I hand it to him, and he waits until the large group has moved on to take my picture in front of it.
“Parfait,”he says after he gives me my phone back.
“I’m going to sound like a total nerd, but I’m really excited to have this.”
Louis chuckles. “I like art nerds.”
I beam, and probably blush, but mostly his words make me feel bold enough to grab his arm and pull him close to me. “You should be in the picture, too,” I say, bringing my phone up to our faces. He presses his cheek against mine, and it sends shivers down my spine as I click on the button. Afterward I itch to look at the picture but hold myself back. I can gaze at it all night if I want to. And I already know I’ll want to.
“And what getsyouexcited?” I ask, hoping my cheeks are getting back to a normal color.
He takes a moment to think about it. “Taking trips with friends across France. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Really good food. In fact”—he checks his watch—“one of my favorite cafés is not far from here, in Saint-Germain, and it’s almost lunchtime….Do you have plans?” Louis asks. “We could go. I mean, after you’ve finished studying every Degas with a magnifying glass, obviously.”
I can’t go. I mean, Ishouldn’tgo. I need to stay focused on why I’m here, on dancing and knocking the socks off ABT, and it’s pretty obvious that Louis is…distracting. Distractingly cute. So cute. But Idoneed to eat, so…
“I guess I have time for that,” I say, trying to keep my face straight.
We walk down the twisty streets of the sixtharrondissement,but just as we arrive at the place Louis mentioned, he has another idea. “Café de Flore is just around the corner. Do you know it?”
“It rings a bell,” I say, trying to figure out where I’ve heard the name before.
Louis smiles, like he’s about to let me in on a secret. “It’s one of the oldest cafés in Paris. It’s always beenthemeeting place of the most famous Parisians: authors, journalists, actors, and all kinds of celebrities. It even has its own literary prize.”
“But I’m not famous,” I say jokingly.
“Notyet,” Louis says with a glimmer in his eye.
A few minutes later, we’re seated at the corner terrace of this famous café, alongside many chic Parisians. The white cursive lettering announcingCafé de Floreis almost covered by the lush plants hanging from the balcony above. I sneak glances around, wondering if I’ll recognize anyone, but, except for dancers, I’m not too familiar with the French art scene. The older couple next to us eats their steak frites in silence, white cloth napkins neatly placed on their laps. Their glasses of red wine barely fit on the tiny table and clink against each other with every move.
“I live not too far, with my dad,” Louis says, pointing to his left. “It’s a few streets away, off the Jardin du Luxembourg.”
“Wow” is all I can come up with. I try to picture what it would have been like to grow up around here, just off a gorgeously manicured park, wandering past centuries-old monuments on your way to school, peeking inside elegant boutiques and stopping by a star-studded café in the afternoons. It sounds like a pretty good life.
He blushes a little. “It’s not as fancy as around here. I swear,” he says, then adds, “my mom’s in London. Well, when she’s not traveling. She’s a director, so she’s always off filming somewhere.”
Louis goes on to talk about his mom’s latest film, a dark drama set in various parts of Europe, which is coming out in theaters later this summer. He says it like it’s no big deal, and when he starts asking me questions, I hesitate to tell him about my way-more-average American family.
“My mom is not a famous director, but she works in marketing at a beauty company, so I get a lot of free makeup.” I shrug. “My dad and my little brother don’t get so excited about that, but it’s a pretty good perk for a ballerina.”
Our salads arrive, bursting with colorfulcrudités(aka raw vegetables), and we switch topics to his favorite things about Paris: the Canal Saint-Martin, where he goes to hang out with his friends; the outdoor concerts in summer, and the crêpes slathered with Nutella, for sale on many street corners. Apparently I’m not allowed to leave Paris without having at least one.
It feels oddly comfortable between us, like we’ve done this many times before, even though I didn’t even know Louis existed a few days ago. We’re sitting close together, and I can feel the vibration of his knee bouncing, almost like he’s nervous. I don’t know why he would be; Louis is way too cool to be nervous about anything or anyone. Especially me.
“Why ballet?” Louis asks me, tearing into his second piece of baguette, which he smears with salted butter.
“It’s in my blood.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Louis raises an eyebrow.
“I’m kidding. Sort of. I just fell into it when I was little, and that was it. I love being transported by music from hundreds of years ago. It’s like I belong to a different era.”
“Like you belong in those paintings we just saw?”
“Yeah.” I feel myself blush. “You’re going to think it’s stupid,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Try me.”
“There’s this story my grandmother told me….”
