Chapter 5 Cassie
Cassie
Now
Paris is not made for walking. Those cobblestones looked pretty in the pictures, but they’re vicious in real life.
My high-heeled sandals keep getting stuck in the crevices, on top of murdering my toes with every wobbly step.
These shoes make my legs look extra-long and I love them, but right now I can barely put one foot in front of the other.
“Should we take a taxi there?” I say, trying to catch up to Olivier.
Turns out this place is not literally “around the corner.” You’d think he could have told me that when he saw what I was wearing.
Twice, I asked him to slow down and wait for me.
He did, but only for a few minutes before speeding ahead, leaving me stuck behind elderly couples walking their overly groomed poodles.
He stops, letting me reach him once again. “We don’t really take taxis in Paris.”
He sounds like I should know this already. Like I’m so dumb to even ask. I hate that he succeeds, that I do feel dumb when he speaks to me like this. There’s so much about this world I don’t know, me, the country bumpkin.
“I can’t walk in these,” I say, my irritation covering up my shame.
When Olivier and I were in the city, I insisted we take Ubers everywhere. He didn’t complain then, just complied. He would have done anything for me.
“We’re almost there,” Olivier says with a shrug.
I glance down at my feet, letting out a big sigh in case I’m not being obvious enough. I dressed up for our first outing in Paris—a real husband would appreciate that.
“Trust me, okay?” he adds as he takes my hand. His grasp is so firm it makes the big diamond on my engagement ring twist and dig into my skin.
I’ve already received a few comments asking me to spill all about the surprise, so what choice do I have?
We turn the corner onto a square with even more uneven cobblestones, and Olivier guides me through every treacherous gap.
We’re walking so slowly that I catch a few people staring—laughing?
—at us. I sneak envious glances at the clothing stores lining the square and debate going into one to buy a pair of sneakers.
Eventually, we make it to Les Deux Magots, a fancy café with stark gold lettering—like it means money—a lush green awning, and penguin-clad servers moving around the tables with such choreographed gestures it feels like they’re doing a TikTok dance.
Olivier’s face falls when he notices how busy it is. Every table on the terrace is taken. While he heads over to the blasé-looking hostess, I whip out my phone. Even if we don’t get a table, I can still post about this place.
But first, there’s a text waiting for me:
So whats the surprise? Spill!
It’s from Brianna, one of my besties from high school.
Of course she’d ask. Brianna spent her honeymoon at a cabin in Vermont.
For a total of three days. She kept saying they were saving for a bigger adventure in a year or two, but then those conversations stopped and she started talking about starting to “try.” Try for what?
I’d asked. The rest of our group had glanced at me funnily.
It’s like, as we approached our thirties, everyone suddenly wanted to get married and have babies.
I felt so behind, suddenly. And then I wasn’t.
I take a snap of the bustling terrace, the glossy people with their sunglasses, cigarettes neatly tucked between their fingers and outfits straight out of an influencer’s feed.
But first, I write on my Stories over said picture, lunch at this fabulous spot. If you’re not drinking fine wine on a terrace, are you even in Paris?
No need to respond to the text; I’m sure Brianna will check my Insta in no time. She’s not the one who needs to see this anyway.
When I look up, Olivier is eagerly waving at me to come over.
Next to him, the hostess eyes me up and down, and I suddenly feel naked.
I mean, we’re basically dressed the same, except her gold sandals have low heels and her lipstick shade is a little lighter than mine.
Plus her hair is tousled in a way that makes it look like she woke up like this, even though there’s absolutely no way she woke up like this.
I glance down at my outfit. Okay, so maybe I don’t exactly look like her, but hey, one of us works at a restaurant and the other has all the money in the world to eat here.
That’s right, bitch. Olivier may look fancy and all but I’m footing the bill.
I’m the one who has everything she ever wanted.
Maybe not everything. Still, I lift my chin up and follow him to our table.
The hostess slams two menus down before we’re even seated and immediately walks away.
“What’s her problem?” I say.
Olivier shrugs. “She’s just…” He thinks about it for a moment. “French. Actually, she’s Parisian.”
I wait for a further explanation but that was it.
Our server comes by with a bread basket and a jug of water, then says something I don’t understand.
Olivier responds. In French. I mean, obviously.
It’s just that I’ve never heard him speak French before today, and it feels weird.
Rude, even. Almost like they’re talking about me behind my back, but in front of me.
I stare at him, once again expecting he’ll clue me in.
He stares back as the server hovers over me, shifting from one foot to the other.
I sigh, try to focus on the menu, which, thankfully, is translated.
But it still feels foreign. I knew about croque monsieur, but croque madame? And what even is “Poilane” bread? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Isn’t bread just bread? To be honest, I’m dying for a burger, but I don’t see one listed.
“You order first,” I tell Olivier.
“I already did,” he says.
See what I mean? Rude.
“Do you need help?” he asks now.
“I’m fine!” I scan the menu one more time. I don’t know what I want. At home, lunch often means leftovers, the last slice of pizza eaten straight from the box. (Why waste a clean plate.)
Feeling Olivier and the server’s eyes firmly on me, I let out a frustrated sigh and point at the most expensive item on the menu.
“I’ll have the beef fillet,” I say. A spasm crosses Olivier’s face.
It annoys me way more than the server’s obvious smirk.
“And a glass of white wine. The best you have.”
There’s an awkward silence that goes on for way too long, and I’m tempted to ask what the hell is going on. The server and Olivier exchange a glance and, finally, my husband speaks. “Red wine goes with beef. Usually.”
“Really?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I should have known that. Honestly, what I really want is an ice-cold beer, but after I mentioned wine on my Stories, it occurred to me that that’s what a chic Parisienne would drink. Plus, I feel like that should be my next picture.
The server suppresses a smile, but not very well.
I feel my cheeks go flush. “Red, yes. That’s what I meant. The best you have. And a side of french fries.” I say, handing back the menu.
“The beef fillet comes with potatoes, madame,” the server says.
“Can’t I have french fries?”
“House fries coming up.” The server walks away but Olivier still has that tight look on his face.
“What?” I say sharply.
“The beef fillet…?”
“What?” I insist.
He shrugs. “No one orders the most expensive item on the menu.”
“I can order whatever I want.”
“Of course, I…”
“This is supposed to be my honeymoon,” I cut in. I feel like a petulant child. I know I sound like one too, but I’m speaking the truth.
“Right.” And then in a lowered voice, “And mine too.”
I don’t respond. For a while, the only sound at our table comes from his leg jittering under, making the cutlery rattle.
I check my phone, subtly at first and then openly because who cares if I’m on my phone anyway.
No new messages. No comments. No signs. Olivier picks up the small pot of butter from the bread basket and slathers it thickly on a piece of baguette.
He shoves it a little too deep into his mouth, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something else.
When our order arrives, I can’t help but eye Olivier’s omelet with envy.
It’s runny and creamy and, though I’d never admit out loud, definitely a better choice than my beef, potatoes, and fries combo.
To add insult to injury, Olivier got a beer.
He catches me staring as his drink and our eyes lock.
I’m not sure what passes between us. We’re strangers, still now.
I knew that. I know that. I’d just never put much thought into it until today.
I grab a fry and take a bite. “I don’t know about this place,” I say without really thinking.
“I’m sure the beef is delicious.”
“I mean Paris. I’m starting to wonder…” I add. “Maybe we should…stop.” I’m not sure what I mean. I just know that this thing between us, it’s not working.
Olivier leans back, eyes wide. In shock. Or maybe pretending to be in shock?
“No,” Olivier says. It sounds so stark I think it surprises even him. “I mean, please, Cassie, we’re here. It’ll be fun. I promise.”
I roll my eyes. “Like you wanted to be here.”
“I did,” Olivier says. I raise an eyebrow. “I do. Of course I do.”
I pick up my glass to keep my hand busy. But then I take a sip and the wine is actually quite good. Smooth and fragrant.
Olivier reaches across the table for my other hand.
I watch as he rubs it. It feels more intimate than anything we’ve ever done.
“Cassie, I want this to be everything you want it to be. Or at least for it to look like it is,” he adds, glancing at my phone.
“Here,” Olivier adds, pushing his beer toward me.
I admit it’s tempting but I’m trying to make a point here. “I’m very happy with my wine.” Before he can insist, I gulp the whole thing down—the glass was only half-full anyway, what a scam—and gesture at the server to come over.
The stuffy elderly couple next to us—he in a tie, she with a flashy ring on every finger—turns toward me, faces twisted in poorly hidden distaste.
“I’ll have another one of these,” I say to the server, my eyes firmly on the two oldies and their judgmental attitude.
Olivier smiles at them apologetically and, for a moment, I consider storming out of here. What a snobbish place full of arrogant people. The thing is, my feet hurt. Instead I decide to check who viewed my Stories.
But before I can do that, Olivier reaches across the table again, this time for my phone. “Let me. You look great in this light.”
It’s hard to resist a picture on this gorgeous terrace.
And my second glass of wine has just arrived.
I raise it to my lips, adjust my sunglasses on top of my head, and look over Olivier’s shoulder instead of straight at the camera, like my husband is so smitten with me that he takes my picture without me even noticing.
“Wanna check if you like it?” he asks, handing me back my phone.
I do; it’s a good picture. And he was right, I look great. Relaxed, happy, even. I think. I smile as I post it to my Instagram. Paris is always a good idea, I write.
Then I take another sip. I thought I didn’t like wine, but I guess I was wrong.
All along, Olivier’s eyes never leave me.
“Look, Cassie, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I want this to be a week that we’ll never forget.
But I know you have your own…needs as well.
” He glances at my phone but moves on quickly.
“If you just give me the chance…I’ll make sure you have the most amazing adventure here.
” He looks down at his plate and takes a bite before continuing.
“And maybe you could use a night away from me,” he says softly.
“In fact, I might catch up with some friends while I’m in town, if that’s okay with you. ”
“Without me?” I feel like I should be offended. And I kind of am.
“Well, um, I didn’t think you were interested in meeting my friends.
But if you want to, of course I’d love for you to come.
It’s just that we’ll be speaking French all night and it’s a bunch of guys.
It might be a little boring. But you know what, I’ll text them right now and tell them that I can’t leave my beautiful wife on our honeymoon. ”
Do his friends even know about me? I know why they weren’t at our wedding—it was too rushed for that—and Olivier isn’t on social media. Seriously. No one can see what he’s up to.
Olivier slips his phone out of his pocket. “Thursday good with you?”
I put my fork down. I can’t say I care about Olivier’s friends. I only ever thought about how he was going to fit into my life, not the other way around. Before I can answer, my own phone beeps with a new text. The name on the screen makes my heart leap. Darren. Well, hello there!
Hey. Paris looks good on you. A little too good, if I’m being honest. Makes me wonder…
I swallow, hard. This is the text I’ve been waiting for. The sign I’ve been dying for all these weeks.
“Cassie?” Olivier says.
I can’t look away from my screen. The three dots appear, and I hold my breath.
“Everything okay?” Olivier says.
I nod. Smile. Everything is very much okay. Paris was a good idea after all.