And as I walk out of her apartment into the cold Paris night, I know one thing with terrible certainty:I will never forget her or stop wanting her.
* Imbecile (French)
* Listen (French)
* Cooking from the heart (French)
* Plus or minus/more or less (French)
CHAPTER 9
Tara
It’s been a month since I arrived in Paris. A week since Gustave stood in my apartment.
I haven’t seen him since.
Still, every time I pass the café downstairs—the one where he sat—I find myself looking for him. It’s become a reflex now, like checking for a shadow that’s no longer there.
I have no idea why I’m so obsessed with him.
Maybe it’s because he was my first one-night stand.
Maybe it’s because it was the best sex of my life.
Maybe it’s because he actually came back to apologize—none of my exes ever did that, especially not the asshole who cheated on me.
But the truth is, the past feels like another lifetime. Philadelphia might as well be on another planet. Paris has filled every corner of my life with newness—light, sound, possibility.
If someone had told me, four weeks ago, that I’d spend a Friday night at the Fondation Louis Vuitton, sipping champagne with France’s cultural elite, I would’ve laughed and said, “I wish.”
And yet, here I am—wish granted, roped into an opulent circus by Cece and Jean.
Apparently, when there are extra tickets for lowly Louvre staff like us to an LVMH benefit auction, attendance isn’t optional—it’s a command performance. Since I came to Paris, I’ve made the best of my weekends, playing tourist. I’ve already been to the Louvre…ha ha!
But I’ve also gone to the Center Pompidou, the Musée d’Art Moderne, and the Musée d’Orsay to swoon over the Impressionists. I wandered through Sainte-Chapelle, light pouring through stained glass like jewels, and climbed the steps of Sacré-Cœur to look out over the city.
I’ve strolled through the Jardin du Luxembourg with a paper cone holding acrêpe beurre-sucre, browsed thebouquinistesalong the Seine, and even gotten lost in Le Marais before ending up with falafel for lunch.
Paris is ridiculous—every street corner is part of an endless painting.
Now, I can tick the Fondation off my checklist.
As I imagined, it is stunning.
Frank Gehry’s glass-and-steel dream, all sails and curves, gleams like a futuristic ship dropped into theBois de Boulogne. It impossibly brings together stark modernity and vintage opulence.
Any minute now, James Bond is going to swagger through with a martini in hand.
Shaken not stirred!
I look around, fascinated, as light pours through the faceted windows, catching on every glass of champagne, every diamond necklace, every couture gown.
I tug, self-consciously, at my vintage black dress, the one I scored at a thrift shop in downtown LA’s fashion district, convinced that all the way across the Atlantic, it would pass for ‘understated Parisian chic.’
It doesn’t. Not when a woman walking by me is wearing Chanel straight off the runway. I only know this because Cece tells me.
Regardless, I am dazzled.
