Chapter 21 Daniel
DANIEL
After a short trip in Nice, we greet the blue skies, calm seas, and warm, salty air of Marseille the next morning.
It’s a new day. But it feels like so much more. Days used to be units of time that I was hell-bent on carpe diem-ing, seizing every second, biting into them like peaches, savoring their juices as they delivered pleasure, money, and material goods.
Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow you shall die.
That’s been my mantra. It’s served me well. But today feels a bit like a new start. Like a day can be more than a feast of the senses. Like it could open up possibilities, enable promises.
That’s a terrifying thought, but a strangely welcome one too.
Perhaps because I survived telling Scarlett my secret shame.
I opened up to her, and my world didn’t shatter. The opposite happened. We came together last night, softer than the night before, more tenderly. I was careful to leave no bruises, since she’d already been marked. I kissed all those bluish spots on her body, honored them with my lips.
Now here we are in a new town, bags dropped off, room surveyed, grounds toured, stairwells checked out, and views appraised.
Le Pavillon de Marseille is not only up to our corporate standards, but it’s exceeding them in all sorts of ways.
That includes its proximity to town, so we wander through it.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, we travel along the busy streets. Tourists dart in and out of shops, peer into windows, stop at cafés.
Scarlett stops in front of a stationery store that peddles old-fashioned parchment right alongside quirky cards with funny notes like a cat with a speech bubble saying, “You’re okay, I suppose.”
I regard the woman I’ve been spending the last few days with. Scarlett seems to be changing too, ruled less by clocks and to-do lists.
Vacation Scarlett is as enticing as Type-A Scarlett. The let-down-her-guard look suits her. I hope to see more of it.
I set a hand on her arm as she stares in the window. “There’s the lollygagger in you again,” I tease.
“Exactly. I told you I could linger, and you simply didn’t believe me.”
“Color me surprised, then.”
“Good. I’m glad I’m surprising you. Or maybe it’s just the endorphins talking,” she says, teasing me, tossing my words back at me.
“I like these endorphins. I’d like to keep taking them,” I say, before the meaning of my words truly registers.
Did I just tell her I wanted to keep seeing her like this, keep having her?
Her eyes pop for a brief second as if she noted the potential in my words, but she says nothing. That’s so very like her. She doesn’t press or push but takes her time. She gives time to figure out her wants.
That’s what I’ve been doing too. I’m figuring out things that I want, and what I’ll do to get them. To keep them.
But as soon as those thoughts flit through my head, I wholly dismiss them.
I have to.
It’s one thing to share an intensely personal story; it’s another to think I’m ready to live my life differently.
This tryst is ending. We agreed to that in Giverny. She wanted the expiration date too. It’s for the best for both of us.
And that means I’ll continue carpe diem-ing.
She nudges my arm. “Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on me. Made me a lollygagger.”
“I like to rub off on you.”
She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Fine, I walked right into that.”
“You did, love. You definitely did.”
“Guilty as charged,” she says, sighing contentedly as we stroll, window-shopping, checking out wine stores, bookshops, and an ice-cream vendor.
I reach for her hand, clasp it, and bring her close. With her body flush against mine, I draw her in for a kiss.
That’s what she needs. That’s what I want to give her.
Even if this fling is ending, we can enjoy each moment. I can give her the best of me and still save her from the worst of me—my other side.
I kiss her, making it a promise that I’ll cherish her, treat her well, give her all the respect and adoration she deserves, and that I won’t break her heart by exposing too much of it to mine.
The kiss ends, and we walk across the street hand in hand.
Sure, we’re lingering in town, but we’re technically still working, making sure that these inn locations are ideal in every way, near to all the shops, close to the cafés, accessible to tourist activities.
Ah, hell.
Who fucking cares?
I’m not working. I’m living, soaking in the Mediterranean as it stretches to the horizon like the sea is reaching into the next day.
Maybe tomorrow will be as good a day as today.
At the end of the street, an antique shop comes into view. The window display boasts a bureau, a rolltop desk, and an old-fashioned accordion.
When we reach the store, Scarlett slows her steps, drawn to a violin in the corner of the window.
My heart lunges at it, wanting to grab it, clutch it, pick it up.
Scarlett turns to me, her eyes locking with mine. For a flash of a second, I see pity in them.
But is that truly pity? Or is pity only what I reflect back to myself?
Tension mounts in me, since I’m not sure I want to talk about my music if she’s going to ask. She didn’t poke or prod yesterday, and that helped. I’d said my piece; I didn’t have more to say.
But perhaps she does.
She tips her forehead to the window. “What was your favorite piece to play?”
That is a question I can answer.
More so, I want to.