He sees it, and for a second his gaze falls in what almost looks like regret. Then he adds, “But... maybe you could convince me otherwise? I mean, Canada is a bit like France, right?”
I can’t help but realize that this is the first time he’s called me Canadian instead of American. “I’m from the English part of Canada,” I say before I think it through, mentally beating myself up over it as soon as the words leave my mouth. “But there are plenty of people there who speak French! And I’m learning! Truly!”
My desperation makes him laugh, which makes me weak at the knees. Then I’m especially relieved to be sitting when he says with that beautiful, smooth tongue of his, “Mais seulement un petit-déjeuner.”
Luckily, I know just enough French from reading it off a menu to know thatpetit-déjeunermeans breakfast.
“Breakfast?” I repeat, surprised. “Breakfast as a date?”
“Oui. I have an extra late shift here tomorrow, so it has to be before.”
“Okay. That’s... unusual for a date, but I’m definitely in.” Then, to my embarrassment, I make several weak attempts to tell him in French how excited I am about it, one even worse than the other, and he laughs at me. I can’t blame him.
“Stop!” he says, baring white teeth and his eyes twinkling. “You’re butchering my language.”
I can only return his grin. “Probably, but you catch the drift, right?”
“Oui, I get what you mean.”
“Then that’s all that matters,” I reply, smiling, hope swirling through me. For the first time in a long while, I finally have what looks like a promising date. I can’t wait.
Chapter 5: Cody
I’ve never been so nervous about a date before, not during my adult years anyway. Look at me: I’m a successful, grown man trembling at the knees because of a date I have with a baker at a cake shop. Often enough, I have to give presentations at work that are way scarier than this. My job as Risk Manager at the bank requires it. So what’s going on with me?
Actually, don’t answer that, I think I already know. It all has to do with the fact that, emotionally, I have much more riding on this date than I do on a presentation at work. The truth is, I like Luc. Really, really like him. The lust I felt when I met him—that I still feel—is changing into something different, something deeper. Who saw that coming? I certainly didn’t, because who expects to fall for the young guy working at a nearby cake shop in a foreign country, especially after only meeting him a few weeks earlier? That’s where I am now, and the truth is, I’ve never practiced so much French as I have since I met him. It’s fast, yes, but it’s not like I have a say in it. Luc’s on my mind almost constantly, and when I’m not with him, it feels like time is moving especially slowly.
“Je suis nerveux,” I tell Luc in my best French as we sit outside a cafe under the sweet rays of the morning sun.
He picked the place, which I’m very okay with. I consider him the expert on cafes and breakfast in Brussels—or in any other European country, for that matter. The cafe is calledCafé de la Gare, and he ordered us both breakfast in flawless French. The soft tones filled me with a warm sensation, and as I looked at him, I felt like I could stare at him and get lost listening to him speak French forever. I didn’t even see the waiter, and I only grasped half of what Luc ordered. I guess I’ll see what breakfast is when it’s served. Whatever it is, I’ll eat it.
It’s Saturday, late morning, and I’m happy but nervous, as I just told Luc in French. Upon hearing it, his face lit up, telling me I must have done something right. That’s one point for me early on during our date.
“Pourquoi?” he asks.
I don’t want to accidentally give the wrong answer, so I reply in English. “Because I really like you. And I want you to like me back.”
“You’re so strange,” he says, snickering, but the twinkle in his eyes remains. “A strange Canadian. Why are you even here, strange Canadian?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you here in Bruxelles?”
Bruxelles... It sounds so beautiful when he says it. Much more so than when I say it: just Brussels.
“I’m only here temporarily. It’s because I work at a large international bank. It’s called Avance, and I was transferred here, but it was voluntarily. I wanted a change of scenery and...” I stare into his blue eyes. “It looks like I got one. One that I really like.”
To my satisfaction, his cheeks redden just slightly before he asks, “But then, why here? Why not Paris?”
The way he says Paris—like a French person says it—slides over me like silk.
“Paris is the city of romance,” I reply. “That’s too much pressure for me. It would be impossible to compete.”
He chuckles just before saying, “Well, then you’re out of luck, because the city I spend most of my life in is at least as romantic.”
I return his grin. “Unlucky me. Although I can’t be that unlucky if I’m sitting here with you, can I?”
It’s cheesy, I must admit, but that’s how I feel.
