I tell him what I’ve kept to myself all these years. How the women of my family have been dancing for generations, and how my grandmother even believes that our ancestor was one of the Degas dancers. That it’s supposed to be a sign that being a ballerina is my destiny.
“I told you, it’s stupid,” I say when I’ve finished.
Louis just stares at me with wide eyes. I’ve said too much. I don’t understand what happens to me when I’m with him. “I think you and I have a different definition ofstupid,” Louis finally says. “What else did your grandmother say?”
“Not much. She gave me the phone number of her aunt who lives outside Paris.”
Louis starts playing with the bread crumbs on the table, crushing them with his index finger one by one. He frowns as he does this, like he’s completing a very important task. Even his frowns are cute. “And you think that this aunt would know something more?” he asks.
“I don’t know, maybe?”
The white-aproned waiter interrupts us to take our plates, and we order twocafés,which arrive a few minutes later in microscopic cups branded with the café’s name. A square of chocolate wrapped in foil sits on each saucer next to a sugar cube. I like how the French do coffee: strong and sweet.
Louis seems deep in thought, and I’m still processing the fact that I just confessed this entire story to a boy I hardly know. But maybe time is not the only indicator of knowing someone, or feeling close to them.
“Seems like there’s only one way to find out about this dancer,” Louis says. “Do you have this aunt’s address?”
I laugh, certain he’s just kidding, but he looks at me deadpan. So I nod and pull up the photo on my phone. “I looked it up. It’s this tiny little village about an hour south of Paris. There’s no easy way to get there….”
“Easy isn’t what makes it fun,” Louis says, checking the map on his phone.
“I should give her a call, but she doesn’t speak English.” I don’t think Louis is even listening to me anymore.
After we split the bill, he pushes his chair back and gets up. “We have to go.”
I get up as well. “Go where?”
“If I tell you, you’re not going to come.”
“I still want to know.”
“Why?” Louis asks with the most charming crooked smile. Okay, by now we’ve established thatallhis smiles are charming—when they’re not gorgeous—but some hit me harder than others.
“We’re going on an adventure.”
He’s joking, right? “What kind of adventure?” I ask as I follow him down the street, back in the direction of the Musée d’Orsay.
Louis stops and stares deep into my eyes. “You ask too many questions.”
I cross my arms against my chest. “You don’t have enough answers.”
Louis bursts out laughing. It sounds like a magic spell, in the best possible way. And maybe it is, because just yesterday I swore off boys for the rest of the summer and promised myself I would give ballet all my attention. That’s the reason I’m here. Of course, I still feel that way. And yet, I know I’m in trouble….Because let’s be honest, I’m going to follow that sound anywhere.
FOR THE SECONDtime this week, we’re zigzagging through the streets of Paris, and I can’t believe that it’s me on the back of this Vespa, my hands wrapped around his waist again, like this is where they belong. My heart knocks against my chest and my fingers tingle with excitement. I force myself to come to my senses when we turn onto a little street off a busy boulevard, passing by an entrance to a train station called the RER. Louis stops in front of a white building with large double windows and the same wrought-iron window guards I’ve seen all over Paris.
“Unfortunately, we can’t drive all the way there,” he says, locking his Vespa in place.
“We arenotgoing to my great-great-aunt’s house,” I say, meaning it.
Louis purses his lips. “Don’t you want to know if this whole thing about your ancestor and Degas is real?”
I let out a sigh. I could say that I don’t even know my great-great-aunt, that I should go home and get some rest for the week ahead, that I didn’t come here to flirt with anyone, no matter how cute they are….
“We can’t just turn up there,” I say, but Louis starts heading toward the station.
“Pourquoi pas?” Why not?
We walk past a couple with two large dogs on a leash, which is too many people and animals for the narrow sidewalk. We have to veer onto the street just to avoid them.
