Chapter 34 Closed
CLOSED
Michelle
I was used to being alone. Had grown more than comfortable with my own company so it was only natural for me to leave, wet hair and all.
I hadn’t expected the pain though. The ache in my chest from walking away.
It felt like a fresh wound, bleeding and tender, seeping crimson tears into the rest of my body, a trail of my unrequited love for him.
I pushed on sunglasses even though the sky was turning gray.
Typical Paris weather. But I needed to hide my eyes or everyone could see the sadness.
With my arms crossed over my chest, I walked through the mid-morning crowds on Rue Royale, past the designer shops, past Cartier and Lanvin, wishing I weren’t sore in my ass.
I shook my head, frustrated with myself, and nearly bumped into a woman walking a small Terrier mix.
“Pardon,” I mumbled as I kept up my pace.
It seemed an indignity to have gone there with him last night, only to have him decide the next morning to suddenly confess all his goddamn guilt.
I’d tried so hard to be rational, to separate myself from all he’d shared, to be the consummate professional.
But inside, I’d been reeling, sent back to the starting line.
Do not cross go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
You are once again in love with a man who doesn’t love you.
Fine, fine. The situation was vastly different from Clay.
He hadn’t even known how I felt, and he never reciprocated.
With Jack, I knew he cared. I knew he wanted me.
But was he even capable of love? That’s what terrified me.
He hadn’t returned my words the other night, and he certainly hadn’t left me with any reassurances this morning either. He’d only said, “You are.”
A slight reassurance, but it didn’t cut it.
I understood why he’d left Aubrey, and I didn’t fault him for that.
But I had to wonder if the man could ever take a big step, and I needed a big step.
I’d taken it with him. Not through sex, but by loving him.
Loving him desperately. I didn’t want just sex with him anymore.
I wanted it all, and I barely had anything.
But that was my own fault, wasn’t it? I’d overstepped the conditions of our deal.
Typical. So damn typical of me. I always fell for the wrong guy. I always felt too much. I needed a straightjacket for my heart. Cage the damn thing up, and wrap chains around it. Stupid organ was working overtime, and I needed it to work less.
I marched past a café with a red awning, and peered inside at the plates of eggs and bread being served. My stomach rumbled. I was hungry, and I was mad for being hungry. Didn’t my stomach know that my heart and my head were a terrible mess?
I spotted a couple in the corner, the man happily feeding the woman a slice of potato. The woman rolled her eyes in pleasure. His arm was draped over her shoulder.
I wanted to hiss at them.
I looked away, resuming my walk, but suddenly lovers were everywhere. Around every corner. On every bench. In every café. I didn’t want to be surrounded by lovers. I wanted to escape from my head, and all these thoughts pounding at me, begging for attention.
At the next taxi stand, I grabbed a cab, and sped off to Gare Saint-Lazare. An hour later, the train rattled into Giverny, and I caught another taxi to Monet’s Gardens.
I bought a ticket, and crossed into another world, a kaleidoscope of colors with reds, yellows and oranges that blazed under the sun.
I wandered through lush fields of purple tulips, red irises, pink poppies and reached the pond where the water lilies floated lazily in the glassy blue waters, under the watchful gaze of a weeping willow.
I walked through the fall morning mist, staring at the endless beauty before me, at the pinwheel of colors—rich purples, pale blues, emerald greens. I wished love were as easy as this garden. As easy as knowing this was as close to perfection as the world would ever get.
But love was not a garden. It was a war zone right now, and I had no notion of whether to retreat or rejoin the battle.
I only knew that it would be wise to have my own hotel room.
I phoned the Sofitel and booked a second room for the next few nights, biting out the words so I wouldn’t break down and sob.
This was not how I’d planned to spend five days in Paris with him.
Apart.
Jack
I buried myself in work for the next few hours. I couldn’t do anything else. Thinking about her hurt too much.
I put on blinders, and narrowed my focus solely to work.
My venture studio didn’t currently have any start-ups that needed me, so even though it still reminded me too much of Michelle, I threw myself into Joy Delivered.
Tending to matters. Dealing with suppliers.
Even reviewing the plans we’d put together to “change the conversation” when it came to Conroy’s plans to redevelop. The plans were good, solid, strong.
Casey had sent over the marketing strategy.
Eden was making headway too. It wouldn’t take much now to get momentum on our side.
A few well-placed signs outside Henry’s Upper East Side store, a few online ads, and some social media mentions.
Casey’s friend at the paper had finally sat down with Henry and Marquita, and had gotten quotes from several local businesses about how important it was to work with them.
Word was finally starting to spread about exactly how Eden, and thus Joy Delivered, contributed to the community.
Conroy had been winning with a message that appeared like a concerned outsider. We would overtake him, with a far, far better one—that the community didn’t need his redevelopment. In fact, the real concern was what he would do to the tight-knit, neighborhood-centric community.
The approach would work; I was as sure of that as I was of anything when it came to business.
I knew how to navigate the choppy waters of the business world.
Show me a problem, I’d show you the solution.
That was my specialty. Applying logic. Studying the map and seeing a new route through.
Finding the path that others hadn’t spotted yet.
With Michelle, I was sure of nothing. I felt so damn much for her. It was like a geyser inside me, overflowing, and I didn’t know what to do with all these thoughts rushing at me. Confessing about Aubrey was like sloughing off the past, shedding all that had held me back.
So why couldn’t I take the next step with her?
Michelle vexed me. My feelings for her had thoroughly and completely thrown me off. I had to solve the problem. I had to figure this out. I slammed my laptop shut and paced the room. To the window. To the bathroom door. To the couch again.
The whole damn room smelled of her. I grabbed her red dress from last night; it had been tossed onto a chair by the window.
It probably landed there when I tugged it off her.
Bringing it to my nose, I inhaled her. She was in me.
She filled me. She flooded my nostrils, and permeated every pore of my body.
I dropped the dress on top of her suitcase, missing her, even when she’d only been gone a few hours.
I grabbed my phone, just in case she’d texted or called. But my screen was quiet, and it pissed me off. I stared at the phone as if it were the phone’s fault, then I gunned it at the ground.
It clunked dully on the carpet.
“Fuck,” I muttered. I couldn’t even throw a phone properly. I couldn’t even break a piece of technology. I swiveled around, hunting for a glass, a vase, something. But then I stopped, shoving my hand through my hair. Throwing shit wasn’t the solution. I knew better.
I slid the room key into my back pocket, grabbed my phone and wallet, and then left, hoping the distance would mute the longing.
I reached the lobby, and then walked out the revolving doors onto the Paris sidewalk, the sounds of the French language falling on my ears. I invited it in, hoped it would quell the confusion in my head as I walked and walked and walked. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a destination.
There was only the sidewalk. And the gray sky. And the noises and sights of the city. The clink of espresso cups at cafés, the lush raspberries on a tart in a bakery window, the silvery necklaces on display in a jewelry shop. The beauty for beauty’s sake.
Her.
Everywhere.
In front of me.
Behind me.
In my head.
And here, right here, in the perfume bottles in front of me.
Because maybe, somewhere, deep down I’d had a destination.
I hadn’t known it consciously, but somehow I knew.
I’d found myself in the passage with the mosaic floor and the latticework ceiling and all the shops that were now open, including this one where I’d been with her. Where I’d begun unraveling.
La Belle Vie was the name. A beautiful life.
I stopped at the window, pressing my fingertips against it, like a kid staring longingly inside a candy shop.
There they were—mirrored shelves upon shelves of perfume bottles like we’d seen the other night.
I squinted, and swore that in a far corner of the shop I could see a sapphire-blue bottle.
The one she’d wanted. I ran for the door, and stopped short when a hunched-over man in a faded blue sweater was locking the door, then swinging around a sign that said FERMé.