I Liked My Life(76)

“That’s okay,” Eve says. “I’m not a typical teenager anymore, so anything you think you now know is history.” They smile, comforted their conversation isn’t strained. Perhaps all the time I sat in the middle, considering myself the liaison between them, I was really a barrier. Perhaps we all offer what we can, until we can’t, and then our loved ones step up or have others step in. Perhaps death exists to challenge the people left behind.

Brady has a drink to unwind. When he falls asleep Eve pulls out her journal, dating it the way I did mine. She sips champagne and considers her words, looking substantially older than seventeen.

August 19, 2015

I feel like this trip is the beginning of something important. It’s our first attempt at creating a memory without Her. The Fourth of July and all of our other nice talks have been indirectly related to her death—a conversation we were settling on because she wasn’t here. This trip is ours.

I’ve never been so hopeful for a good time, which is funny because good times used to find me. I hope it won’t seem forced, and I hope I won’t be disappointed.

Me too, Eve. Me too.

Eve

My father is on a sixteen-mile run, the longest he’ll do before the qualifier in Quebec next week. We agreed to meet in the lobby at six for dinner, leaving me three hours to roam Paris.

I find a little café with outdoor seating and pull out my book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Rory recommended it. She said she couldn’t wait to laugh about passing the damn ham, whatever that means. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t been required reading at school. I was too embarrassed to admit that not recalling the story doesn’t mean it was never assigned. Rory doesn’t come across as someone with an appreciation for CliffsNotes. My mom certainly wasn’t. I hid those yellow booklets as carefully as I hid condoms.

I flip a page every once in a while in case anyone’s watching, but I’m too distracted by how I appear to the outside world—sipping cappuccino; wearing big, black sunglasses and a new couture shirtdress; a young American in Paris—to actually take in the story. Do people walking by think I’m famous? Rich? Over twenty?

When he approaches, I act like it’s totally routine, like men hit on me all the time. “What is your name?” he asks.

“Charlotte,” I say, because I want to and I can. Charlotte sounds chic and fun, and I desperately want to be both.

“Charlotte,” he repeats, “I am Dameon. May I sit with you?”

“I have a better idea.” His deep-set eyes lift in anticipation. “Take me for a walk around Le Bois de Boulogne. I’m dying to see it.” It’s an outrageous request to a total stranger, but I feel so bold I stand to leave even before he answers.

“Parlez-vous fran?ais?”

“No.”

“Oh. You have the accent for the park name perfect.”

I haven’t completely lost my mind. It’s only a couple blocks away, all crowded streets. I can bolt at any time.

As we walk, I refuse to think about my mother. Each time her presence seeps in, I shut it down. I’m just a girl in Paris. Dameon isn’t spending time with me out of pity. He’s not avoiding topics like family or death, and he’s not constantly darting his eyes my way to check whether he inadvertently reminded me of Her. He doesn’t even know She existed. Shedding my backstory is intoxicating.

He has no idea how old I am. I’d guess he’s twenty-five, but don’t dare ask. We share a cigarette and walk along the park, arms linked. I smoke sometimes, but this is different. We’re not out to prove anything or rebel against anyone. We’re simply enjoying a sunny afternoon. “The land was made a park by Napoleon the Third,” he says, sharing the history of the things we pass in a way I could never pull off with a visitor back home. “In this way, we all still benefit from his time exiled in London. They say a lot of the streams and landscaping was inspired by his love of Hyde Park.”

I’ve never paid much attention to my surroundings, to why things are the way they are and how long they’ve been that way. I picture myself showing Dameon around Boston, limited to places where I eat and shop. How quickly I’d run out of things to say. I lean in closer. Each time he calls me Charlotte I slip more into character, pretending I really am this cosmopolitan woman. The act illuminates everything. I become theatrical, drunk off how unfamiliar and inviting life appears. I see a baby and feel maternal. I see a child rolling on the grass and have an urge to be a kid again. I see a couple kissing and crave romance. Even my laugh sounds different because, to Charlotte who has no worries, everything is entertaining.

After two hours a chill sets in and Dameon drapes his khaki coat over my shoulders. I pull it snug, acting as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m careful about the time though. At half past five I tell Dameon I have to go. He asks if we can meet for dinner. I say no, that I’m catching a flight home in two hours. The lie slips out like all the others. He nods and takes me in, his hand centered on the small of my back. “It was a perfect afternoon, no?”

“Oui.” He lifts my chin with his other hand and kisses me.

The sensation is so different with a man. John never had that kind of patience. When Dameon lets go, my whole body wants more. The kiss belongs on a defining-moment time line of my life. It just happened and yet it’s already changed me.