14. Rule #14 Take the long way home.
Matis
The moment the siblings are out of sight, the smile fades from my face and my concern for Amelia returns.
Looking at her now, she seems mostly calm and settled.
I know that being outside helps. I’ve seen her have these fits before.
I know from experience that cool air and space do the trick to bring her back down.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I place my hands softly on her arms, and she doesn’t flinch or pull away.
“I’m fine,” she says, wiping her bangs from her forehead. At the start of our evening, her hair was perfectly straight and flawless, but after time on the dance floor and in that crowd, it’s now tousled and dried in messy waves.
“Something is wrong, Trouble,” I say. It’s mostly the way she won’t look into my eyes. She’s lost in her mind, dwelling on something she doesn’t need to.
With a sigh, she finally meets my gaze. “It’s just…I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. I feel like I’ve ruined it.”
My heart aches for her. Carrying so much burden. Worrying all the time with everything on her shoulders.
Let me carry it.
Holding my arms out, I look up at the cloudless night sky. “It’s early, Trouble. The night is still young. You didn’t ruin anything.”
She chuckles and glances down at the cobblestones. “Our dates are gone.”
“Who needs dates? Let’s take the long way home. I’ll show you my Paris. We’ll make this night last forever.” Putting my arm out for her, I look at her with soft hope.
Reluctantly, she seems to surrender with a smile. “Okay.” Then she loops her arm through mine and nestles into my side.
It’s half past eleven when we start our walk home. In any other city, a midnight walk would probably be strange or dangerous, but Paris is alive at night, especially in the summer. The sun doesn’t even set until almost ten, and people need time to live in the dark before going to sleep.
So when we start our trek from the 4th arrondissement, the streets are still bustling. Right away, our pace is leisurely. She wants to make tonight count, so that’s what I will do.
We stroll through the Latin Quarter, the sound of a busker playing in the distance, and I glance down at the woman on my arm.
I cannot get the vision of her with that boy out of my head.
He’s not right for her, and she seems to think he is.
I’m supposed to be helping her find a good man, and I can’t bring myself to do it.
I am her perfect man.
But that is ridiculous. It can’t be me. I’m a deviant for even thinking such a thing.
So I have to get these thoughts out of my head—for good.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmur as I squeeze her arm gently.
She glances up at me with those doe eyes. “Of course.”
“What do you really want to do with your life? Is your dream truly to work at the club?”
Her eyes linger on my face, her expression flickering before she looks straight ahead. I’ve struck a nerve.
“I’m blessed to have my portion of the club.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She glances back up at me, hesitation on her lips before she replies. “Is it bad if I say no?”
“Not at all. Why would it be bad?”
She releases her arm from mine, putting space between us so she can angle her body toward me. We halt our walk, the Notre-Dame de Paris hovering in the skyline behind her as she gets a look of both frustration and exhilaration in her eyes.
“Because it makes me ungrateful.”
“No, it does not.”
“I am grateful,” she persists, making me smile.
“I know you are.”
“But I do want more.”
I reach out a hand toward her, and my heart practically brightens up like a light bulb in my chest when she takes it. “What do you want, Trouble? Tell me your dreams.”
With a gentle squeeze, she replies, “I want to be a real fashion designer.”
“Then you should be one.”
“It’s not that easy,” she says with a chuckle.
“Dreams aren’t often easy, Amelia. That’s what makes them dreams. What do you need to do to become a designer?”
With a playfully exasperated look, she grins, shaking her head at me. But her hand never leaves mine as we continue our walk.
“Well, there is this incubator program I want to get into. It’s this thing where they mentor new designers.”
“You should apply,” I reply enthusiastically.
She hops up onto the curb, walking along the edge, wearing a mischievous grin. As she steps down, she turns that brilliant smile on me.
“I already did.”
Pride swells in my chest. “That’s my girl,” I reply, tugging her toward me and planting a kiss on the side of her head.
“But they want a portfolio and some sort of visual pitch.”
“What does that mean, visual pitch?”
“It means like a video or even like a fashion show of sorts.”
“So you should have a fashion show. You can use the club.”
I adore the way she lights up with excitement when something sparks her interest. I can see already the way the wheels are turning in her head. She bites her bottom lip and averts her gaze to something unfocused. She’s working up something brilliant, I can tell.
“You really think so?” she mumbles, but she doesn’t need my validation. Deep down, she already knows this could work.
Pulling her under my arm, I hold her against my chest. “Of course I do. You can do anything, Trouble.”
We stop at a crosswalk, and she turns to wrap her arms around my chest. “Will you help me?”
I’ll do anything for you.
Those are the words on my lips. The ones I definitely should not utter out loud.
Fuck it.
“I’ll do anything for you, Trouble.”
The proximity of her eyes to mine, her lips only inches away, and the soft sound of music playing in the distance are a recipe for disaster. We are frozen in place, and I’m afraid I’ve just terrified the poor girl.
What is wrong with me? I know I can be a little intense at times, and Amelia is used to it, but even I know I’ve overstepped. I’m her godfather. I should not be holding her like this and whispering such intimate, delicate things in the heat of the moment.
Something sparkles in the corner of my eye, and we both turn at the same time to see the Eiffel Tower glisten with flickering gold lights.
“It’s midnight,” she whispers.
“It’s late,” I reply, although a moment ago, I told her the night was young. That was before I turned into her creepy, overstepping godfather.
Instead, she turns her head toward me. “Late? This is Paris. You said so yourself. The night has only begun.”
Then, with that, she takes my hand and tugs me across the street.
“Come on, old man,” she says with a playful laugh. “You promised to show me your Paris.”
My Paris. She wants to see the city through my eyes, so that’s what I intend to show her. It’s nearly one thirty when we veer down an alley of the Seine. Most of the time, I do the listening as she speaks. As it should be.
She tells me more about the program she’s applying for, and I eat up every word. Her passion fuels me. I could listen to her for hours.
“Where are we going?” she asks after we’ve separated from the other stragglers walking down the riverbank.
“I used to come here as a kid,” I say, holding her hand tight in mine. “I know the owner.”
Coming to a small courtyard behind an old bakery, I reach over the top of the gate and find the hidden latch I used as a teenager to enter.
For a brief period, I helped out in the kitchen, showing up after an unruly night spent in the clubs to mix massive vats of flour and water, roll out thin sheets of pastries, or fold croissant dough over and over again.
Amelia lets out a delicate gasp when the latch clicks and the gate opens. As I enter the courtyard behind the bakery, she tugs on my arm.
“You are trespassing!” she whisper-shouts.
I only laugh. “I do not trespass,” I say with a wink. “I am invited everywhere.”
The innocent half smile that stretches across her face is warm with a hint of mischief and excitement. Her eyes dance toward the open courtyard, and she finally relents, letting me tug her inside.
“And you call me trouble,” she says as she glances around like we are about to be arrested or attacked by vicious dogs.
“You learned from the best,” I reply, keeping her soft fingers in my hand.
I shut the gate behind us as Amelia scopes out the space. It’s small, as every free inch of space within Paris is. There’s an old set of rusty iron chairs near the door and a tree outgrowing the ground between buildings, its roots erupting through cracked concrete and sparse grass.
Still, even in its disarray, it’s beautiful.
And the glisten in Amelia’s eyes proves she appreciates that.
She lets out a sigh, dropping into one of the old chairs and staring up at the stars peeking through the leaves. We are surrounded by the Haussmann-style buildings that can only be found here in my city. Cream-colored limestone and warm brick-hued chimneys on slanted roofs.
I glance down at her, watching her breathe it in, and I know that if I had brought any other woman here, she’d scoff, lifting her nose at the lack of luxury found in these little corners of Paris that we locals keep a secret from the tourists.
But this is Amelia. The heiress to a billion-dollar fortune who still takes the Métro and shops in secondhand stores and eats at greasy dives.
She doesn’t let the luxuries of her wealth absorb her personality. She was born with wild will and a free spirit. She longs for life, not comfort.
Pulling out the keys from my pocket, I use the one that’s been on the ring for the last thirty-five years and unlock the back door of the bakery. Amelia doesn’t move from the chair as I rifle through the selection of unsold baked goods left on the counter in old brown bags.
When I return to her a moment later with a selection of the best macarons in Paris, her eyes light up.
“Oh, the rose ones are my favorite.”
Holding out my hand, I watch as she takes the pink one, bringing it to her lips with a soft hum of delight. And the only thing better than watching her enjoy something so unabashedly is knowing that I chose her favorite flavor on the first try.
I take a bite of the pistachio, and it is delicious. But the flavor pales in comparison to watching her enjoy hers.
What is this feeling?
It’s as if the moment I noticed how beautiful and sexy Amelia is, the chemistry of my brain was altered. I have loved her without doubt or hesitation for years, but never like this. I see her so differently now.
Amelia, the woman.
Amelia, the woman…I want.
The more my brain processes this desire, the less shocked and disgusted the reflex is. As if I am becoming desensitized to my own shame.
These are desires I will never act on, and just knowing the want is there is still unsettling. But with time, I’ll eventually accept it.
How can I help it? She is perfect and beautiful in every way. What man wouldn’t yearn for her?
She takes another cookie from my hand and rests her head on my shoulder as she chews.
“So,” she mumbles with her mouth full. “What did you think of him?”
I swallow, the sudden discomfort in my throat a sign that I don’t like talking about other men with her.
Without a choice, I reply, “He seemed…nice.”
She chuckles. “You don’t like him.”
“It doesn’t matter if I like him.”
“Yes, it does,” she says with a sigh.
Why? Why does it matter if I like him? I want to ask, but I don’t. Because I’m afraid the answer is that I am like a father figure to Amelia. A truth I can ignore all I want but it doesn’t make it less true.
“I know he’s a little…strange, but so am I,” she says.
“You are not strange.”
“I’m different,” she argues.
“Everyone is different, Trouble.”
“You know what I mean.” Her voice sounds despondent and frustrated, and I hate that she has to feel this way. I do know what Amelia means. I will never know what it’s like to live in her mind, so how could I make her see that she is no less normal than anyone else?
“Being different is not strange,” I whisper. Then I turn my head and place my lips against her soft blond hair.
It’s quiet for a moment as we both finish our midnight sugar fix. She finally adds, “I do like him.”
Those four words feel like stones being hurled at my chest. They land with a violent thud against my heart.
“I’m glad you like him,” I lie.
“I think he wanted to kiss me good night, and I feel bad that we didn’t.”
“Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t matter what he wants.”
This makes her chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
She lifts her head and stares up at me with those vibrant blue eyes that seem to shine even in darkness. “Do you try to be perfect, or does it just come natural to you?”
My brows shoot upward. “Me? Perfect?”
“Yes, you,” she replies, shoving me playfully on the shoulder. “You always say the right thing. You’re never selfish or inconsiderate. You would quite literally be the best boyfriend on the planet and yet…you’re never anyone’s boyfriend. Least of all mine.”
My lips part, and I stare down at her without a single smart thing to say. I have never seen myself in that light. I am selfish and inconsiderate. And I don’t always say the right thing.
And yet…I have shown Amelia all the good parts of myself. I have spent her entire life proving to her—and possibly myself—how good and perfect I could be.
Suddenly the truth hits me square in the chest, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. I am speechless with the verity of it all.
I have set her up with impossible standards.
This might be the biggest barrier between us. Bigger than her being my goddaughter. Bigger than her father being my best friend. Bigger than the twenty-eight years that divide us.
What kind of man does this make me?
What have I done to this poor girl?