Sleeping With Paris (39 page)

“Charlotte” was written on the front . . . in Luc’s handwriting.

My heart pounded as I stared at the letter for a few seconds, hoping I would find forgiveness inside. I sat down on the bed, and with trembling hands, I opened the envelope.

Dear Charlotte,

I’m writing to let you know that I’m leaving Paris this week. I finally got custody of my daughter, so I am moving away to live with her. This has nothing to do with what happened between us, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you.

I’m going to miss you, but maybe this is for the best.

Please don’t forget me,

Luc

I dropped the letter on the floor and ran down the hallway to Luc’s room.
Please, God, don’t let him be gone already.
I pounded on the door, and when there was no answer, I tried the door knob. It was unlocked. I barged in to find . . . nothing.

He was gone.

He’d left without saying goodbye. Without even telling me where he was going.

A million unanswered questions raced through my head, but the one thing I did know was that I couldn’t stand to be in his empty room for another second. I rushed back to my tiny dorm room all alone and collapsed on my bed, knowing that this was it.

I’d lost Luc for good.

***

After taking Katie back to the airport that weekend and promising her I wouldn’t hole up in my room again and disappear like I had the last time I’d been really upset over a guy, it was time to go back to school. Starting classes that Monday made me realize that I needed to get my ass in gear. No more time for whining, crying or self-pity. I had a ton of papers to write and only two weeks to finish all of them. Yes, I had thrown away my chance at a private school teaching job in Paris, but I was at least going to get credit for these courses. With all of my gallivanting around this past semester, I hadn’t been the most diligent student, and now it was time to play catch-up so I wouldn’t fail any of my classes.

Just as I’d experienced first semester, my professors had assigned nothing of significant value to complete during the semester, which made the chances of failure at the end of the semester that much higher. Since failure had never really been an option for me (in academics anyway—my personal life was turning out to be a different story), I pushed all of the Luc drama out of my head for those two weeks, locked myself in my room and got to work. I only left the building to run at the park every morning and to have dinner with Fiona or with Marc, who had thankfully chosen to ignore his mother’s requests to have nothing to do with me ever again.

One night, after crumpling up an introduction to a paper I’d rewritten five times, I pulled out my phone, scrolled through the numbers, and stopped once I reached Luc’s. I stared at it for a couple of minutes, as if just looking at his number somehow connected me to him. I knew it was idiotic, but since I was determined not to break down and call him, that was as good as it was going to get.

As I closed my phone and tossed it across the room onto my bed, I imagined what I would say to him if I did call. I knew that after what I’d done, I had no right to get mad at him about not telling me where he had moved and about not saying goodbye. He had clearly decided that he didn’t want me to be a part of his life anymore, and I couldn’t blame him.

The minute I’d discovered that Jeff was cheating on me, I’d had no problem denouncing him and moving to Paris by myself. How could I blame Luc for ridding his life of someone who had treated him so badly when I had essentially done the same thing to Jeff? Granted, I at least felt horrible about what I had done, whereas I was convinced that Jeff wasn’t capable of feeling remorse or any other genuine emotion, except those that he experienced with his penis of course.

Instead of calling Luc that night though, I crossed the room, grabbed my phone, and hid it underneath my plastic mattress before rewriting that damn introduction for the sixth and final time.

 The next night though, with my head pounding and my eyes glazing over from one too many hours spent in front of the computer screen, I peeled my mattress off the cheap wooden frame and yanked my phone back out. I slid down onto the hard tile floor, flipped open the phone, and found Luc’s number. As my thumb hovered over the “send” button, I realized I needed to take action. I couldn’t be so weak and desperate anymore.

So, instead of hitting “send,” I hit “delete.”

I stared at the space in my contacts where Luc’s number had been, realizing that this was it. I’d now eliminated all possibility of contact with him. We’d never exchanged email addresses during the year since we’d lived across the hall from each other, so there really was no way to get in touch with him anymore.

I considered throwing my phone into the trash to seal the deal—that way I wouldn’t have to go to bed one more night realizing that Luc hadn’t called me, and probably wasn’t going to.

But just as I was about to pitch it, I remembered the low balance in my bank account and decided I’d at least saved an ounce of my own dignity in deleting his number. I didn’t have to put myself in debt over it.

And now I had to move on. I had no other choice.

I tossed the phone back onto the bed and changed into a comfy tee-shirt and a pair of shorts, determined to put in another few hours of paper-writing and to
stop
thinking about Luc.

***

Five final papers later, I was finished with my school year in Paris. It felt extraordinary to turn in that last paper and to feel like I had (hopefully) passed all of my classes. I was paid up for two more weeks worth of rent before I needed to decide what to do with the rest of my life, or at least with the rest of the summer. The idea of moving back to Lyon had been swimming around in my head ever since I’d found Luc’s letter. If Lyon didn’t work out, I figured I’d have to go back to DC. But my instincts—which I hadn’t listened to for quite some time—told me it wasn’t time to head back to the States. So, I decided to shoot Mathieu an email to follow up on that English teaching job he had mentioned during dinner.

A few hours later, Mathieu wrote me back. He said he had contacted his friend, Jean-Sébastien, who worked at a language school in Lyon, and that they had two full-time English teaching positions open.

I made some last minute revisions to my resume and sent it along to Jean-Sébastien, who, to my delight, emailed me back that night right before bed and told me that they needed someone to start immediately. He asked if I could come down for an interview as soon as possible, and he even said that if the school really wanted me, they’d help me obtain a work visa since I couldn’t live in France with a student visa anymore.

I called Mathieu and Florence that night and asked them if I could stay in the spare bedroom for a day or two so that I could interview for the position. They were more than happy to offer up a bedroom to me, so no less than twelve hours later, I was on a train to Lyon.

The dark cloud that had hovered over me ever since Luc had left Paris lifted the minute I stepped off the train and found myself winding through the beautiful streets of Lyon. I loved this place. I could start fresh here. Leave the past and all of my mistakes behind. Now, I simply had to land this job.

 Back at my host family’s apartment, Florence greeted me warmly, then set me up in my old bedroom. My interview was in a half an hour, so I hurried to change into my black interview pants suit, touch up my make-up, and throw on some heels before trotting down the street to the language school. It was only six blocks from my host family’s house. How convenient!

The school was small and bustling. Students of all nationalities buzzed in and out of classrooms. I approached the secretary at the front desk and told her in French that I was here for a job interview for the English teaching position.

“You are Charlotte Summers?” she asked in a thick accent.

“Yes, I’m Char—” I began before she cut me off.

“I am so happy you are here,” she said as she popped up out of her seat, revealing a no more than ninety pound, five foot tall figure. “Jean-Sébastien is waiting. Follow me, we will get him.”

I raced down the hallway after the teeny-tiny French woman and felt my nerves piling up in my stomach. I so, so hoped this interview would go well.

“Jean-Sébastien,” the little French woman called as we rounded the hallway and entered a cluttered office.

“
Oui
,” a young, disheveled guy answered as he peeked over a massive pile of papers covering his desk. “Ahhh, you must be Charlotte!” A huge grin spread across his face as he stood up to shake my hand.

“
Merci, Colette
,” he said to the mini woman as she bolted out of the room.

I’d never seen a person that little move so fast.

 “Please, please, have a seat,” he said with a solid American accent. “I am so sorry for the mess. The director is out of town, so I am taking his place for three weeks, and things have been a little . . . euh . . . well never mind, you get the picture. Let’s talk about you. Mathieu has told me a lot about you. He says you’ve taught French and English before. Is that right?”

“Yes, I taught French for three years at a high school in Washington, DC, and then I’ve been teaching English to a French medical student up in Paris this past year.”

“Oh great, so you’ve had large classes before . . .” he paused as he looked down at a copy of my resume that was sitting on top of a mess of papers on his desk. “How long do you plan to live in Lyon?”

Hmm . . . tricky question. I knew in my gut that I wanted to move down here as soon as possible, and something else in my gut was telling me that it may not be a temporary move. So, I went with my instincts, even if they were lying. I really wanted this job. “Probably at least two years, but maybe indefinitely.”

His eyes lit up. “And when can you start? Would next week be possible?”

Yes, yes, yes!

 
“Yes, I could start Monday,” I said, trying not to jump out of my chair.

“Perfect. Let me show you around the school and see what you think. If you like it, the job is yours.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. That was by far the shortest, not to mention easiest, job interview I’d ever experienced. Jean-Sébastien showed me around to all of the different classrooms and explained to me in French how everything worked. He told me that I’d work thirty-five hours a week (gotta love the French and their thirty-five hour work week), and that I’d have the entire month of August off (again—love the French vacation system), and that I’d get my first paycheck after two weeks. The salary was low, but anyone who wants to be a teacher has to accept the fact that they’re not going to make millions, and since I’d already consented to that fate a few years ago, I knew I could make ends meet. Plus, if it got me to Lyon, what was there to question?

“So, what do you think?” he asked after we’d toured the whole school.

“I’ll take it,” I said, smiling one of the biggest smiles I’d had in a long time.

And that was that. I signed a contract and had three days to get back to Paris, pack up my things and move to Lyon. Mathieu and Florence were thrilled and said I could stay with them while I searched for an apartment. Things couldn’t have fallen together more perfectly.

The only unwelcome thought that still lingered in the back of my mind was that once I left Paris, Luc would have no way to find me.

***

Fiona and Marc came over that weekend to help me pack up my room and get ready for my move to Lyon. It was much sadder than I’d imagined it would be. Even though I’d spent the entire year using men to escape my problems, it was still a damn good time. My room felt like home now, I loved my neighborhood and my park, and Fiona and Marc had become two very dear friends. The sadness that came with leaving made me feel good though because it showed me that even though I hadn’t handled things perfectly this year, my time in Paris was anything but a waste.

“I can’t believe you’re staying in France,” Fiona said as she tried to catch her breath after heaving a huge box of my clothes up onto the bed. “I guess I never really considered staying after this year, but if I didn’t have Andrew, I might’ve ended up doing the same thing.”

“I know, it all happened so fast, too. I mean, I just got the job like a day ago . . . I can’t believe I’m already moving down there,” I said wiping the sweat off of my forehead. My dorm room didn’t have air conditioning, and by the rise in temperature, it was clear the summer months were almost here.

“You’re going to see me a lot since my dad lives down there. We’ll have you for dinner next time I come down,” Marc said as he passed me another box.

“I can’t wait to meet the rest of your family.” As long as they were nothing like his mother. Ugh. “It is kind of sad to be leaving Paris, though.”

“I know . . . I don’t want you to go. I still have another two weeks here, and it’s going to be so lonely without you,” Fiona said, looking a little teary.

“I wish I could stay a few more weeks too,” I said as I taped up the last of the boxes. “But, you’ll just have to come back to Lyon to visit.”