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Whatever obstacles stand in our way, he and I are bound by an invisible force that keeps drawing us back to each other.
***
His warm lips brush against my temples, leaving a trail of tender kisses in their wake. I moan softly and glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand of my Sunset Marquis hotel room: 6:09 a.m. Sigh. I bury my face deeper in the pillow, and Vadim laughs softly.
“Sorry about last night,” he whispers in my ear.
“Hmm… I’m sleepy…”
“And thank you.”
His fingers caress my hair with a somewhat shy tenderness. I appreciate the fact that he isn’t acting as though he’s already won me over.
I turn over on my back, and Vadim looks away. He doesn’t move from my side, but I can feel him withdrawing. His mind wanders off, somewhere I can’t quite follow. I recognize that worried look on his face. But he forces himself to smile at me with a slightly guilty, deeply embarrassed expression that I find endearing.
It’s my last day in the United States. I jump out of bed, and Vadim calls the front desk to have his clothes brought up, after thanking me for sending them to be dry cleaned the day before. I hear him ask for someone to take care of my luggage. Then, when I go to take a shower, he follows me to the bathroom and stops at the doorway.
“Can I? I know we should talk, but…”
I undress without looking at him, and step inside the huge walk-in shower. Then, standing under the jet of hot water, I open the glass door to invite him to join me.
“You can, but only if you sing at the top of your lungs.”
With a smile that melts me, Vadim strips off his clothes while humming “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word.” We take our shower together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And after a while, Vadim starts belting out the lyrics of the song, straining for the high notes:
“What've I gotta do to make you love me?
What've I gotta do to make you care?
What do I say when it’s all over?
And sorry seems to be the hardest word
It’s sad, so sad, it’s a sad, sad situation
And it’s getting more and more absurd
It’s sad, so sad, why can’t we talk it over?”
His powerful voice mingles with my laughter. And our eyes understand each other.
“Will you tell me, Vadim?”
“Yes, but not now.”
Dressed, and with lighter hearts but empty bellies, we head to Melrose Avenue for brunch, observing the people in the street as we make our way there. Inventing lives for passersby, laughing, getting sentimental, playfully making fun of them—that was one of our favorite things to do twelve years ago.
I make a beeline for the patio of the Blu Jam Café, hoping we can grab a table there and enjoy the Californian sun one last time before I have to return to the gloom of Paris, but Vadim gently pulls me back by the waist.
“Look who’s out here… We’ll be better off inside.”
I hadn’t even noticed them, but the paparazzi are already starting to gather. So, we sit at a small table inside. Vadim picks up the menu and completely ignores them, while I can’t help but tense up.
“Forget about them,” he whispers to me. “Two coworkers having breakfast together isn’t anything out of the ordinary. Hey, you need to try the eggwich—it’s delicious.”
On the other side of the pane, five men with enormous zoom lenses call out, trying to get us to look in their direction. Their flashes go off anyway, despite our refusal to comply.
“I think I’ll just stick to a latte—they’ve ruined my appetite. How are we going to get out of here?”
