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His kiss frazzles my nerve endings.
He groans and pulls away. “Jesus, Lizzie. I’m hard all the time.” He bends over in front of me, breathing in and out slowly. I bite my lip and stare at my stunning boyfriend.
Just then a man fumbles his phone and Danny twists his body in a complicated way and catches it. We both stare at him and he shrugs.
I think he needs to hear this, too. “Don’t ever apologize for how spectacular you are.”
“I just caught a phone.”
“Like an airbender moving through space and time, knowing exactly where to plant your feet or outstretch your arms. I can’t wait to see you play.”
He steps back to me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to brag, but I was on middle school cheer until my parents thought it might hurt my studies.”
His eyebrows go up. “And here I thought I was so far from a cliché, dating a brain instead of cheerleader.”
“Star quarterback deserves every cliché, right?”
He kisses me again, blocking the sidewalk while people curse us.
We break apart and giggle. Then he looks down the street and his breath hitches. He pulls me down the block towards a very chic woman with a tight chignon and chic lime green suit exiting a stunning home with the red sign. The mix of old and new architecture is the push-pull of Paris. I feel like I am the city sometimes. I am that mix. The sign reads: Journée portes ouvertes. Open House. It’s old beige plaster smoothed over stone.
She disregards us. I squeeze his hand to pull him away. I’m not sure what the hell he’s doing.
DANNY
My Ma used to do this with us all the time when we were younger. We’d go to a neighborhood we could never afford and saunter around open houses as if we were buyers. Then, she’d take on a different personality and pretend to have a different life for a moment. We’d all play along. I want a different life than the one I’m returning to, so I will imagine it here with her.
“Pardonnez-moi, maman. Nous nous demandions si nous pouvions encore regarder autour de nous? Nos parents américains veulent nous acheter un petit appartement français pour notre adeau de fiançailles. Et celle-ci a son cœur sur celui-ci.”
Her eyes widen as I lie, telling the woman we’re engaged, and our American parents want to buy us a Paris apartment. And my fiancé wants this one. She looks at her watch. I nudge Lizzie a bit. She needs to play along.
She stumbles through her response, pretending she’s a rich brat. She even stamps her foot a bit. The realtor explains that they were closing up.
“Oui. C’est celui-là, chérie. Je ne serai jamais heureux dans la vie sans cet appartement. Tu piges!”
I bite the inside of my lip as she grips my fingers in a death hold, so we don’t laugh at what she just said: “Yes. This is the one, darling. I won’t ever be happy in life without this apartment. Get it!”
The woman’s response is immediate. “Très bien. Nous avons fini pour la journée, mais mon assistant est toujours à l’étage. Donnez-lui vos informations. Et je t’appellerai. Je dois courir.”
“Merci. Très bien.” She pushes past the woman. It’s the bravest I’ve seen her so far. It’s sexy and addictive. I glance at the woman and assure her we’ll just be a minute and that she can be pushy, but I love her. We’re supposed to register our names with the assistant on the third floor. I step inside as the realtor leaves.
There are large black-and-white tiles in a harlequin pattern on the floors and high white columns surrounding us. The ceilings must be twenty feet in this expansive entryway. There’s a door for the first floor apartment but we head up.
“Let’s go, my spoiled fiancée.” I pull her close to the wall and begin slinking up the bright white marble staircase.
“What are you do—”
I cover her mouth quickly. She licks my hand and I stifle a giggle. Every detail of this building is old and restored. There’s nothing this old in Boston and it makes me feel like I’m witness to history.
We skate quietly around the second floor, where apartment number two is all closed up. We round the next staircase and hear assistant upstairs. The walls are a lush grey and the landings are rich with exotic dark patterned carpeting that looks like it’s out of a magazine. It’s probably the fanciest fucking place I’ve ever been.
I want to play house.
I peek around the doorway at the top of the third floor. It opens into this elaborate hallway and there’s another staircase up. We need to get there. But the door is directly across from a large open kitchen and the woman is clacking away on marble floors past a giant-ass red stove. She’s putting things away in a glass closet. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the refrigerator. She can walk into the fucking fridge. The stark white walls soar up and meet with decorative molding.
I shoo Lizzie down the hall, out of sight, and point to the staircase. She’s panicked and I motion with my chin to go up. She takes off running and the woosh of her movement jostles a curtain. I drop to the ground hoping the woman can’t see over the giant island she’s standing behind. I army crawl over to the side of the large open archway, then stand and run up the stairs two at a time.
