Chapter Twenty-Eight
I promised to text Connor if I needed to be rescued and followed Christophe out to Eighth Avenue.
Christophe touched my arm and pointed to a cab coming across Horatio Street.
“So, are you ready for some French poetry?”
I reached down and zipped my purse. “Sappho was Greek.”
“Whatever you say, American girl. I think you will love it.”
We got in a cab, and I watched him watch the city go by, admiring the way his mouth was consistently set in a playful smile. The novelty of escaping my comfort zone was oddly satisfying.
The weight of my mistake from earlier still loomed, but it was beginning to feel more abstract.
“I probably should have asked before, but—do you have a boyfriend?”
I looked instinctively down at my left hand. Even after a year of not wearing my wedding band, I still expected to see it.
“Why?”
“Because it might be, I don’t know, weird to ask another man’s copine to a romantic poetry reading.”
“Ah. No boyfriend.”
“So, how do you feel?”
“About being single?”
He laughed. “I mean, how do you feel right now? In this moment?”
“Is this like ‘what do you do’ except you don’t actually want to know the answer?”
“It’s just a question, Samantha. How do you feel?”
“It’s Sam. And I feel . . . open. But I’m not sure why,” I said honestly.
He laughed. “Open is a funny word. But I like the way it sounds.”
The cab pulled up to a brownstone on East Tenth Street. We walked up to the parlor floor apartment where a woman with long black hair and a stylish black jumpsuit greeted us both with a double air-kiss.
“Amelia, this is my new friend Sam. She’s an American lawyer.” He winked and picked up two glasses of white wine from a waiter holding a tray of wine glasses.
“I didn’t think people hired waitstaff for house parties anymore,” I whispered, watching a tray of figs and blue cheese pass by.
“Like I said, we keep the Parisian lifestyle wherever we go.”
Christophe was a kind and attentive date. He introduced me as his “newest New York friend” and insisted that everyone speak English.
I felt like the subject of my own social experiment. Maybe it was knowing I’d probably never see most of them again, but I wasn’t overthinking.
It hit me that Alex hadn’t texted since the wine bar, but I hadn’t texted him either. The realization somehow made me feel worldly in a way that I liked. Whether we went on another date or never saw each other again, I was proud of myself for stacking new experiences.
Amelia shepherded everyone into the “salon.” We settled onto a shag rug while we waited for the reading to start.
“So where were you before New York?” Christophe asked.
“In law school, in DC.”
“Did you have a boyfriend in law school?”
After two cocktails and two glasses of wine, I didn’t even flinch.
“I was in a relationship, yes.”
“Tell me about him.”
I looked at him curiously. “Is this how the French flirt?”
He shrugged. “I just think it’s an interesting way to get to know someone.”
“We were married,” I said. “Does that make me less one-dimensional?”
He laughed. “See? We’re getting to know each other.”
“You probably haven’t met many divorced women my age.”
He leaned in. “I don’t even know how old you are.”
“I’m thirty.”
“That’s a great age for a woman. It’s when you finally figure out what you want. You figured out you don’t want to be married. Bravo.”
“You sound like a therapist.”
He gave me a knowing look. “I like the idea of being inside your head.”
Amelia clinked her wine glass and thanked everyone for coming. “The wine will continue to flow, but we ask that you stay seated while someone is mid-poem,” she said with a subtle French accent.
Each poem was more lyrical than the last. The whole thing was like a masterful recital.
I felt Christophe nudge me as I reached for a third glass of wine.
“It’s 11:30. I promised you’d be home by midnight,” he whispered.
“Let’s stay.”
“As you wish.”
The reading finished just after midnight, and the apartment quickly emptied. We thanked Amelia for hosting, and I accepted Christophe’s arm as we walked outside.
“My apartment is on Astor Place. Do you want to come home with me?” he asked with a confidence that I found undeniably attractive.
“You don’t mess around.”
“I’ve enjoyed your company tonight.”
He held out his hand, and I took it.
I woke up and fumbled around for my phone. The light in Christophe’s apartment was nonexistent. I had no idea what time it was.
My throat was so dry, I could barely swallow. I was fully clothed but had the feeling we’d made out for days. My lips were chapped. I really needed the backlight of my phone to find the bathroom. And water. And fucking Advil.
I got up cautiously, trying not to wake him. I sat up and steadied myself on the bed. I didn’t have a shot in hell at making it to yoga.
I couldn’t tell if we were in a basement apartment or a penthouse. There was no light from the street. He must have installed blackout shades. I didn’t so much as project a shadow as I felt my way around for a wall or a doorknob.
I finally found a wall and felt my way across. I landed on a light switch and flipped it briefly on and off. Bingo.
I shut the door quietly behind me, hoping I could find the kitchen and a glass of water next. I buttoned up my jeans and felt around to wash my hands.
I turned back to the doorknob, but it didn’t move.
I tried turning the other way, then pulling.
Nothing. I was either half asleep or still drunk, but either way, I started to panic.
I took a step back. The light switch was outside the bathroom.
I didn’t know if it would be worse to wait out the night in the pitch-black bathroom or bang on the door and wake him. Both options felt equally humiliating.
I gripped the handle again and pulled harder, a doomed sense of claustrophobia setting in.
The alcohol was fueling my anxiety. I took a deep breath and pulled with everything I had.
It finally gave way with a deafening rip, the force throwing me backward, landing me sideways on my left wrist. The panic gave way to shooting pain as I sat there trying to figure out what happened.
Seconds later, I heard footsteps and a concerned knock on the door.
“Samantha? Are you okay? What the hell was that?”
I felt my right hand wrapped around the cold piece of metal.
“Can you please turn on the light? And open the door?”
The light came on as I saw the doorknob was still there.
Then I realized what had happened.
He knelt down next to me. “Holy shit!”
I dropped the wall fixture I was still gripping with my right hand and cradled my wrist. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I left the light off . . . and I thought the door wouldn’t open. But—I must have mistaken the towel rack for the doorknob.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just my wrist. I fell back when this came out of the wall, and . . .”
We both looked at the gaping hole in the bathroom wall and then back at each other. I could see he was trying not to laugh, which made me want to laugh. Soon we were both laughing hysterically.
He put his hands on his face. “You’re a tornado. Stronger than you look,” he said with a huge grin.
Something about the word tornado made me laugh even harder.
“I’ll get you some ice. Stay here.”
I rested my head against the wall and tried bending my wrist. “Fuck,” I whimpered.
I held the bag of ice against my wrist for a few minutes while we each finished a bottle of water.
“What time is it?” I whispered.
“Three a.m. That’s the devil’s hour in America.” He smirked. “We could finally . . . you know.”
I looked down at my swollen wrist. “I think the moment passed.”
He smiled sympathetically. “You’re a cool girl, Sam. It was fun helping you find some fun for a night.”
I resisted the urge to retort.
We fell back asleep for a few hours. I woke to the smell of coffee and a fresh bag of ice next to me.
“You’re sweet,” I said when he asked if I took my coffee with cream or sugar.
“That’s the opposite of a compliment in France.”
“If you say so.”
I was out of lines. I finished the coffee and freshened up in the bathroom. When I came back, he was sitting in a corner chair next to the window, reading The New Yorker in a bathrobe and slippers.
“I should get home,” I said.
He smiled. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
I suddenly felt shy again. “Well. It was nice meeting you.”
He snorted. “Oh, no. Please—don’t say that.”
He set down the magazine and I held up my hand. “Don’t get up. You’re a picture of the perfect Saturday morning right now.”
“If you insist.”
I bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks for helping me find some fun last night.”