Screwmates(51)

“Madison—” my name sounded sweet in his mouth again— “I had no idea how lonely I was until you showed up. And just your presence in the house alone was enough at first, but after we spent our first evening on this couch together, it was like I realized everything I’d been missing during my non-stop studying life.”

“Like I colorized your sepia existence?” I supplied helpfully.

“Exactly! How did you know?”

“Perhaps I remember more of that evening than you do.” He blushed, which was exactly as adorable as it sounds.

“I kept telling myself it was just having anyone new around that would make me feel that way. And that I’d been doing the right thing all my life with no reward; the idea that French women would be the unexpected and exciting thing to do was on a loop in my brain. Settling down with the first girl I’d slept with in a year was the exact opposite of my plan. And I really like plans.” He took a deep breath, and gulped a little wine.

“But what’s the point of Paris without you? I don’t want to share the trip of a lifetime with strangers. I still want to bang my way across the country. I just want you to be the bangee.” He breathed out, and smiled. “Madison, I want to buy you a ticket to France.”

I stared at him.

“No,” I said.

“No?” he asked, clearly shocked.

“No. Definitely not.” I got up and refilled my glass.

“But—why? Are you worried about work? Because I thought—I mean, I’ve already booked all the hotels and everything, so it really won’t cost too much extra for you to come, and I can cover your rent while we’re there, too.” He stood up and grabbed me by the upper arms, his eyes searching mine.

“Say something!” He demanded. I smiled at him.

“Well. I haven’t been pining for you the entire time you’ve been gone,” I told him. “I’ve also been working very hard.”

“I know, I saw all the things you did online,” he said, still holding me. I relished each fingerprint pressed into my skin.

“I mean, I don’t want to upset you, but I definitely sold the whole thing to a publisher, and I don’t want to piss you off again, so you’d have to say yes, but I already cashed the check, so.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him on each cheek, like a Frenchwoman.

“I’m saying that I’m buying my own damn ticket to France.” After that, we basically retreated to his room to celebrate our bangcation. The first order of business—trying the upside-down thing. After all, the Kama Sutra offers several variations on the position. It went exactly as well as I’d predicted in the sex shop, so after that we celebrated a bit more tastefully.



I slam my laptop shut, and close my eyes. The air smells like lavender, and it isn’t even coming from Marc, but the scent will always remind me of him. As if the thought itself summons him, I feel his presence behind me. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being so hyperaware of the way the air moves around him, and I fervently hope I don’t.

“If you’ve finished the ending of your smutty graphic novel, I’ve arranged a vineyard tour for us,” he whispers in my ear.

“It’s very tasteful,” I whisper back, “And I’ll never turn down wine.”

Although it is strange—for all our success at the wine tasting with Brandon, we seem to have bungled every single vintage in Paris. Surely now that we’ve moved into the Loire Valley, the country air will sharpen our senses.

I still can’t freaking believe I funded a semester’s worth of French travels with my freaking Tumblr page.

Did I once say life is hell? Life is just a real surprise, is all. Surprises around every corner. I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders to relieve the tension of typing for so long. Yeah, I know, cry me a river, right? I was typing the end of my book at a little café in France while my boyfriend arranged outings and wandered through bookshops.

I scrape my hair, now faded to the most appropriate shade of lavender, up into a ponytail and toss my computer in my bag. It’s only a short drive to the vineyard, and I share my concern with Marc on the way.

“I mean, have we gotten bad at wine? Do we get worse at wine the better we get at sex?” I feel that these are legit concerns.

“Oh. No, I slipped that wine guy a twenty to give me the tasting notes. You didn’t guess I was cheating? We are really, really bad at wine.” He laughs, and merrily slides into a parking space. “Ready?”

I burst out laughing, and open my door. In retrospect, it makes way more sense that an afternoon of reading books didn’t magically teach us how to taste. The point is that we just enjoy it, I suppose. An extremely stereotypical Frenchman greets us with the expected air kisses and glasses of something crisp and white, then begins to lead us around. I’m only half paying attention to him, because who can listen to a lecture when the sun is shining and you’re stepping through grapevines and you’re turning a corner and someone is presenting you with a diamond, and—

Wait. What?

“Look. We already share an address. I think it would be very economical if we shared a last name as well,” Marc says, grinning as widely as I’ve ever seen. I slosh my wine over the edge of my glass in my haste to get it on my finger. Holy cats! I accept, of course, because I may have brought the color, but Marc is the frame to my life. He is the solid thing, the path forward, the constant in my days that brings meaning.