the memory. We’d been bouncing a ball back and forth on the balcony and then for some reason we started hurling it at each other harder and harder.
I remember squealing with laughter as I tried to catch his throws and then I pelted the ball at him so forcefully that it ricocheted off his hand, hit the glass door leading to the living room, and rebounded over the wall of the balcony.
We looked for it for ages down in the rose garden.
I’ve spent so long thinking Jackson was the love of my life—and a part of me loves him still.
But what I feel for étienne is bigger.
I can’t give up on him.
I try ringing him first, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I send a text. One word: Please.
It’s a plea to hear me, to see me, to speak to me, to find a way for us to move forward. I can’t take him at his word that this is over, not yet.
I head to his garage, but his car isn’t there.
I drive around town, keeping my eyes peeled.
I even go past Dion’s house, but étienne’s GTi is nowhere to be seen.
It occurs to me to ask Lise if she knows where he is, so I pull into a space outside Thermalisme, across the road from La Terrasse, and send her a text—I don’t want to disturb her while she’s at work.
She replies within minutes: He’s at my house. I’d give him some space.
Nausea engulfs me. He’s fled to the house where his late girlfriend lived. That’s where he wants to be—not with me, but with his memories of Eve.