He throws his head back and laughs and then, still laughing, says, “I fucking love you, Gracie.”
“Am I wrong?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face as my insides burst with glee.
“No, that’sexactlywhat we’re doing,” he replies, still chuckling.
I act as though I’m just casually getting on with my work, butregardless of whether or not he meant it platonically, he still said it: he fuckinglovesme.
That’s good, right? So why do I suddenly feel conflicted?
Jazz music isplaying out of the stereo when I walk into La Terrasse on Thursday afternoon. Lise is behind the bar, polishing glasses. Her dark brown hair is tied up into a high ponytail and she’s wearing a white tank top. Her makeup is as heavy as it was at the garage party.
“Hiya!” she greets me in her Scottish accent. “How are you?”
“I’m great. How are you? Thanks for doing this.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m glad to put my camera to use—it’s been a while.”
She told me on the phone that she missed working as a professional photographer, but was so busy with the restaurant at weekends that she could barely squeeze a wedding in these days.
“He should be here in a bit. He’s never on time, but he’s rarely more than ten minutes late. I call it the Étienne factor. Want a bevy while you wait?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks. How long have you two known each other?”
“About five years. My cousin married the guy who used to run this place. I did their wedding photos and met Étienne when he loaned them the wedding car. Another friend of theirs asked me to do their wedding too and after that I was hooked. I moved as soon as I could, got a part-time job working here, carried on doing weddings, and eventually my cousin’s hubby handed over the reins. He and my cousin are still silent partners.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I was lucky.”
“Sounds like you made your own luck.”
“Ha. That’s what Étienne says.”
I involuntarily look past her at the photographs on the wall. She notices where my attention has strayed.
“That’s my sister, Eve,” she says.
“Étienne told me. I’m sorry.”
She stares at the photograph of the two of them together. “Yeah. It hurts every time I look at her, but in a good way. She made us all so proud.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Étienne striding in off the street.
“Hey!” Lise calls.
“Hey,” he replies as I sit up straighter.
He goes behind the bar and greets Lise with two cheek kisses. Why didn’t he kiss me?
“Switch,” he says, picking up what I’m assuming is Lise’s mobile from a shelf and abruptly cutting off the jazz music that was playing.
She rolls her eyes at me as he hands over her phone and connects his own. A chilled folk-rock song spills out of the speakers.
Lise grabs her camera bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Ready?”
“See you later,” I say to Étienne.
“À bientôt,”he replies, his mouth curving into the smallest of smiles as I slide from my stool.
