A Love Like This (41 page)

The city was far less bustling than New
York, filled with sidewalk cafés and a lazy atmosphere that I
welcomed. The street seating was, of course, abandoned for the
warmth inside. It would be nice to visit again in the spring.
Meredith said there was no place on earth like springtime in Paris.
Again, my thoughts landed on Ryan and our plans to come together.
Loneliness out-shadowed any wonder that I’d momentarily been able
to conjure for my day’s adventure.

The bitter wind whipped my hair into my
eyes, and my gloved finger curled around a piece that found its way
into the corner of my mouth. I pulled up my GPS app on my phone and
entered the current address and that of the Louvre. It was
northeast of my hotel and across the Seine River, but less than a
mile. The wind would make my ears ache, but I chose not to hail a
cab. My time in New York conditioned me to walk blocks and blocks
without hesitation, so I didn’t give it a second thought. I passed
the French Institute, admiring the architecture, and promising
myself to visit before I left the city. Today, though, my heart
needed the more direct diversion that the Louvre and its
magnificent contents would provide. I could just wander and keep to
myself, which was all my fragile state could handle.

I hoped getting lost in the works of
Michelangelo, da Vinci, Degas, and Monet would occupy my mind and
ease the ache in my heart. I felt sick inside. Leaving just made a
tough situation worse. I knew it even before I left, but I just
couldn’t stay. The abyss between Ryan and I made it difficult for
me to tell him where I was, and I would be no better off than when
I left. I sighed, telling myself that he needed the distance to
gain perspective as much as I did.

I wasn’t even sure what I expected Ryan to
say to Jane, but after the bathroom scene at the gala. I was done
with her. I couldn’t feel sorry or empathetic anymore. The conflict
I felt was now centered around Ryan, alone.

Despite my whole self-talk about
perspective, I did want him to come after me to miss so much he
wouldn’t rest until he found me. Making him work for it was
selfish, it would be detrimental to his residency, and there was no
way I’d want his career to suffer, no matter what was going on
between us. Ever. Even if I lost him completely, I’d never wish him
anything but the very best. In that moment, I made the decision to
call him later that night and tell him where I was. I had so much
weakness where he was concerned, yet when we were together, he gave
me so much strength. Longing just to talk to him became
overwhelming.

My eyes filled with tears, and as quickly as
one fat drop fell onto my cheek, I hastily brushed it away. I
turned onto the bridge that would take me across the Seine and to
the museum sitting at the end of it. I could see it from here, and
its magnificence was nothing less than I expected.

I drew a deep breath, trying to calm my
nerves. I’d never questioned that Ryan and I would be together
forever, and I wanted to trust that. Except, this shit with Jane
was the first time he’d chosen not to be available to me. Even in
college when we were friends, and his girlfriends came and went, I
knew that if I needed him, he’d drop everything in a heartbeat.
That knowledge and my sketchpad were the only two things that held
my heart together on those long, solitary evenings. Now, here I was
again, with my art and uncertainty. I felt sad because I had to do
something this drastic to motivate that kind of devotion.

I couldn’t begin to guess what he’d do now.
Had I done enough damage to make him walk away from me? I didn’t
want to consider it, but my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. My
brain reeled so much I felt dizzy with it.

Seriously, I shouldn’t have been surprised
when he didn’t call me this morning. Isn’t that what I’d asked of
him? It wasn’t like him to give up all control and accept it
without a fight, so doubt dug away at me. Would he throw it all
back in my face? Ryan was proud and stubborn, but we’d always been
connected on some celestial level that was a force stronger than
either one of us. I closed my eyes, my throat beginning to tighten.
I clung desperately to that connection, praying it would be strong
enough to get us through it all. I stopped and grabbed the metal
railing on the bridge for support as regret washed through me. I
shouldn’t have left.

I wanted to turn right around and go home,
but Meredith would be angry that I started something I wasn’t
prepared to finish. It would certainly put my job in jeopardy, and
if God forbid, Ryan and I did break up, work was all I’d have to
get me through it.

The cold wind once again whipped my hair
back and pushed the remnants of my tears back toward my ears. Angry
at the mess I’d created for myself, I wiped them away with my
cashmere glove and straightened my spine.

I continued on my way, noticing many couples
on the bridge despite the icy temperature. Some passionately
kissing, some talking or laughing, but all wrapped up lovingly in
each other’s arms. As I drew closer to the center of the river, I
noticed the railing and fence were covered from top to bottom with
all shapes and sizes of padlocks. Glancing around, I watched the
couples and lifted a few of the locks to inspect them one by one.
Some were expensive and some the dime store variety. All of them
had two names and a date written with marker or scratched into the
metal; some adorned with ribbons, yarn, or charms. I placed my
elbows on the top of the fence and leaned over to look down at the
murky water.

The couple standing next to me were
obviously tourists, speaking in German. I observed them in my
peripheral vision without looking at them directly. The young man
put the padlock onto the fence, kissed the key then offered it to
his girlfriend. She took it in her hand and gave it her own kiss.
In a romantic gesture, the man placed his hand over hers, and
laughing, they flung the key into the Seine. I’d never felt more
alone than I did in that moment. I literally ached for Ryan to be
beside me; to slide my hand around his bicep and lean my head on
his strong shoulder. I swallowed back the lump of emotion in my
throat. It should be us throwing our own key into the river
below.

It was obvious from the expanse of locks on
both sides of the bridge, and the many couples adding to it, that
this was a long-standing lover’s tradition. I wondered about the
details of how it originated, whether it was connected to some
mythical legend, and if the city would let them remain in place.
Obviously, it was a pledge of unbreakable bonds symbolized by a
lock that could never be undone since it was nearly impossible to
recover the key. It would be so easy to burst into tears and sob my
heart out. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or impact the
happiness of these couples. I left the happy couples behind me and
hurried on to the museum, the whole time fighting the emotions
trying to erupt from within.

Two hours later, as I stood in front of the
miracle that was the statue of David, the gravity of what’d I’d
done to Ryan by leaving, without telling him, was still too fresh
to allow thoughts of anything else. The subject of Jane seemed
impossible for Ryan and I to discuss without blowing up at each
other. The pain of not being able to talk to him, with the same
ease that we communicated about everything else was the root of the
problem. More than Jane’s blatant attempts to take him; I was
completely devastated that the intimate closeness we shared did not
apply to this.

I admired the perfect outline of
Michelangelo’s most famous work and admitted to myself that David
had nothing on Ryan. He was my very own miracle.

I was tired, and longed for a coffee shop
that would allow me the Sunday ritual that had always made me feel
close, despite the distance. I found one close by and ordered
Ryan’s soy cappuccino double shot instead of the iced coffee that
was my usual. It was a small comfort, but it was something.

It was much stronger than I was used to, but
I sat with my hands wrapped around the cup, gazing into the blazing
fire from the central, stand-alone fireplace. The pipe that served
as makeshift chimney ran directly up to the vaulted ceiling. How
ironic that our choice of drink mirrored each of us so well: Ryan’s
so much stronger than mine. At least, that’s how I felt sitting
here, uneager to return to my empty hotel room and the even emptier
bed. At least here, I could imagine he was also having coffee at
the Hill of Beans near our house or even in the hospital cafeteria.
My mind couldn’t help reminding me that Jane was, no doubt, at the
hospital tagging along after Ryan like a dog. I deeply resented how
she invaded my thoughts of him, as she invaded our life
together.

It began to get darker, the sun dropping to
a place low in the sky and shone pink and orange in the violet sky
below the edge of the clouds that were moving to the east. I looked
forward to seeing the blue sky again tomorrow. In New York when you
looked up, the sky got lost in the metal, bricks, and glass of the
towering mass of buildings. The big expanse of sky and the art were
my two favorite things about Paris so far.

I pulled out my phone, and though it was
almost seven in the evening, it would be two o’clock on Sunday
afternoon in New York. I was unsure if Ryan would get the message,
but I had to send it anyway.

Having coffee and thinking of you. I know
things are messed up, but I miss you…

I waited for twenty minutes for a response
that never came and finished Ryan’s cappuccino, feeling bereft.

“Mon belle… Pourquoi avez-vous l’air si
triste?”

I looked up to find a very finely dressed
gentleman bending slightly at the waist as he inquired of me. I
could tell by the inflection in his voice he was asking me
something but I had no idea what. I took in the fine wool material
of his black suit and the silk of his sienna tie, just the briefest
shade darker than his shirt. I scrambled to pull up the
English/French dictionary on my iPhone. I only knew a few basic
phrases and had no idea what he’d just asked.

“Um…” I beseeched him with my eyes.
“Pardonnez-moi. Could you repeat that?” I asked, stupidly mixing
French and English. I ended up shaking my head in wry amusement.
“Je ne parle pas Français.” I grimaced at my horrible accent. I
shrugged apologetically and shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

“May I sit with you, mademoiselle?” He asked
in perfect English, his accent impeccable. “I have been admiring
you for quite some time as you sat here with your thoughts and felt
I had to ask why you appear so sad.”

The man was handsome, with salt and pepper
hair, cut short, and he had an immaculately groomed goatee, his
clothing and shoes as expensive as his carriage demanded they be. I
sat in silence as he sat down before I had the chance to
answer.

“It’s
Madame
and I’m simply missing
my husband, but thank you.” I grabbed for my coat but the man put
up his hand to stop me.

“Ah, he is a lucky man. There is no need to
run away,” he began with a charming smile. “You are quite
beautiful. Your husband is insane to leave you to wander cafés
alone.”

“I’m meeting up with him for dinner soon. He
had to work today, and I wanted to visit the Louvre,” I lied,
completely unprepared for such a situation.

“Ah, yes. It is amazing, is it not? It
should not be missed while in Paris. You are American?” he asked,
lifting his arm and signaling for the waiter. “Can I get you
another café?”

“No, thank you.” I studied his clear eyes
with their light laugh lines. He had a fatherliness about him that
settled me. It would be nice to lose a little time before facing my
lonely hotel room. “But, if you don’t mind… I am interested in the
locks on the bridge. Will you tell me about them?”

He flashed a brilliant smile. “But, of
course! First, I insist on introducing myself. My name is Étienne
Lemieux. And, you are?” He proffered his hand. I marveled at the
French language that made mere names sound like poetry.

“Julia Matthews.” I took his hand, and he
gently raised it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“The pleasure is mine, Julia. Americans are
always fascinated by our customs of love.”

My fingers fiddled with the napkin in my
lap.

“Before I get into the story, what brings
you to Paris?” His accent curled around each word like a lover.

“Work, I’m afraid. I’m a creative director
for Vogue.”

“Ah. Very impressive. So is that your
interest in the locks? A story for your magazine?”

I stopped and met his eyes, as the first
smile in what felt like forever lifted the corners of my mouth.
“You know what? That’s a fantastic idea.” I chuckled.

“Most Parisians know about the locks, so how
will you make interesting, eh?”

Étienne lifted his hand again and a waiter
promptly appeared. He ordered for both of us and soon more coffee,
sparkling water, and an assortment of fancy little sandwiches and
pastries appeared on the table.

“Personally, I would choose a different
venue for dinner, but you look like if you don’t eat you’ll blow
away,” he teased. “S’il vous plait.” He offered the sandwiches. I’d
just told him I was meeting Ryan, and though my stomach rumbled
painfully, I shook my head. I’d order something from room
service.

“No, thank you.” I felt at a loss not
knowing the language. I had the translator app on the phone but had
yet to use it, except in the cab from the airport. “Forgive me. I
always feel visitors should use the language of the country they
are visiting, but I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t quite gotten
the hang of things.”

Étienne took three sandwiches for himself,
setting them on the small lunch plate in front of him. “Nonsense.
Europe is a close community. We know many languages here. Come. You
must at least try a sweet. We have the best pâtisseries in our
city.”