My One Week Husband Page 18

  Cole looks at me, reading me. “What did you do wrong?”

  Where do I even begin?

  28

  Scarlett

  I don’t go to the river. I don’t wander over the bridges. And I don’t stroll down the street to find a sidewalk café, grab a table, and watch the city go by as I dine alone.

  I did that after Jonathan. I won’t do it now. This is not the same.

  This is different.

  This was merely a tryst. One that ended exactly when it was supposed to end.

  No more, no less.

  This is not a marriage that died and turned out to be a lie. I won’t invest it with that much monumentality.

  That’s what I tell myself as I enter my building, then again as I head into the tiny lift that chugs noisily up to the seventh floor.

  This was only a week.

  After hunting for my key inside my purse, I find it quickly. I unlock the green door to my flat, toss my suitcase inside, shut the door behind me, and . . .

  Drop my forehead into my hands.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, then pinch the bridge of my nose. I slump my back against the wall, then slowly, at molasses speed, I sink down to the floor. Hitting it with a thud, I let out a long, hard exhale.

  Like it’s dredging up my insides.

  And it hurts so much more than I ever expected.

  Closing my eyes, I give in, letting myself feel. I replay the last few days, the reel flickering before my eyes.

  The train ride to Giverny.

  The first night there in the bar, in the room, in the bed.

  The next day at Monet’s house. The way we opened up, how we talked, and the things he said.

  How we came together in Nice, Marseille, and Lyon. The stories he told me. The stories I told him.

  It was only one week, yet my chest is like an empty cavern, and I ache, wishing that it hadn’t ended so soon, so cruelly. Because I’m not investing this with too much monumentality. I’m investing it with exactly as much monumentality as it deserves.

  I fell in love with Daniel Stewart.

  Not merely in a week, but over the last few years as I’ve gotten to know him.

  As he’s been my business partner. As he’s made me laugh, made me smile, shown me respect and admiration.

  I’m not simply grieving the loss of a one-week tryst. I’m not only mourning my one-week pretend husband.

  I’m saying goodbye to the way the feelings built slowly but surely and steadily during the last few years. During all our dinners, our nights out, our time together.

  As I let all that play before my eyes, a sob wracks my body from deep within. It lashes at me like a storm, rain beating hard and heavy against the window.

  I let it rip through me, holding my head in my hands, my eyes stinging, my chest heaving. As the tears flow, I do my damnedest to mourn something that ended too soon.

  The possibility of an us.

  An us that won’t happen. But an us that would have been so spectacular.

  That’s what I have to say goodbye to.

  A chance at something great, something real, something amazing.

  A few more cries. A few more tears, then my eyes are dry.

  Drawing a deep breath, I stand, grab a tissue, and blot my cheeks.

  There.

  That’s done.

  I roll my bag into my bedroom and set to work methodically unpacking, seeking comfort in routine, in the sorting of clothes and shoes into the hamper, onto the shelves. Then I put the bag away on the highest shelf in my closet.

  I grab the hamper and take it to the washer and dryer stacked on top of each other in a hall closet. I shove in a load, pour some detergent, and start the machine, washing away the trip.

  The memories.

  The past few days.

  I set my laptop and tablet on the worktable I use in my living room, and I turn to my old friend. My steady, reliable friend.

  Email.

  I’m hoping for a reply from Le Pavillon. But there is none.

  My shoulders sag. A heavy weight sinks in me.

  But that’s just as well, I tell myself. We only sent the offer a few hours ago.

  And it’s the evening. Who’s working now anyway?

  It’s all going to be fine.

  I sigh, hunting through my phone for a new book on my reading app, finding a tale of two time-travelers in love.

  Their paths are parallel. They don’t cross except once a year. That suits my mood. I start the story, but fifteen minutes later, the words are swimming on the page.

  I have no idea if it takes place this century or a thousand years ago. I don’t know who’s coming and going in the past or the present. My trick’s not working. The book isn’t working. The solace in myself isn’t working.

  Perhaps I need to tackle missing Daniel the same way I handled my marriage dying.

  By walking around Paris.

  I need my city.

  Only this time I don’t need to do it alone. A smile tugs at my lips as I remember that Nadia is still here.

  I don’t have to do everything alone. I don’t have to process the first horrible feelings by myself under a cloak of shame. I don’t have to share only with the river.

  I have someone. I have lots of someones, from my parents to my friends. I dial Nadia.

  “Bonsoir,” she says, her pretty voice floating across the phone.

  “Please tell me you’re not out on a hot date with a wonderful Frenchman that I interrupted?”

  “Shame on you for wishing I’m not dating,” she says, laughing. “I’m in my hotel room, packing for my return trip tomorrow.” A pause. “But it sounds like you need me?”

  I swallow past a lump. “I do.”

  29

  Daniel

  My defenses go up.

  “Why do you presume I did something wrong?” I toss the question out at Cole as we remain at the table after Scarlett leaves.

  He stares sharply at me. It’s a look that says, You can’t be seriously asking me that question. “I wonder.” His response drips with sarcasm.

  Perhaps I deserve it. “What do you want me to say, Cole?”

  He tips his forehead in the direction of her retreating silhouette. “What did you do to hurt her? To cause her to walk away like that?”

  I did everything I shouldn’t have done. I let her in. “I told her the truth about my family,” I say as coolly as I possibly can.

  “And?”

  “And that’s all. Because the truth is, I’m not right for her. I’m all wrong,” I say. But those words feel less believable than they did a week ago, a year ago.

  How is that possible?

  Cole shakes his head, frustration in his dark eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

  I bark out a laugh, though the moment isn’t particularly amusing. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

  He stabs the table with his finger. “You told her about your family, right?”

  “Yes. I said that I did.”

  “And then what?”

  I lift my glass of bourbon and knock some back, feeling the burn. Perhaps needing the burn as I force my mind to return to how she reacted, how gentle and tender she was. How open and vulnerable. How much she seemed to care.

  She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She simply understood.

  Perhaps that’s why those words about being all wrong feel less believable than they did a week ago. Perhaps I’m not as damaged as I thought. Maybe being with her started to heal me.

  But the trouble is, I know what happens to full hearts. To healed hearts. They’re as vulnerable, perhaps even more so, to slaughter.

  “I told her what happened. And I told her I was falling in love with her,” I explain clinically to my friend.

  He arches a very knowing brow. “Hmm. Called that one.”

  I shake my head. “Try not to look too much like the cat who lapped up all the cream.”

  He laughs. “But I am. Except I’m not. Beca
use you want to be with her.”

  “Yes, it all sounds well and good in this fantasy world. And do you know what?” I ask, straightening my shoulders, keeping my tone firm. “I’m in love with her. That part is simple. But other parts are not. It would be a massive mistake to continue.”

  “Why?” he asks, relentless in his questioning, like a barrister in the courtroom.

  “You know why,” I say, as lawyerly as he has been.

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I actually don’t. I don’t know why at all. Because we’ve all been through shit. We’ve all been through hard things. Granted, I can never pretend to know what your pain has been like. I will never pretend that I understand your grief intrinsically.” He inhales deeply, uncrossing his arms. “But I do understand grief. I’ve dealt with it myself. I know it’s horrible and awful, and it makes you want to close off from the world. But you’re not closed off. You’re a human being. And you went and fell in love. So why do you want to throw it all away?”

  His questions are valid, but so are my answers. “I don’t want to put her in the position of being with someone who’s this damaged,” I say, sounding as stubborn as I feel.

  “I know you believe that.”

  “I believe it because it’s true,” I say, trying to convince myself, but inside, a nagging voice keeps asking, Is it?

  I’ve always believed that, and that belief has steered me, has served as a rudder for years. But maybe it no longer does.

  Cole leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you mean it when you say you love her?”

  “Yes,” I bite out.

  “Then, man, just let her in,” he says, imploring this time. “It’s worth it. You’re not the same person you were when you went to college. You’re not the same man you were when you needed the walls, the games, and when you sought out pleasure just for the sake of pleasure. You’ve changed over time. I’ve seen you with her. You’ve been enchanted with her for a long time.”

  I shrug an acknowledgment. This last week has been the culmination of years of longing, of wanting, and of falling. It’s never been merely physical with Scarlett. My emotions are not born from a desire to take her to bed, though that desire is potent. I have been entranced by her mind, her mouth, her words, her heart, her brain, and her brilliance.

  Cole continues on, as determined as ever. “You didn’t even give her a say in this. In what she’s willing to risk. And now you’re simply going to let her slip away because you’re afraid of hurting her?”

  “Yes.” At least he understands why I’m doing this.

  His eyes lock with mine, intensity in his gaze. “But it’s not her you’re afraid of hurting.”

  I jerk back. Furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

  He points at me, accusatory. “It’s you. You’re afraid of getting hurt. You’re terrified of letting someone in. You’re scared of what will happen if your heart isn’t the black hole you’ve turned it into.”

  My jaw clenches. I grit my teeth. I want to hiss, to seethe and spit and say, You’re wrong, you’re dead wrong.

  But he’s not wrong at all.

  He’s completely right.

  I’m a fucking coward. I didn’t let her go for her. I let her go for me. Because I don’t know how I’d handle it if she broke a heart that’s already been shattered twice.

  I look my best friend in the eye, and I find it in me to tell the truth. “You’re right. I don’t know if I could handle it. I don’t know if I could survive it if I let her love me and then she were to leave me. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to go through that one more time,” I say, admitting the truth.

  A faint smile crosses his lips. “Thank you.”

  I scoff. “Why are you thanking me?”

  “You finally spoke the truth.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with this awful truth?”

  He sets his elbows on the table, leaning in close. “I don’t know. But my hope is that you’ll take the chance. You’ve taken a million chances in business. You’ve risked money a thousand times over. You gamble with that constantly. And I hope that you can find it in you to gamble with your heart. Because it’s worth it. It’s completely worth it.”

  I want to fire back, Easy for you to say.

  But it hasn’t been easy for him. He’s done the hard work. He’s loved, he’s lost, he’s grieved, he’s moved on. He’s fallen in love again, and he’s made damn sure he didn’t lose her.

  I’ve already lost Scarlett, though, because I let her go.

  We say good night and part ways. I don’t wander back to the hotel. Instead, I go to the Palais Garnier. The sign outside advertises an evening of Beethoven sonatas, a special two-week only series of performances. Kismet, perhaps? It’s rare for the opera house to showcase only music, rather than ballet or opera.

  I walk in, go to the ticket counter, and buy a ticket.

  A young woman at the counter – perhaps a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen – arches a curious brow. “Hello. Do you know intermission has already passed?”

  “I do.”

  “You’ve missed most of the performance of Violin Sonata No. 9.” She sounds terribly concerned.

  “That’s okay. I know the piece by heart.”

  Her dark eyes brighten. “Me too. I can play it. All of it. But I am learning to play it even better in school,” she says, a little shyly. Her accent is faintly Nigerian.

  “You are?”

  She nods, proudly. “I moved here with my family. So I can study the violin in Paris. I want to play here someday.”

  “At the Palais Garnier?”

  “Yes, and Philharmonie de Paris. And Sala São Paulo in Brazil. And Symphony Hall in Boston. And The Sibelius Hall in Finland. And Concertgebouw in Amsterdam.” The words tumble out with the breathless excitement of youth.

  Of possibilities.

  A pang squeezes my heart as I picture the days and opportunities ahead of her. The chances she’ll have. The ones I hope she won’t squander.

  “Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop learning,” I tell her, with an intensity that both surprises and doesn’t surprise me at all.

  “I won’t,” she says, like it’s a solemn promise.

  “Being able to play Beethoven is a gift. A precious gift. Treat it as such,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “But who am I to give advice to a stranger, to a prodigy? I’m only a music lover. All I am saying is I hope all your dreams come true.”

  “Me too.” She takes a beat, then taps her chest. “I’m Ayo.”

  “Daniel.”

  She tips her forehead to the entrance. “You won’t want to miss anymore.”

  “You’re right. The ending is so lovely.”

  “It is. I haven’t grown tired of it, and I’ve heard it every night for the last two weeks. It breaks my heart every time, and puts it back together.”

  My throat tightens. “Music can do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of it either,” I say, then I head inside, turn off my phone, take my seat, and listen.

  I used to feel so at home here, like the Phantom. I’d imagine I was the damaged, scarred man haunting the lake beneath the Paris Opera House.

  Obsessed with music—obsessed with beautiful music.

  I am still obsessed. Perhaps I always will be.

  Maybe that obsession can bring answers though.

  I close my eyes, listen to the notes, and try desperately to find the answers I need.

  30

  Scarlett

  Nadia raises her glass. “A toast.”

  I quirk a brow. “Why exactly are we toasting?”

  “To loving again,” she says, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “Did you not hear me? He said he didn’t want to try. He’s not willing.”

  Lifting her glass of white wine, Nadia nods sagely as she kicks her heel back and forth from her spot at the sidewalk café. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m proud o
f you for loving again, so I’m toasting to you.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Always.”

  We finish, I pay the bill, and we wander along the cobblestone street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She hooks her elbow through mine. “You tried again. That’s a big deal. You were hurt. You were devastated. And you found it in you to give love another shot,” she says, ever the encouraging friend.

  “But did I?” I ask, a little pensive as we stroll along the boulevard among Parisians and tourists out for the evening.

  “You told him you loved him. That sure sounds like you did.”

  “But did I fight for him? Did I do enough?” I stop at the corner, looking up at the streetlamp, then at the green sign on the building marking Rue Bonaparte. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

  She nods, like she’s considering the question. “So you think you should have done more. Like what?”

  As I turn around, soaking in the city, the answer is right in front of me. The answer is all around me. The answer is—I am here.

  I am in this place that I love, living this life that I love.

  I did move on. I did mourn. And I did heal from the pain, the shame, the self-loathing.

  Daniel is not Jonathan. This is not the same. The man I’m crazy about is alive, and he’s here, and I can say my piece. I don’t need to retreat when I have words to say and a heart that’s still full.

  I have a chance to live differently.

  I grab Nadia’s arm, excitement roaring through me. “I don’t need to say more for him. I need to say it for me. Not to win him back. Not to change him. Because that’s up to him. But I want to say something more because I can. I want to tell him my heart, my truth. Because that’s what he did for me. He showed me that I could love again,” I say, my chest filling with happiness, with possibility. With hope. Whether for a future with Daniel, or just a future where I don’t hurt.

  Because I don’t hurt anymore.

  He showed me love. He treated me like a queen. He adored me. Whether he can do that for a long time or a short time, our week was worth it. I loved every second with him, and I want to say everything to him that’s true and powerful.