P.S. from Paris(20)

“You want the truth, Paul?” Lauren said. “Arthur is even more scared than you are about you going over there, because the distance between the two of you already bothers him more than anything. He misses you, we both miss you. But because he’s your friend, he’s going to tell you that you ought to go. If there’s even a tiny chance the trip might end with you finding true happiness, you have to take that chance.”

Paul turned to Arthur, who—clearly with great reluctance—nodded his head in agreement.

“Three hundred thousand copies sold . . . of one single novel . . . I guess that really is something, isn’t it?” Paul whistled, eyeing two pigeons nearby. “Amazifying! As my editor would say.”



She was sitting on a bench, eyes glued to the screen of her phone. David had called a half hour ago. Mia had not picked up.

The caricaturist left his chair and went to sit down next to her.

“The important thing is to make a decision,” he said.

“Make what decision?”

“One that will enable you to live in the present instead of constantly wondering what the future will be like.”

“Look, I know you’re trying to be nice, and it’s really very kind of you, but it’s just not the right time. I need to think.”

“If I were to tell you that in one hour your heart was going to stop beating, what would you do?”

“And here I thought you were a caricaturist, not a psychic.”

“Answer the question!” the caricaturist ordered in an authoritarian tone that terrified Mia.

“I’d call David and tell him he’s a bastard, that he ruined everything, that there’s no way we can go back to the way it was before, that I don’t ever want to see him again, even if I do still love him, and that I need him to know these things, even if it’s with my dying breath.”

“There you go,” said the caricaturist in a softer voice. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Call him, tell him exactly what you just told me . . . except for the last point. Because I’m not actually a psychic.”

And with these words, the caricaturist returned to his easel. Mia ran after him.

“But what if he’s changed? What if he somehow went back to being the man I knew when we first met?”

“Are you going to keep running away from him or suffering in silence? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“You like putting on a performance, don’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that means. And keep your voice down—you’ll scare away my customers.”

“There’s nobody else here!” Mia yelled.

The caricaturist looked around. It was true: the square was fairly empty. He signaled Mia to come closer.

“That guy does not deserve you,” he whispered.

“How would you know? Maybe I’m impossible to live with!”

“Why do girls always fall madly in love with men who only make them suffer, while they barely bat an eye at the ones who would move mountains for them?”

“Ah, I see . . . Because you’re James Stewart from It’s a Wonderful Life, huh?”

“No, because my wife was just like you when I first met her. Madly in love with some handsome bastard who kept breaking her heart. And it took her two years before she woke up and moved on, two whole years we lost. And I get enraged just thinking about it. Because we could have spent that time together.”

“Enraged about two years? What difference does two years make now that you’re together for life?”

“You really want to know? Go and ask her. Walk down Rue Lepic to the bottom of the hill, until you hit Montmartre Cemetery, and you can ask her yourself.”

“What?”

“A beautiful day, just like today, and a truck comes out of nowhere and cuts in front of our motorcycle.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mia whispered, lowering her eyes.

“Why? You weren’t driving the truck.”

Mia nodded, took a step backward, and began to walk toward her bench.

“Miss!”

“Yes?” she said, turning around.

“Every day counts.”

She walked down a narrow passage with stone steps, sat on a step halfway down, and dialed David’s number. Straight to voicemail.

“I’m calling to say it’s over, David. I never want to see you again, because . . .” I love you so much . . . Shit, this was so much easier on the bench, the words just seemed to flow . . . A pause this long is ridiculous. It’s too late to stop, just keep going . . . “Because you make me unhappy. You ruined everything, and I need you to know these things, even if it’s with my dying—” Mia cut herself off. Why do I still love you so much . . . ?

She hung up, wondering if it was possible to delete a message remotely. Then Mia took a deep breath and called him back.

“One day soon, I will meet a James Stewart . . .” Ugh, that makes no sense at all . . . did I really say that out loud? “A man who would move mountains for me. I won’t let my feelings for you get in the way. So I’m going to delete them, just like you’ll probably delete this message . . .” Oh, stop it, this is pathetic. “Don’t call me back . . .” Unless you call in the next five minutes to tell me you’ve changed and that you’re coming straightaway on the next train . . . No! Please, please don’t call me back . . . “I’ll see you at the premiere and the junket, and we’ll play our roles. The show must go on, after all . . .” Yes, that’s better, professional and determined. Now stop there, not another word, it’s perfect. “Well, I’m going to hang up now . . .” Great. Utterly pointless, just dragging it out. “Good-bye, David. Um . . . this is Mia, by the way.”