I’m supposed to be seeing him tomorrow, but that feels like ages away.
“The garage isn’t open on Saturday afternoons,” she points out. “But it’s fine, I can do it on Monday. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“I don’t mind. I thought I might go and say hi to him anyway.” This would give me the perfect excuse.
She glances at me and sees it written all over my face. “Ah. Okay then. Thanks, that would be great.” She purses her lips as she gets up for her keys.
I’ve never been more transparent than with my own grandmother.
I concentrate on driving on the right side of the road as I wind down the mountain toward the garage. The doors are closed so I pull up on the forecourt and wander down the driveway toward Étienne’s apartment. I soon see that his car is missing so I turnaround and drag myself back up the hill to Mellie’s little blue Clio. Once inside, I lean over the steering wheel and rest my forehead on my hands.
What am I doing? He’s agreed to see me tomorrow. Why am I here today?
I have his little Michelin Man badge with me and I wanted to give it to him, but couldn’t it wait?
I’m getting too invested. Lise told me to beware ofhisfeelings, but what about mine?
With a heavy sigh, I sit up and grab my phone.
I tap out a text to him:Can I leave Mellie’s car on the forecourt for you to change the tires on Monday?
I wait a couple of minutes and when he doesn’t reply, I text Jackson:I can go for a drink after all if you still fancy it?He’d suggested it on the way home from Aiguèze.
I’d love to!he replies.Where?
La Terrasse? Just dropped Mellie’s car at the garage.
The restaurant is closer to this end of town, so it’s an easy walk for both of us.
I leave the Clio on the forecourt and text Étienne to tell him what I’ve done.Hope that’s ok, I add.I’m going to La Terrasse and I’d like to walk home. I’ll put the keys through your letterbox.
Just as I’m locking the car, he replies and my pulse skips:Hang on to the keys. I’ll come by and pick them up.
I heart the comment.
Jackson beats meto the restaurant. He’s waiting on the pavement opposite Thermalisme, his family’s spa hotel. “Are we eating or just doing drinks?”
“I’m pretty full from lunch, but maybe something light.”
“If we eat we can sit on the terrace,” he points out.
“Okay, let’s eat. I’ll just go and say hi to Lise.”
When I come back outside, he’s at a table for two and the same middle-aged waitress who served us a few weeks ago is lighting the candle.
“My favorite couple,” she says genially in English as I sit down.
“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I reply dismissively as Jackson smiles up at her.
“No?” She looks surprised.
As does Jackson. I’ve never before felt the need to correct someone who’s jumped to that conclusion.
I shake my head. “No, we’re just friends.”
“But you look so beautiful together!”
“I know. I’ve been telling him that for years, but he’s not having it,” I say flippantly. “Broke my heart, he did.”
