37
At midday on Saturday, after long moments wrapped around each other on the bed, when time seemed to stop, and one last look toward the Santa Monica pier from the balcony, we resign ourselves to giving up the room.
While we wait in line for checkout, the surly receptionist from the day before gets snapped at by a hurried guest paying his bill, who is even more disgruntled than she is.
“Miss, maybe you should consider doing a job you like. Smiling might make you prettier,” the guy in the suit snaps at her.
He must be at least ten years older than us, but Vadim moves between him and the counter, while the receptionist fights back her tears. “Her job is to put up with you, not to look pretty just to please you. Maybe you should consider respecting women—it would make you less of an asshole.”
My heart races, torn between the fear that he’s going to get punched in the face and the pride I feel at having such a brave, fair, and irreverent boyfriend.
The man puts his wallet away and leaves the hotel without another word, except for a few inaudible grumbles that Vadim imitates to make the receptionist laugh.
“Thank you,” she says, looking relieved.
“He didn’t mean that you’re not pretty,” I add quietly.
“And I didn’t mean to seem rude yesterday, you know?”
“Give us a discount and we’re all good,” Vadim jokes.
It doesn’t work, but at least it makes leaving the hotel a little less bittersweet.
Vadim drops me off at my house at the time set by my father, and we decide to meet up again online right away to drag that special night out just a little longer.
I kiss my parents but dodge their questions, then ditch Lily on the stairs and shut my bedroom door in her face.
After peeling off my clothes, I jump into the shower to wash the salt of the ocean out of my hair, then slip on a long, midnight-blue T-shirt that reaches mid-thigh.
Finally, I collapse on my bed and turn on the computer.
Alma_from_paris: I’m here!
Arcadius: Me too. I just arrived.
Alma_from_paris: I just thought of something: we didn’t think to watch out for the photographer.
Arcadius: I did, the whole time. No way did they get any photos this weekend. We were always in total darkness or hidden behind something.
Alma_from_paris: Wow. Car thief, illicit homework dealer, top model, and now a secret agent, too? I’m impressed!
Arcadius: If only… It drives me crazy not knowing who did that.
Alma_from_paris: Well, we haven’t received a new one for ages. Maybe it’s all over.
Arcadius: No, that’s because we’re being careful. So, I think it must be someone close to us. Someone who knows that we know. And who has been trying to keep a low profile ever since we started trying to unmask them.
Alma_from_paris: You think? But Basile swore to us it wasn’t him. Or Tim. And you promised me it couldn’t be Felix. Who else could it be?
Arcadius: I don’t know. Maybe less close than that. A friend of a friend. But it has to be someone who has an interest in breaking us up.
Alma_from_paris: You can also cross my dad off the list now. Well, I think so.
Arcadius: Could you snoop around a bit at Abrams’s place next time you go?
Alma_from_paris: You think our film teacher is a paparazzo? No way! How would he follow us? He can’t even walk thirty feet without huffing and puffing or needing a coffee.
Arcadius: Well, he does detest me. And he hates the idea of you slipping away from him when he thinks he gave you so much and taught you everything you know.
Alma_from_paris: Okay, I agree he’s a little crazy, but not that crazy!
Arcadius: I’m sure he wants to set you up with his son. What’s his name again?
Alma_from_paris: Caleb.
Arcadius: Maybe it’s Caleb. He’s crazy about you and jealous of me, so he wants to find a way to break us up.
Alma_from_paris: No, the first photos were sent before I ever met him. Until recently, he didn’t even know you existed.
Arcadius: So, you talk to him about me.:)
Alma_from_paris: Yes, and I sure hope you bore Cheyenne every day with every detail about what I do, what I say, what you like about me, and what drives you crazy but you love anyway.
Arcadius: Hmm… I don’t think I’m going to answer that question.
Alma_from_paris: Did you see a question mark? It’s an order, Arcadi.
Arcadius: But since you don’t need me to speak for you, and I prefer to let women speak for themselves, I’ll introduce you to her soon. That way, you can show her yourself all the qualities that make you irresistible.
Alma_from_paris: Good point. But I’ll pass.
***
The following week we go back to class, but I don’t go to Abrams’s house.
I work alone on my short film, continuing to edit the footage I shot in Paris, Los Angeles, and Santa Monica.
Vadim from every angle. All the places we’ve been to together.
The good memories and the heartbreaking ones.
My doubts, my fears, my irrational heartaches, my overflowing feelings, my overwhelming joy, every flutter of emotion. A pure distillation of You + Me.
Meanwhile, along with his classes, Vadim continues his community service at the university.
He talks about Cheyenne less, but I don’t know whether I should be relieved or worried.
He also did his first photoshoot for the shampoo brand.
Michelle Kerry told him he had done a great job, and that the advertiser was blown away by the photos.
But Vadim hated it. He spent an entire evening criticizing the whole world and everything in it, tearing everyone down, himself included.
He planned a move to France so he’d never have to see his giant face on the city buses.
He also considered tearing up his first paycheck, but decided there were too many zeros on it.
Michelle Kerry has just contacted him about another casting, this time for a filmed commercial, an edgy project with a young, up-and-coming director that Vadim likes. So, he’s decided to go, just to see what it’s like, just this once. I already know it won’t be the last—far from it.
Between my boyfriend’s busy schedule, the distance I’m keeping between Abrams and me, and Clémentine spending one hundred percent of her free time with her mystery boyfriend—whose existence I’m starting to doubt—I have no other choice but to spend a lot of time at home.
I’m dismayed to discover the kind of atmosphere that currently reigns there.
My mother spends all her time calling my father to find out where he is, when he’ll be home, if he’ll be home for dinner, and if not, why.
He spends his time ignoring her calls or hanging up on her, claiming he’s in an important meeting, closing a big deal, or in the middle of negotiations and can’t be disturbed.
With an offended expression and pursed lips, she hangs up on him sometimes too, then takes it out on the first person who crosses her path: Lily, because she never tidies her things; Georgia, because she tidies too much; or me, because she’s not used to me being home so often.
Sometimes, with teary eyes, she takes me aside and lets her heavy hands rest on my shoulders.
“Promise me you won’t shut yourself away at home, that you’ll enjoy your youth, and that you won’t waste your precious time—because it passes far too quickly.
Make sure you love Vadim as long as the passion is there, but never become dependent on a man, even out of love.
Never, do you hear me?” she insists, her throat tight.
“Got it, Mom.”
I don’t intend to ruin my life for a guy with pretty eyes, but I dare anyone not to fall into the trap of Vadim Arcadi’s crystal-clear, dizzying gaze. This is the first time I feel like I’m starting to understand my mother and the mistakes she made.
One evening, my father doesn’t come home at all.
It’s a Saturday, so he has no reason to be at the office.
My mother calls his cell phone twenty times, until well past midnight.
Basile suggests we call the police. And then a voice answers—the voice of a very young woman, who giggles before hanging up.
When my mother bursts into tears, it hits me hard.
I try to comfort her, to reassure her, even though I know that I won’t be able to mend her broken heart.
“What Dad is doing says nothing about you or your worth. His actions are about him. They say who he is, not who you are. He’ll have to answer for them. I just hope he knows what he’s losing…”
“Wait, there’s no need to jump to conclusions,” my brother says in a fraught voice, trying to defend our father.
“Go to bed, kids. It’s not your place to get involved in your parents’ problems like this. I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”
Reluctantly, we do as she asks. After one last hug, unable to think of anything else to say, I leave her alone with her grief. From my room, I hear her sobbing in her bed like a little girl.
I’m too shaken to sleep, so I message Vadim.
[My mother just found out
that my father is cheating on her.
If you ever do that to me,
I’ll kill you.
And your mistress, too.]
[Poor Marie. Your dad kept that well hidden.
Do you want me to kill him?]
[No. I love you.]
On Sunday, my father still hasn’t come home.
But he has a huge bouquet of white roses delivered to my mother.
I don’t know what the message on the little card says, but she cries again when she reads it.
And yet she still puts the flowers in a pretty vase, which she sets on the dining room table.
Then, she sits in my father’s place and stays there, without moving.
Looking out the window, as if it’s the only thing left to do. Waiting for him.
I don’t know how she can accept this. But I know I’m not in her place, and I don’t want to judge her for what her heart is telling her to do, after an entire night spent fighting against reason.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m in the way. I kiss my mother goodbye and hurry over to Vadim’s.
I need to see him, smell him, hold him. I spill everything I’m feeling, and he listens without interrupting.
He just pulls me close until we are sitting together on the floor, our backs resting against his sofa bed.
I stroke his hair, one of my favorite ways to quiet my mind.
He rests his big hand on the back of my neck, the way he often does. It comforts me more than he knows.
“That’s the only advantage of not having parents,” he says, attempting a joke. “Not having to take care of them as if they were your children.”
I smile sadly and nod, then he kisses me. We spend the whole afternoon cuddling, imagining what we’ll be like at forty, at fifty—what our relationship and our family will look like, what kind of parents we’ll become. We don’t have any answers.
My mother calls me and tells me in a casual tone that my father is coming home tonight and that we all need to be there for dinner.
Vadim sighs.
We continue to imagine our future, but end up arguing because he wants to give our children Russian names.
“Pavel or Nikita for a boy. And I really like Anastasia for a girl. Or Yana, the Slavic version of Jane, my mother’s name.”
“And do I get a say in this?”
“They can take your last name if you want. Mine doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t care whether I pass it on or not.”
“You’re being a bit selfish, Vadim Arcadi. You’re acting like a dictator.”
“And you’re being name-ist, Princess Lancaster of England.”
I pretend I’m about to storm off in a huff, and he holds me back, pinning me to the floor. He kisses me, gently bites my neck, and whispers sweet words in my ear that he can’t say out loud.
“You can name our baby whatever you want, seeing as I’ll be the happiest man in the world the day you have my child.
And anyway, I don’t think I’ll be able to think straight if our little girl glares at me with the same dark look as you, just because we brought her into the world without asking for her opinion first.”
It blows me away to picture myself on that day, with him and her—the baby I already love.
“But… if it’s a boy, I wouldn’t mind Vadim Junior,” he teases me, just to keep the real emotions at bay.
I hit him on the shoulder, and at that exact moment, three discreet knocks sound at the door. Vadim tells me not to move, then goes to open it. I can’t quite hear what is being said, but the murmuring voices leave me feeling uneasy.
Quietly, I approach the entryway. She’s standing on the threshold.
I look her up and down: high heels, bare legs, amber skin…
and next to no nothing covering it—just some sort of camel suede trench coat hanging open to reveal her perfect body.
Black lace panties, more skin, a black push-up bra, still more skin, long, black hair swept to one side, and finally, Cheyenne’s face.
It’s the first time I find myself face to face with her.
And the shock of it hits me like a punch to the throat.
That smiling mouth, that mischievous gaze, that air of complete confidence, and that wild yet adorable expression.
It’s a horrifying sight.