#13 Gene Kely
Nathan followed me down the stairs of Marie’s little building, out onto her street with its crooked alleys and topsy-turvy buildings, and down the block despite the fact that I had no idea where I was going.
When I’d first arrived in Paris, Marie had let me wallow for exactly a week. Then she tried to use some of her spare time when she wasn’t in her cooking classes to take me around the city, but quickly discovered I was only interested in lying in bed. Museums held no appeal. I didn’t care about architecture. Music, art, fashion—none were interesting at all.
Since arriving, I’d only left her apartment to buy tampons and chips at the corner store. If I had to find my way back now, I honestly wasn’t sure I could.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked when I’d circled a building that brought us back to a corner that I was pretty sure we’d already passed.
“There’s a river somewhere,” I grumbled, looking down another identically charming street with white plaster buildings, shuttered windows, and cobbled sidewalks.
Nathan looked around like he thought the river might pop up out of the gutter, then seemed to make a decision. He took my hand and turned to the left. “It’s this way.”
I snatched my hand right back—not because it burned, but because it felt too good. I’d been yearning for that strong, capable touch for eight solid weeks, and now that he was offering it, I was legitimately afraid I wouldn’t let go.
And I had to let go. That was the one thing Iwassure of.
“How do you know your way around here so well?” I asked, noticing that Nathan seemed comfortable guiding me through the neighborhood.
“My parents took us on several tours of Europe when I was younger. We spent a lot of time in Paris.” He looked around. “I always liked St. Germain. It’s very clean.”
Of course, he’d been here before. Up until two months ago, the fact that Nathan had obviously come from a rich family had been essentially theoretical. I’d always known he had money. The fancy apartment. The luxe wardrobe. The expensive painting.
But having money to spend on things like that didn’t compare to an entire lifetime built on that kind of privilege—something I was quickly realizing I’d never really understand about him. Not completely.
“Paris is a notoriously difficult city to navigate because it’s not designed on a typical grid, like New York,” Nathan said.
He led me down another cobbled street, past several small galleries and a church from which Chopin was floating out to the sidewalk. I only knew that because it was the same song Mrs. Suarez used to play on a rickety piano while my beginner ballet class practiced our pliés.
“The arrondissements are organized kind of like a spiral,” he continued. “Your sister lives in the sixth, which is close to the city center. All of the neighborhoods have touchpoints from which the streets extend like asterisks, which can be even more confusing. But if you can find the Seine—that’s the river—you can usually reorient yourself pretty quickly.” Nathan paused, glancing at me sideways. “I’m going on. Sorry.”
I shook my head. “It’s interesting. Good to know, I guess.”
And it was, I supposed. Especially if I was going to stay here a while longer. Not because I’d listen to that voice read a user manual and be perfectly entranced. Not at all.
Nathan led me down another street lined with apartment buildings similar to the one Marie lived in, with their white plaster exteriors, limestone trims, and the garret roofs with their tiny balconies. The sun was shining, the occasional flower bloomed pink from cracks in the cobblestones, and the city smelled like wine and sunshine.
Under normal circumstances, this might have been the picture of a romantic day—April in Paris with the man I loved. But a cloud of dread hung over me the longer we walked. Mostly because I knew this had to end.
We rounded a corner and found ourselves on a busy street, directly across from which flowed the Seine, twinkling bright blue under the sun. On the stone walkways that ran alongside the water, people rode bikes, walked their dogs, or simply just meandered while smoking their cigarettes. Bridges arched across the water in both directions.
“That’s the Jardin,” Nathan said, pointing to the long expanse of green across the water. “And beyond that is the Louvre. But I thought we’d go here instead.” He pointed to a large building that had massive arched windows and multiple clock towers topped with spires like hats. “It’s the D’Orsay.”
I stared up at the building. The name meant nothing to me.
“It’s where the Degas collection is,” Nathan told me. “The artist who painted the ballerinas. I thought you might like to see them in person.”
I looked at him, at the hopeful expression on that ridiculously chiseled face.
“What are you doing?” I burst out before I could stop myself.
Nathan reared back, almost like I’d slapped him. “What do you mean?”
I waved my hand around like a flapping bird. It was so small, but I felt like a secret button had been pushed, shoving the adrenaline into my body that had been missing for two solid months. Suddenly, I wasn’t stuck in an endless cycle of listlessness. I was energized—mostly out of frustration.
“I mean, what in the mixed signals is going on here? This isn’t a date, Nathan. We aren’t meeting up for a stroll and a movie. Two months ago, you found out I was in a sex tape and hid it from you. Your family found out, and it ruined your chances of getting independence from them, which means I basically ruined your whole life. And now you’re here, acting like nothing happened, and I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”
By the time I was done speaking, my voice was cracking on almost every word. Several people glanced at us and murmured in French as they passed, clearly curious about the girl on the verge of a breakdown.
