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“We lost an hour coming to France, so it’s after two o’clock. Lunchtime. And this is Paris. And we just have the day. So we must consider this very seriously.”
“Oh.” I exhale relief. Is he trying to mess with me now? “I don’t care. Anything except chocolate and bread, please. Those might be your staples, but they don’t seem particularly French,” I snap, not entirely sure why I’m so peeved except that even though we’ve now walked several blocks away from Céline’s club, it’s like she’s following us somehow.
Willem feigns offense. “Bread and chocolate are not my staple foods.” He grins. “Not the only ones. And they are very French. Chocolate croissants? We can have those for breakfast tomorrow.”
Breakfast. Tomorrow. After tonight. Céline beings to feel a little farther away now.
“Unless, that is, you prefer crisps for breakfast,” he continues. “Or pancakes. That’s American. Maybe crisps with your pancakes?”
“I don’t eat chips for breakfast. I do occasionally eat pancakes for dinner. I’m a rebel that way.”
“Crêpes,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We will have crêpes. Very French. And you can be rebellious.”
We walk along, menu-browsing the cafés until we find one on a quiet triangle corner that serves crêpes. The menu is hand-scrawled, in French, but I don’t ask Willem to translate. After that whole thing with Céline, my lack of fluency is starting to feel like a handicap. So I stumble through the menu, settling on citron, which I’m pretty sure means lemon, or orange, or citrus of some kind. I decide on a citron crêpe and a citron pressé drink, hoping it’s some kind of lemonade.
“What are you getting?” I ask.
He scratches his chin. There is a tiny patch of golden stubble there. “I was thinking of getting a chocolate crêpe, but that is so close to chocolate and bread that I’m afraid you’ll lose respect for me.” He flashes me that lazy half smile.
“I wouldn’t sweat it. I already lost respect for you when I found you undressing for Céline in her office,” I joke.
And there’s that look: surprise, amusement. “That wasn’t her office,” he says slowly, drawing out his words. “And I would say she was more undressing me.”
“Oh, never mind, then. By all means, order the chocolate.”
He gives me a long look. “No. To repent, I will order mine with Nutella.”
“That’s hardly repenting. Nutella is practically chocolate.”
“It’s made from nuts.”
“And chocolate! It’s disgusting.”
“You just say that because you’re American.”
“That has nothing to do with it! You seem to have a bottomless appetite for chocolate and bread, but I don’t assume it’s because you’re Dutch.”
“Why would it be?”
“Dutch Cocoa? You guys have the lock on it.”
Willem laughs. “I think you have us confused with the Belgians. And I get my sweet tooth from my mother, who’s not even Dutch. She says she craved chocolate all through her pregnancy with me and that’s why I like it so much.”
“Figures. Blame the woman.”
“Who’s blaming?”
The waitress comes over with our drinks.
“So, Céline,” I begin, knowing I should let this go but am somehow unable to. “She’s, like, the bookkeeper? At the club.”
“Yes.”
I know it’s catty, but I’m gratified that it’s such a dull job. Until Willem elaborates. “Not the bookkeeper. She books all the bands, so she knows all these musicians.” And if that’s not bad enough, he adds, “She does some of the artwork for the posters too.”
“Oh.” I deflate. “She must be very talented. Do you know her from the acting thing?”
