Icy Pretty Love (25 page)

Sam: Yeah. But like I said, valid complaints.

RG: Shit. Still, that's pretty awkward. Sorry.

Sam: ...You're apologizing to me?

Sam: You should be the angry one.

RG: I know I should be.

RG: But the thing is...

RG: I liked Sam a lot! And it made me sad to think I'd leave Paris without ever getting to meet him.

RG: So in a way, I'm happy! Because it turns out I'd already met him. Haha.

Sam: That's true, I suppose.

Sam: Anyway. Rae.

Sam: What you said about me not wanting to be with you because of those reasons...

Sam: I'm not good with words. I'm not one of those people who can use them as tools to break open their hearts and feed them to other people in a way that makes sense.

Sam: I've always had trouble getting what's inside me to come out into the air.

Sam: So I hope you can factor that in when I tell you, without reservations, that there is nothing farther than the truth than what you said.

Sam: We've all made mistakes, Rae. We're all a little unclean.

Sam: But not in the way you mean. You were just doing what you had to.

Sam: The real people who are tainted are the ones who've been cruel, who've been cold, who've hurt people.

Sam: I'm the tainted one, Rae. Not you.

Sam: You're pure.

Sam: And the reason I don't think I could be with you is because I'd be too afraid of ruining that purity.

Sam: It's what we've done with our brains and hearts that matters, Rae. Not what we've done with our bodies.

Sam: It's getting dark. Will you come home?

Sam: Tell me where you are. I'll send Geoff to come pick you up.

I text him my location. It's hard, because my fingers are wet with tears.

Pure. That word has such a beautiful ring to it.

Pure, pure, pure.

I have to remember the sound of that word. I have to remember that he meant it when he said it's what I was.

I have a feeling it's important.

Geoff drops me off at the curb. When I walk into the lobby, Renard lowers his newspaper just enough to give me a nod. Considering my reception three weeks ago, that's practically a hug and a kiss.

In the elevator, I press the button for every floor so I have time to think. And by think, I mean time to bite my lip to shreds. Finally, the elevators hits the top floor and I can either go back down to the first and face Renard's confusion or suck it up and get out. So I do.

Cohen's on the phone when I open the door.

His eyes widen with relief and gladness. He beckons me in. I shut the door quietly behind me, not wanting to make too much noise, because I can already recognize the voice on the other end, shouting loud enough that I can hear him even though he's not on speaker. Cohen's dad.

"You heard correctly," says Cohen calmly, pointing the phone and mouthing an apology at me. "LeCrue offered to sell me his company, and I turned him down."

More muffled yelling. Cohen walks into the kitchen and brings out a mug of tea, handing it to me. He must have prepared it in advance.

"Because I've had enough of lies," he says. "No, you listen to me. Do you think that's the kind of thing Mom would have wanted?"

Silence on the other end. Cohen clears his throat. "I'm going to make my own way from now on. Your support is not necessary. You can try to drag me back into rehab if you like, but a drug test will be required for that, and I think you'll find it to be clean. No, I don't care if you refuse to pay Rae. I have more than enough in my own accounts to pay her myself."

He smiles reassuringly at me. I decide not to say anything.

"That's all I have to say to you," he says, and hangs up the phone.

For a minute, silence hangs in the air. I curl my hands around the mug and drink. "You left the teabag in too long," I say.

"Everyone's a critic." He sits behind me on the couch.

"I believe you." I look down into the swirl of black water.

"That everyone's a critic?"

"No, idiot. About...about what you said. When you texted me." I take a deep breath. "It's hard. And my instinct is to not believe you. But I'm going to try to. Because if you can change yourself, I should change the things that are bad about myself, too. And I'm going to start with trusting you."

"I'm glad," he says softly. Both my hands are on the mug, and he covers them with his, so that a delicious sensation of warmth starts in my fingers and travels through my whole body.

I try to smile. "We have this week, right? We have a whole week, just you and me. That's what matters."

"Then I'm going to make it the best week of your life."

He leans forward and kisses me.

It is the best week of my life.

We wander around the Champs de Mars park, buying ice cream even though it’s cold outside, and warming each other’s hands afterwards. We take the open-air Bateau Mouche boat down the Seine River, and Cohen only corrects the tour guide twice. We walk along the Promenade Plantee and sit beneath the one cherry tree that’s bloomed abnormally early, as if to make sure I get to see it before I leave. We climb to the top of the Notre Dame and imitate the expressions of the gargoyles. We explore the Luxembourg Gardens, Versailles, the Quai d’Orsay Museum.

We spend hours in bed, folded together like origami cranes. We kiss until my lips are sore and swollen, and then we kiss more. We cook for each other, we give each other massages, we give each other everything.

It’s the kind of week I never thought a girl like me would have. The kind of bliss I never knew I’d have the right to experience. But I take it unabashedly, without guilt or reservations. This is my happiness. And I do deserve it.

At the end of everything, he takes me to the airport.

I’m running late. We stole an extra hour in the bath together and now we’re paying for it. I might miss my plane.

I want to miss my plane.

I’m standing at the escalator that leads up to the place where only the people who’ve gone through security can go. It might as well be a different world. The afterlife. The security guard beside the escalator watches us out of the corner of his eye.

“Are you sure,” I begin, meaning to finish the sentence, but I can’t.

His hand cups my cheek. His words are slow and determined.

“You’ve started me on the path to being a better person, Rae. But I have to go the rest of the way myself. I want to. And when I trust myself more, when I know I’m the kind of man you deserve, I’ll come find you. I promise.”

“Or you could forget all that sappy stuff and just come now,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, but it wobbles.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. I close my eyes. When he kisses me, a warm deliciousness pours through my entire body, like melted chocolate tipped into a mug.

“Go,” he says into my mouth. “Before I lose my resolve.”

I take two steps. Tears are streaming down my face.

The security guard stops me. “One more kees, for the boy,” he insists.

I turn and throw myself into Cohen’s arms. We kiss for what seems like an eternity. Universes are born and die in the time we spend kissing.

Eventually I tear myself away.

“One more—” The security guard starts again, but I laugh-cry—

“I can’t! I’ll miss my plane!”

And then I’m on the escalator, and it’s taking me up, up, far away.

I can see him. His eyes are damp. And I’m struck by how sudden this all feels, how abrupt. It was like—it was just starting, the story of us. I have to pray that he meant it when he said it wasn’t over yet.

I hold up a hand and wave, weakly. He waves back.

Then the escalator goes up a floor and I can’t see him anymore.

~One year later~

“One soy milk hazelnut latte!” I sing, pushing the specified drink over the counter.

Roger takes it, but he doesn’t leave. There’s no one in line behind him. He’s nerd-cute, with his oversized hipster glasses and soft brown deer hair, but habitually shy. I always have time to make his drink in advance because he dithers in front of the door before gathering enough courage to come in, unaware that we can see him.

“Thanks, Rae,” he stammers. “Er—did you finish the homework for Professor Li?”

“Not yet,” I smile. “I’m almost done with the reading, though. I’m gonna finish it when I get off. Which is pretty soon, actually! Half an hour.”

“What a coincidence! That’s when I get off too.” He tugs at the collar of his jacket, like he can’t get enough air. Fresh snow is still melting on his shoulders.

I tilt my head to the side. “But you’re not at work.”

“That’s—that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what exactly
do
you mean by saying you get off in half an hour?”

Behind me, Tabitha, my tiny coworker, giggles madly.

Roger finally figures out what I mean. He turns bright red. “Sorry, not like that—I was just—oh I don’t know—I was just wondering if maybe—you might want to hang out. When you get off. And I get off...like…finishing my coffee. Not getting off as in…getting off. With you. Completely platonic getting off.”

“Roger, I already told you I have to do my homework after work.”      

His shoulders slump. “Oh. Right. Homework. Of course. Duh.”

“I’m free at seven,” Tabitha pipes up behind me.

His shoulders perk right back up. “And you are…?”

I leave them to it, busying myself with organizing tea packets. It’s not that Roger’s a bad guy. He let me copy his notes that one time I was sick and couldn’t make it to class. And he’s fairly sweet, too.

He’s just not…

I stop that thought in its tracks. It’s been a year, Rae. If he were going to come, he’d have come by now.

I have to tell myself that at least once a day. Hope is a funny thing. When you’re distracted, when your head’s turned, it sneaks back in, even if you’re sure you’ve banished it. Nothing can keep it out for long.

Eventually Roger leaves, with Tabitha’s number written on the underside of his empty cup. Tabitha prods my elbow to get my attention.

“Can you ask you something, Rae?” Her voice is as tiny as she is, but I’ve seen the girl put away four pastries in a row without blinking.

“No problemo.

“That’s the fourth customer I’ve seen ask you out. Far from the cutest, either, but you always say no. Don’t you think you ought to give someone a chance, one of these days?”

I turn to the sink and rinse off the coffeemaker. “I’m just not looking for a relationship right now. That’s all.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs. “I’m gonna go stock some coffee filters.”

She disappears. Things always quiet down this time of day. Four-thirty. Too early for dinner, too late in the day for caffeine. With Tabitha in the back room, it’s like I’m the only person in the café. Just me and the snow falling gently outside the window.

Today, it’s been a year since I left.

Another thing I promised myself I wouldn’t think about.

The door tinkles. Someone’s come in. I dry off the coffee pot and turn, calling, “Be right with you—”

My words die in my throat.

Snow is stacked high on his shoulders. His hair’s a little longer than it used to be. His face, a little softer. But it’s him. It is so unmistakably him.

Then he smiles. It breaks his whole face open like sunlight splitting a concrete wall.

“God, it’s so good to see you,” he says quietly.

I can’t say anything. Shock has paralyzed my system. It’s him. He came. He came after all.

His smile falters. “I’m not too late, am I?”

Tabitha walks out of the back room to the sight of me vaulting over the counter and into his arms. The outside of his coat is cold, but the feeling inside me is warm, so warm. Cohen hugs me back, hard, desperately, until we’re folded into each other and we feel like one person. Until I feel whole.

“Well then,” Tabitha says, and I can hear her turning and walking straight back into the back room.

His breath is in my ear and I’m so utterly, completely happy.

“You’re not too late,” I whisper.

“You could never be too late.”

Acknowledgments

I will forever be overflowing with gratitude toward the people who’ve supported my work. You guys are the best!! Readers and writers are a team. And it’s the best team there is.

And thanks, as always, to the fantastic book bloggers who form the backbone of this community!