He leads me down the twisted little streets of Montmartre, lined with restaurants, art galleries, and tourist shops. I noticecrêperieson almost every corner. But the main attraction is a cobblestoned square called Place du Tertre, where many artists are exhibiting their work. It’s bustling with people, so we have to slow down and admire the pieces—some modern and abstract, others classic depictions of our surroundings. But something else catches my eye.
“What’s that about?” I ask Louis, pointing at an artist drawing a caricaturist portrait of a young girl sitting in front of him. Her parents look on proudly as he sketches gigantic ears and extra long teeth. We’ve already passed by several other people getting their portraits done in various styles, but caricatures seem to be the most popular.
Louis shrugs. “It’s just the thing to do around here.”
“Let’s get one!” I say, suddenly excited. I look around for the perfect artist, and notice a woman who’s just finishing up a portrait.
“What? No,” Louis says, blushing slightly. “It’s for tourists.”
But when I pull his hand, he doesn’t resist.
“I’ma tourist,” I say, pointing at the now-empty stool in front of the artist, and asking her if we can be next. “And I told you, I’m all about thefromage.”
Louis chuckles and rolls his eyes at the same time.
“Comme ça,”the artist says as she positions us, sitting me down slightly angled, and Louis kneeling behind me.
The woman frowns deeply as she looks from us to the pad in front of her, the black charcoal making swooshing sounds as it brushes the paper, and I have to force myself not to look back at Louis.
“Et voilà,”she says a while later as she puts on the finishing touch. She looks up, smiling, and I practically leap off my stool to see the result. For me, she drew a bun so large that it almost looks like a halo around my head, and very full dark lips, to mimic my red pout. Louis got very thick eyebrows that practically cover his eyes, and a razor-sharp jawline.
“You look beautiful,” Louis says, looking at it over my shoulder.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I reply.
Louis pays for the sketch before I have time to pull out my wallet.
“A gift for you,” he says, handing me the now-wrapped sketch. “A memory of your time in Paris.”
“Merci,”I say, to both him and the woman, as I tuck it into my bag.
We walk away, and Louis lets out a deep sigh as we turn onto a much quieter street. “I hope you’ll remember me.”
“Of course!” I say. “I don’t think I could ever forget…this summer.” I wanted to sayyou,but my heart has taken a life of its own.
“I don’t know what to do…,” Louis says, looking down.
“About what?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “You. Me. You going home. Me being here.”
I nod slowly, tears welling up in my eyes. Has he been thinking the same thing all along? It doesn’t make sense for us to even start something. There are so many reasons not to. But, to me at least, the idea of not being together for as long as we still have is…ridiculous. Unacceptable. Something I’ll regret forever.
“I wish I could stay,” I say after we look at each other silently for a while.
“You don’t mean that,” Louis says sadly. “ABT is your dream. And ballet always comes first. You told me that.”
“Yes, but…,” I start. He’s right. But he’s also wrong. If this summer has taught me something so far, it’s not about ballet. Yes, I’ve learned that I have great potential and a real shot at ABT. Monsieur Dabrowski believed in me enough to give me Odile, and I’m so much less afraid of failing than I was when I got here. Being a dancer means everything to me, but my life is bigger than that. There’s room in my heart for so much more, and definitely for Louis.
“Ballet is not first right now,” I say, leaning closer to him. “Right now is about us.”
Louis’s eyes open wide as he pulls me to him. This moment feels different. Charged. Expectant. I wrap my arms around his neck. He brings his face and rests his forehead against mine.
I brush my nose against his and get another whiff of him, sunshine and cedar. I inhale deeply, trying to bottle it up in my memory. Everything about this moment feels right: the murmurs from the street around us, the warm air, the sweet taste of his breath. My heart can no longer handle the anticipation: I part my lips and close the tiny bit of space between us to go find his.
I’m sure you’ve had croissants before. You can get them pretty much anywhere. They usually taste fine, a little bland, maybe. But when you come to Paris, the croissants are unlike anything else you’ve eaten before. They’re warm and soft, golden and buttery. Like baked clouds. Deliciously decadent clouds. They maylookthe same as the other croissants, but they are far superior in every single way. And why I am thinking about that right now? Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get” them until you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.
AS A DANCER,I’m uniquely qualified to understand how bodies work. If I do a hundredrelevés,my calves will burn the next morning. It’s completely normal, a sign that I did them correctly. So, naturally, the morning after my French-kissing lessons with Louis (numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4—let’s just say it was an accelerated course), my lips feel swollen. I run my fingers over them a few times and check my face in the mirror of the locker room as I get ready for class. I can’tseeanything, but I don’t need a visual reminder to think about what happened last night. Louis barely let us come up for air, and I was okay with that, because breathing felt totally optional. I’d say I’m walking on sunshine, but it’s better than that: I’mpirouettingup and over a rainbow of happiness.
