Chapter 10
The next twenty-four hours were spent inside my apartment until I couldn’t take it any longer.
The city was crowded with tourists and what felt like most of the U.S.
to celebrate New Year’s in Times Square.
I thought I had properly prepared by stocking up on soup, cheesesticks, and ice cream.
But once all that was gone, I realized I needed to go out with the masses and get more food.
I throw on sweatpants and snowboots, my puffiest, warmest coat, scarf and knit hat. With my money in my pocket, I open the door and step out almost stepping on a letter that matches the wrapping on the other boxes. Snatching it from the ground, I go back inside and open it immediately.
Dear Kandace,
My name is Oliver Hanning. I’m twenty-four years old. I was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois and have one brother. My parents have been married for twenty-seven years.
A year ago, I dropped out of Stanford and came to Paris to stay with relatives.
When I overstayed my welcome, I took some of my inheritance, before I was cut off, and blew through it.
I couldn’t afford to fly home and my parents refused to lend me the money.
I work odd jobs, but have found a regular waiting/bartending job at an ex-patriots bar in Montmartre.
I negotiated a monthly rate at the hostel and lived there for two months.
I’ve made friends and party too much, so I’ve stayed... probably stayed too long again. I was supposed to leave the day after you arrived. Something told me to stay.
That’s a lie. I stayed because of you. My boss kept me working and you intrigued me. There was something between us the day you showed up in that yellow dress on a late fall day that made me think twice about leaving.
You had this innocence that made me want to do bad things and you were just so damn beautiful that what seemed like easy prey turned on me and tricked me into feeling something I hadn’t felt before.
So what do I do? I try to be what you want.
I didn’t think a guy from Chicago could compete with the French.
I’ve told you who I am. Now let me show you.
There’s a ticket with your name on it at the Air France counter at JFK. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, this American will be waiting in the same spot we last saw each other under the Eiffel Tower on December 31st at midnight.
With love,
Oliver
A ticket to Paris? He bought me a ticket to Paris! Is he insane? What makes him think I’ll go back to Paris for him? He lied to me. Why would I go? There’s no reason I should. I’d be a fool to take him up on that offer. I haven’t even forgiven him yet.
Setting the letter on the table, I walk back out the door, realizing I said ‘yet.’ But I’m too hungry to deal with this level of crazy.
As I walk down the wet sidewalk, I begin to wonder what the weather in Paris is like this time of year.
What the Eiffel Tower looks like on New Year’s Eve.
And why he gave me this key to his apartment.
When did he get an apartment? Is he staying there forever? Or for now?
Walking into the corner market, I grab a handbasket and head to the frozen foods section. I can’t think about Oliver on an empty stomach. But with my hand wrapped around two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey I stop before they reach the basket.
Paris.
Paris with Oliver.
Not Olivier, but Oliver. I didn’t fall for him because he was French.
I fell for him because he was awesome. I set the ice cream back in the freezer case, set the basket down, and hurry out the door.
Rushing down the street I remember all the little moments we shared—the artist’s squat where he told me I was amazing, when he told the redhead I was amazing, when we were making love and he kissed my temple, when he gave me his phone because he trusted me. .. Why am I still here?
I open my door and rush inside, flinging my coat and kicking my boots off.
I grab my suitcase from the top shelf of my closet and throw it open on the bed before tossing stuff inside of it.
An eight hour flight. That’s plenty of time to figure out why the hell I’m even going, much less giving him a chance to make this right.
Sitting down next to the case full of overflowing clothes, I take a minute to process what I’m doing or should be doing. Flying to Paris on a whim is frivolous.
That’s not me. I’m not frivolous, carefree, or careless. I have responsibilities and my studies. My part time job down at the registration office. And I need to clean the apartment before my roommate returns in five days.
Excuses.
All excuses to not face the man that hurt me, but is willing to go to all of this effort to apologize and make it up to me.
So he lied about being French. I shrug. The positive side is that an American is geographically more conducive to my future plans anyway.
He can romance me in two languages and I’ve thought about him every day despite my best efforts not to.
Now looking at the situation with distance separating me from the humiliation I felt back in November, the fond memories sneak back in.
Maybe it’s time I live a little. Be spontaneous. Maybe it’s time to forgive him.
It’s snowing in Paris. And magical. Just like New Years should be. I keep walking, anticipating the spot up ahead. Though it holds bad memories for me now, I’m hoping to replace them with good ones instead. My heart races and I hold my coat tighter around me, my nerves catching up with me.
There are families all around and festivities, revelers, but not big action from the Eiffel Tower yet. We still have five minutes to go, five minutes to risk it all and try again with a man I thought I knew. I’ll be meeting him tonight like it’s the first time all over again.
Champagne is popped nearby and I laugh seeing it spray all over the guy who opened it. Still walking, I admire the flickering lights of the Eiffel Tower—a sight I didn’t get to see on my last trip.
And then I see him...
His hair is a bit longer.
He looks nervous, not like Olivier at all.
But this is Oliver, so it makes sense.
My body warms when his gaze lands on me. A small smile plays on both of our mouths.
“Bonjour,” he greets.
“Hi,” I reply, not sure if I want to speak in English or French with him, so I go with the old standby.
He moves his head, his full attention on me. “Come here often?”
“Not often enough.” I look around, then back at him finally strong enough to look into his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Kandace. I really am. It seemed fun at first and then... I was in too deep and I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“That happened anyway.”
He nods.
But really, is it the biggest sin he could have committed? No, not even close. So I don’t need to torture either of us any longer. I take his hand and say, “Thank you for the gifts, the reminders, and the ticket. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. And,” he says, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the Eiffel Tower, “You were the only one I wanted to kiss at midnight. It’s almost time. What do you say?”
There’s no big countdown or production, just two people throwing caution to the wind and choosing to be together, whether it be for a day or eternity.
I have no idea, but because this man before me, kissing me with a passion I’ve only ever felt with him, was strong enough to not only apologize, but try to win me back, I’m willing to find out.
Our mouths part and I slowly open my eyes. “I missed your lips.”
“I missed everything about you.” He smiles, and says, “Now that we’re warmed up...”
He never finishes that sentence. He is way too busy kissing me again and when I pull him closer, we both forget about words and futures, pasts, and lies. All that matters is the here and now.
Moments later, I pull the key from my pocket, I hold it up. “Did you mean what you said?”
“I did. I still do,” he says with his arms wrapped around me, keeping me warm.
“I’m renting, but I have options these days.
My parents have come around and support my decision to stay here for awhile, so I’m working on my degree again and start back at a university here in a few weeks.
” Looking worried, he asks, “How long will you stay?”