Page 54 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
He exhaled again. “I’m thinking about you, that’s all. And I was hoping to hear your voice. I don’t know where you could be at six in the morning…maybe you’re sleeping. Or maybe you got up early and went for a walk. I wonder how you liked finally seeing the Eiffel Tower after dreaming about it for so long. I wish I could have seen your face light up. I remember how we talked about shopping in the Fauborg, having a drink at The Ritz…I wonder if you’ve done it all already. Don’t hate me, but…I wish I were there.”
My hand was shaking, the receiver jittering against my ear.
“So anyway. You don’t have to call me back. But maybe we can talk when you get home. I…I need to apologize. For lots of things. Well, that’s it, I guess. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’m thinking about you.”
Now he wanted to be here? Now he was thinking about me? Was this a joke? My entire arm shook as I replaced the receiver, and I sat there staring at it for several minutes, my guts churning. So many things to process… He was hoping to hear my voice. He hoped I was enjoying myself. He needed to apologize. He wasn’t sure things were ended.
And he wondered where I could be at six in the morning.
In bed with someone who appreciates me, asshole!
I went into the bathroom. I wasn’t totally certain I wouldn’t throw up. I wished there was such a thing as mental vomiting, because hearing Tucker’s voice saying those things had made me so furious, I wanted to purge the experience from my head.
How dare he? How dare he ruin my perfect day by calling and reminding me of the things we were supposed to do together here? Now he thought it sounded like a good time? Fuck you, Tucker.
Why should I see him or talk to him, ever again? Did I really have to listen to him apologize for humiliating me? He’d done me a favor! My entire body was tensed, my fists clenched, my teeth grinding, my breath shallow.
“Fuck you, Tucker,” I said aloud to myself in the mirror. “You didn’t want to marry me. You didn’t want to be here with me. And you’re not. You’re not.” I forced my breathing to slow. "You’re. Not. Here.”
OK. Better.
Turning away from my reflection, I stripped off my clothes and got into the shower. As soon as the water hit my back, I was reminded of being in Lucas’s arms, steam rising around us. His tongue in my mouth. His hands in my hair. His body against mine. His cock inside me, so deep.
My shoulders and spine relaxed, and I breathed deeply, taking warm vapor into my lungs and releasing it. I flexed my hands, remembering how they felt running through Lucas’s messy curls and sliding across his back. I turned toward the spray, opened my mouth, and let the hot water stream to the back of my throat.
Eliciting another memory.
I smiled.
What’s past is past. What matters is now.
And right now, I didn’t have to think about Tucker, about whether I’d see him ever again, about whether I had to listen to an apology, about what this trip was originally supposed to be.
Because it was a million times better.
#
Lucas met me in the lobby two hours later, a folded garment bag on his shoulder, and together we took the Metro to Gare de Lyon. From there we boarded a TGV train to Avignon; Lucas had purchased two side-by-side seats in first class, and we spent the entire three-hour trip telling childhood stories and asking each other about firsts.
“First kiss.”
Lucas didn’t hesitate. “Jennifer Henkel. Ninth grade. My basement.”
I cocked my head, surprised. “You didn’t even kiss a girl until ninth grade?”
“Well, it took me until that age to be as tall as them.” He grimaced, adding, “And I copped a feel and made a mess in my pants.”
I burst out laughing, and he shuddered.
“Stop. The memory still stings. How about you?”
“Brent Adams.” I wiped tears from my eyes. “Sixth grade. Horribly embarrassing game of Spin the Bottle. No feels.”
“Probably better that way.”
“Definitely. OK…first time. You know.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
“Um, junior year. Hold on, I have to remember her name.”
