He laughs. “You were the one who suggested it.”
“Obviously I was joking. That river is, like, waist-high.” And we’re about three hundred meters up. “I don’t think this is that far from where we kayaked,” I say. “Are the Gorges of the Ardèche that way?” I attempt to peer past the rocky peak we’re standing beside.
“I’m not sure,” Jackson replies as I try to work it out.
I turn to look downriver. “Is that a floating playground? I don’t recognize it. I think we must have got out somewhere up there.” I turn to look left again.
“I overheard Mellie telling Albert that Étienne came over to watch a documentary the other night,” Jackson says. “About rallying?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“How’s it going with him?”
“Good.”
“Have things, like…progressed?”
I blanch. “Mind your own business.”
His neck flushes red, but he looks away before the color reaches his face.
I laugh to try to soften the retort, but he scratches his jaw and stares toward the town.
“Guess we should go catch up with the elders,” he says.
He’s unusually quiet as we make our way back downhill toward the village. Is he hurt because I snapped at him or upset because he’s guessed that Étienne and I have moved things along? Is he jealous? I know I initially wanted him to be, but I feel as though that moment in time has passed. I don’t really want to play games anymore.
Sandrine, Mellie, and Albert said they’d meet us at the café in the square and we hug the shade as we meander along the narrow cobbled streets, ducking under arches blanketed with vines and wisteria and winding between beautiful cream-stone houses with painted wooden shutters.
I keep glancing at Jackson, but he won’t meet my eyes.
There’s a market today and the square is thriving. French hip-hop blares out of a speaker at a stall right by the old church and it’s such a funny juxtaposition that I touch Jackson’s back and laugh as I point it out. He smiles, but it’s weak.
We pass a little antique shop and I jolt to a stop at the sight of a corkboard filled with enamel pin badges. My eyes have zeroed straight in on a teeny-tiny Michelin Man. Étienne has a whole wall of them in his garage.
“I’ll just be a sec,” I say to Jackson, nipping inside to buy it.
Sandrine, Mellie, and Albert have managed to snag a table on the terrace in the shade of the gigantic plane trees, which is no mean feat. I take a seat opposite Sandrine who has switched out her big round sunglasses for reading glasses and is perusing themenu. She looks up and clicks her fingers at a passing waitress, calling out to order water, even as the waitress continues on to another table.
Sandrine tuts and returns to studying the menu.
I’m always on edge when I’m out with her. I’ve done a bit of waitressing myself and there’s nothing worse than a rude customer. Politeness costs nothing, but it makes a world of difference, especially to someone who is relying heavily on tips and the kindness of strangers.
I surreptitiously observe her as she looks around for another waitress. I wonder what she’d be like as a mother-in-law. I used to want so badly for her to be mine.
“I give up,” she announces suddenly, throwing down her menu.
Albert, Mellie, and Jackson stop talking and look at her. “What’s wrong?” Jackson asks.
“I can’t get anybody’s attention,” she replies with frustration. “Someone else can order. I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
Jackson stares at her as she pushes out her chair and gets up from the table.
A minute later, the waitress comes over.
31
“Do you want me totake your Clio to Étienne’s so he can fit the new tires?” I ask Mellie later that same afternoon when we’re back at home.
