“Wait, how long is a while?”
The tips of Liam’s ears redden, and he peeks at me. “Homecoming. Senior year of high school. Fit a bit looser then.” He chuckles, stretching and pulling the vest’s seams to their limits.
I stop in front of a red brick building featured prominently against the otherwise beige landscape of the Latin Quarter, almost tumbling over my cane. The clamor of laughter and dinner chatter melds with the chaos of passing traffic. I inhale. The sweet smell of something slathered in a honey butter sauce hits my nostrils. “I’m sorry, why did you have this”—I gesture to his attire—“in high school?”
“I—uhm—there was a plan, but the incident with Charlie may have ruined it.”
“Oh my god, no—” I can take one I-was-a-horrible-monster moment, but two? That’s not fair, universe! I rub my palm over my chest, drawing the attention of one of the sidewalk patrons. The woman’s eyes scan Liam’s attire with a smirk. No. Bad. My Gene Kelly. Even if I don’t deserve him. “What—what was the plan?” I ask in an increasingly dry voice.
He scratches at his scruff, wincing. “I may have been changing into this to ask you to the dance when you stormed over and said you pitied the miserable person I was going to take—”
“But the rumor—”
“Yeah, no, I fucked that up.” He blushes. “After I punched Charlie, my parents grounded me, so I couldn’t ask you as quickly as I wanted, and I panicked and, uhm, told some of the guys on the team who mentioned they were going to ask you that you were off-limits.” He winces. “I’m not proud I did that. And I’m sorry. I know that was a mess with your mom.”
And that’s not his fault.
The moment of clarity streaks in like an asteroid, laying waste to all it collides with. My mom’s reaction to situations Liam may or may not have had a hand in creating isn’t his fault.
And it’s not mine either.
It’s hers. She could choose to react differently, positively, and she doesn’t. I shouldn’t be bending to create favorable conditions for her and enabling her shitty reactions.
“Don’t be.” I shake my head and reach up to Liam’s cheek, sweeping my thumb across it. “I’m sorry I blamed you for things that weren’t your fault, and I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusions, and now you’re carrying guilt that’s not yours to own. You are an impossibly sweet and thoughtful man, and I appreciate you. Understood?”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me impossibly sweet. You going soft?” He raises a brow, pinning his stare on me as he presses a kiss into my palm.
“Sir, I’m the furthest thing from soft with you like this.” I laugh. A harsh, cleared throat startles us both. I peek back, catching a very annoyed diner staring at us, and heat rises to my cheeks. “Désolée,” I murmur, shifting down the block.
“We should probably start walking again if we want to get to our first spot on time, anyway,” Liam says, pulling my hand.
“Oh yeah—” I swallow, letting Liam lead again, trying not to show my disappointment that my slower-than-usual stride is already messing with his plans.
As our walk progresses, twisting and turning through familiar alleys and boulevards, my heart quickens with every step.
I’d say there’s no way he knows about my favorite spot, but he’s read my blog—so it’s entirely possible.
Running down the stairs to the Seine near Pont de l’Archevêche confirms my suspicions.
Gene Kelly. By the Seine. At the spot where Leslie and Gene danced inAn American in Paris,and Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant talked about it inCharade.
The sun is setting over the bridges in the distance, bursting through the clouds in one final bow as the city blinks alive in all its resplendent glory.The golden hour.The lights of the city glitter against the Seine, bathed in the beauty of the Parisian sky at sunset. It’s as if Monet himself kissed the heavens with a quick brush stroke. Coral, saffron, lilac, and plum, swept across a cerulean canvas, reflect in a rushed gradient in the river below.
Liam pauses briefly, pulling out his phone as the words “my spot” escape my lips. He smirks to himself, and then Gene Kelly singing “I’ve Got a Crush on You”plays through the speaker.
It’s my favorite underrated Gene Kelly song, an outtake fromAn American in Paristhat Nana used to play while we were baking. I’d sit and sigh along to the lyrics, like one of the blonde triplets fromBeauty and the Beast,daydreaming about someone singing it to me.
A strong hand wraps around my waist, and I blink back to reality. Liam grabs my free hand, and my arm with the cane falls to his back. He dips his head to my ear, singing along with the lyrics until the instrumental portion kicks in, and he slowly sways me cheek to cheek.
Tourists and Frenchmen sidestep us as I allow myself to melt into Liam, savoring the moment. He beams down at me, basking in my own glow.
“Did you know this was my favorite song?” I ask, head resting on his shoulder.
“I had my suspicions.”
“How?”
“Your face used to get all dreamy when Nana played it. It was one of my favorites, too, because you’d relax when it was on.”
