Jean-Luc and I are running hand in hand along the Fountain of Warsaw, in the Gardens of Trocadéro, moving so fast I cringe, worrying that the wine bottles he’s carrying in a plastic bag in his other hand — which cost him fifteen euros from the store near his dorm — might get smashed.
The long rectangular basin we run along is lit by bright lights, and the water explodes with arcing jets. A fine mist is falling over us, but I don’t care. I’m too exhilarated. Of all the things I expected to happen during the Romance Tour, running through Paris at night with a French boy was not on the list. But that is what’s now happening, and I’m definitely not complaining about it.
I laugh and tell Jean-Luc to be careful as we weave our way through the tourists, who are standing stock-still and staring behind us, waiting for the Eiffel Tower to do its thing at ten o’clock. That’s what we’re here for, but — to be honest — it’s basically an afterthought.
We reach the end of the path, and I continue toward the stone steps that lead up to Musée de l’Homme. Jean-Luc pulls me to the side.
“What are you doing?” I yelp. “We’re going to miss the show.”
“Over here,” he says, guiding me to the top of the basin, just behind a series of idle water cannons that look like they’re aimed at the Eiffel Tower. Unlike the paths lining the basin on either side, there’s hardly any people down here. Probably because the glow of the streetlamps can barely make it this far.
I guess my doubts are obvious, because Jean-Luc grins at me. “It’s more peaceful. Less tourists!”
“Hey! I’m a tourist,” I protest, following him anyway. From here, there is no one to block our view — we can see the tower from top to bottom. Right now, it’s lit up in the red, white and blue of the French tricolor.
Jean-Luc puts the plastic bag down and takes out one of the wine bottles. Thankfully, it’s not broken or cracked. “Merde! I have no corkscrew.”
I drop to one knee, starting to untie my shoelaces.
“I know I made faces at those sneakers,” he says, “but this is not the time to throw them away!”
“Just watch,” I tell him, slipping the shoe off and taking the wine bottle. I use my fingernail to tear off the label, then stand the bottle in the shoe. “I should be able to pop the cork out …”
“By doing what?” Jean-Luc asks. “Beating it on the ground?”
“That’s right.”
“That will never work!”
I make a face at him. “Clearly you don’t go down any YouTube rabbit holes on Friday nights.” Then I lift the shoe-bottle and slam the sole — and the base of the bottle — down on the ground. Jean-Luc flinches like one of those water cannons made a sudden noise.
“You are going to ruin your sneakers,” he mumbles. “Actually, keep going!”
It takes longer than I’ve seen it take online. My shoulder starts to ache after a while — but soon, the cork has edged out enough that we can pop it all the way.
“Don’t ever doubt me again,” I say playfully, offering the bottle. Jean-Luc waves it away, gesturing that I should go first. “Merci.” I take a sip, thinking that I sure have taken advantage of the lower drinking age in Europe today.
When I hand the bottle to him, his whole body is bathed in dark blue. The light show is beginning. And it’s beautiful, especially the way that the tower seems to be radiating the colors, which swoop over us in slow, almost comforting waves before turning into reds and greens, broken by white stars. It’s pretty amazing, but not enough to keep my attention off just how close Jean-Luc is standing to me, how his hand is brushing against mine again, as if he’s suddenly nervous about taking it. And I’m nervous, too, which is ridiculous because we basically held hands all the way here.
But that was us being practical, making sure we didn’t lose each other in the Parisian Christmas crowds. This is … different. Now, as the lights from the tower become suddenly muted, the gasps of appreciation around us fading to a murmur, I feel uncertain all over again. This is a big moment, potentially a perfect end to a story I might be telling for a while, once I’m back home. It’d be really great if I didn’t ruin it.
I move my hand toward his, to let him know it’s okay. I’m kind of blushing, too — it is all kind of ridiculous but in a nice way.
He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My fingers are stiff from the cold, and I fumble when trying to interlace my hand with his, and we end up with a kind of mangled grip on each other.
That I am not going to fix. Because it might not be a perfect fit, but it feels good. It feels like how we hold hands.
And now I’m staring at the French boy I’ve known for less than a day, his face lit up in the vivid colors the Eiffel Tower is painting Paris with. He’s looking back at me, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time.
He was a stranger this morning, but through him, I got to see this city and find my own version of it — not simply relive my parents’ trip. I found a way to both keep Dad in my heart and take a first step in moving on from my grief.
I can’t believe that, just a few hours ago, I was wishing for a concussion that would knock the memories of this “sucky” Paris trip right out of my head. Right now, I don’t want to forget a single thing that happened today.
Jean-Luc turns to face me fully, and I feel my hand tighten around his. Is he going to kiss me?
But that’s not what he does. Instead, he asks a question. “How did you know Ethan wasn’t right?”
The answer comes to me so quickly, I barely have to think about it. “I just did. I mean, it’s not like Ethan’s a bad guy or anything. He’s a great guy, actually. But he … he didn’t see me. You know?”
Jean-Luc’s dark eyes reflect the light show, flaring green and red. His face stays so still, I wonder for a second if he doesn’t like my answer. But then he nods. “I know what you mean. It is only today that I realized, I could never really see Martine. I mean, see her as in, really understand her. Perhaps that is because I was not meant to … It was not the right thing …”
He pulls our intertwined hands toward himself, holding mine against his chest. “The right thing is when you both see each other.”
I close the gap between us so quickly, I barely think about how unlike me it is. Jean-Luc gently takes my shoulder with his free hand and pulls me in closer.
We kiss.
We don’t see any more of the ten o’clock light show.
*
As fun as it was to drink red wine straight from the bottle at the Trocadéro, I much prefer drinking from the glasses in Jean-Luc’s dorm.
Jean-Luc’s sitting on the floor, his head resting on my shins. We’re holding hands lightly. I’m starting to feel a little sleepy. I hope the bed in Olivier’s room is comfortable.
“When do you need to catch your train to London?” he asks me.
“It leaves at two,” I say. “So I guess I have to be at Gare du Nord for one o’clock, right?”
“Then we should make the most of the morning,” he says, through a yawn. “That doesn’t leave me much time to take you around, so that you can see my Paris.”
“What makes it ‘your’ Paris?”
From the way he looks into his wineglass, I can tell he’s a little shy. “You know … my neighborhood, the places that I know.”
“That sounds interesting. I gotta say, I’m curious to see where this” — I gesture to him like he’s some kind of exhibit in a gallery — “came from.”
My momentary prickle of fear that artistic French guys won’t react well when gently mocked is soothed when he just smiles at me. “It will be a Paris without itineraries, without scrapbooks.”
I sit forward and kiss the top of his head. Lean back and look into his eyes.
“And no cameras?” I ask.
He smiles up at me. “No cameras,” he agrees. “We will walk, and we will just … see.”
“I’d like that,” I tell him.
We kiss again. And again.