Page 78 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Weaving through the balletgoers in their finery, I follow the directions Emilie gave me to the stage door. She emerges in jeans and a tank top, but her hair is still in a bun and she has full makeup on.
“You were magnificent,” I say as I kiss each of her cheeks. “Do I know what I’m talking about or do I know what I’m talking about?”
“I think you’re an oracle is what you are,” she says with a laugh. “I can’t wait to hear from you what I’ll dance next.”
“Hmm . . .” I pretend to listen. “You’ll just have to audition for everything and get all the roles.”
“Quelle tragédie.” She lays her hand on her forehead and pretends to swoon. “Doomed to dance in everything. Coffee?”
“Always coffee. Even when it’s awful.”
We walk to the café, order espressos, and talk about the ballet. She tells me how nervous she was before her solo, but how she left her fear backstage when she stepped under the lights.
“I could tell,” I say, and Emilie smiles.
“I love talking to you like this. You really understand what it’s like.”
“I try.”
“But it’s more than trying. You just get it in a way that so few do, and so—” She stops when the waiter brings our drinks. After he leaves, she tells me, “I’m really glad you came. I know that Simon and Lucy had a lot of ideas about us . . .”
I’m forming as kind a letdown as possible when she assures me, “No, don’t worry. It means the world to me that you came tonight as my friend and not because you want to date me.”
Now I’m not sure what to say. Should I reassure her there’s nothing undatable about her? Say “It’s not you, it’s me”? Or “I don’t have a heart to offer because mine is lying shriveled up in Monet’s garden”?
“Stop thinking so hard, Julien.” She nudges me with her foot. “I could tell when we met there was someone else on your mind. And, of course, ballet is always on my mind, so I thought we’d be good as friends. And we are.”
“We are.” I toast her with my espresso cup and then make an impromptu suggestion. “My friend Remy is throwing an apron party. I hate the thought of going, but he won’t take no for an answer. Simon and Lucy are going, and you should come too.”
“An apron party? What is that?”
“Hell if I know, but I’d get an apron if I were you.”
“You’re not going to wear an apron, Julien?” she asks with a bit of mischief in her voice.
“He’s making me go to the party. He can’t make me wear an apron.”
“Something tells me no one could make you go to a party. Maybe you actually want to go.”
Maybe I do.
Remy wears a light-blue apron with red cherries. Sophie has gone meta and her apron has prints of mini aprons on it in orange, yellow, purple, and blue. Emilie sports leggings and a pink tulle apron, and Lucy is dressed to the nines in a black-and-white-striped skirt topped with a pink apron with black piping, like a sexy ice-cream-parlor girl. Simon can’t keep his hands off her. He wears an apron with “Kiss the Chef” written on it in bold letters, and Lucy does as instructed.
“Bonjour! Felicitations to everyone but Julien,” Remy declares as he invites us into his home.
“Why not Julien?” I protest, even though I know the answer.
“If you can’t get into the spirit of the party, how can the party spirit get into you?” He pats my cheek and gestures grandly for everyone to follow him down the hall.
Monet’s Japanese bridge painting is back on the wall. I force myself not to look at it. Seeing it makes my chest hurt. I force myself to look anywhere but at the door to the room that leads to the basement. The door that leads to her. To heartbreak.
Sophie brings around a tray of macarons—with combos of saffron and peach, caramel and pistachio, and even grapefruit-wasabi.
I pass. I don’t need another reminder. Not when I’m only now starting to feel a smidge of un-misery.
“There is something wrong with someone who doesn’t like macarons,” Sophie says, narrowing her eyes.
“Just not in the mood.” That feels true of just about everything these days.
“Suit yourself. But tomorrow you will wake up and think, ‘I wish I had a macaron right now,’ and it will be too late because I’m eating whatever is left over tonight.”
She sashays to another group of partygoers as Remy drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t listen to her. Nobody ever died for lack of a macaron. Love, on the other hand . . .”
I tense, and he finally notices I’m not being coy about his matchmaking attempts. His confusion is obvious—not that he keeps his emotions close to the vest.
