“Hello.”
I pull the phone away and look at the screen before putting it back to my ear again.“Hello,” I say tentatively.
A woman says, “Hi, I’m looking for Oliver.”
“Oliver?You mean Olivier?”
She laughs.“Yes, Olivier.This is his mother.Is he around?”
“His mother?You sound American.”
“IamAmerican.Just like Oliver.Who am I speaking with?”
I pause, stunned by her words.My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach, then I clear my throat when she asks again.I finally reply, “This is Kandace.Oliver isn’t here right now.”
“Kandace, will you let him know I called?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye,” I say, hanging up.I sit there staring at the phone like it will somehow give me the answers I suddenly find myself wanting.Answers to questions that aren’t even questions but realizations instead.Oliver is an American, just like me.He lied to me.About everything.When his accent faltered I didn’t think twice because it also thickened sometimes.
I gulp, trying to fight the tears of betrayal that are rapidly racing to be freed.
Why did he lie to me about being French?
I wouldn’t have cared.Being from the states could have bonded us even more through this adventure abroad.
More importantly when he was trying to convince me to stay, why not give up the act then?Why continue it?
I stand up, knowing I won’t get any answers sitting here at the base of a monument that is now tainted by the web of lies I’ve been caught in.I take a taxi back to the hostel.I’m in no mood to appreciate a city that once held beauty.I invested my heart into a sham and now I’m paying the price.Tomorrow I leave and would have known no different, I would have gone on with my life occasionally remembering the Frenchman who stole my heart one time in France.Instead, I’m left with memories of a con artist who traded my affection for a fuck...or three, maybe four.I shake my head not able to keep track anymore.
Feeling disgusted, I walk into the lobby with a mission.Stefan stands to greet me, no lady-friends in sight.“Bonjour, Kandeese.”
A new perspective firmly in place, he doesn’t look half the sleaze that Olivier...er, Oliver does to me now.Stefan is easy to figure out.He doesn’t hide his wants or who he is.Oliver...I get angrier and stop.“Bonjour,” I say, smiling sweetly.“Do you have any available rooms for the night?”
He makes this sexual hand motion and says, “Ehhhh, you and the Américain not getting along?”
“You knew he was an American?”
Shrugging, he says, “Of course, I knew this.He speaks French but, uhhhh, how do you say, slappy?”
“Sloppy?”
“Oui.Oui.Sloppy.”
“I guess I’m the last to know.So please tell me you have another room for the night.”
“I do.I have a double or a single.”
“Single please.”
He goes to the desk and starts typing.“It will cost you more to have a single.”
“That’s fine.”
Reaching into the drawer in front of him, he digs a key out.“Room quatre, first floor.”
