Is he serious? Does he honestly think I still want the job in London? Wait. I don't? What the hell am I going to do for work? I'm not going to be paid to be Gabriel's fake partner anymore.
As I stand there having an existential crisis on the Parisienne sidewalk, Damien blows smoke in my face and points to my hand. “And you don’t have to wear that thing anymore. Although I guess they may need you at one more race… I don’t know. An abrupt break-up might be a bit much. Yeah, one more race. Maybe you finish out the season? I’ll have a meeting about it with the team. I’ll call you.”
He starts down the street, but calls back, “You did a good job, Walsh. Maybe a little too much… gusto. But yeah. It worked.”
He leaves and I pull my phone out of my pocket to stare at the last text I sent Gabriel. Is that why he's not responding? Because this nightmare smear case is done and he doesn't need me anymore? Oh God, how stupid was I to actually fall for him? I was going to tell him too. Of course, he was just using me. I was there to be used. This isn't his fault.
I walk aimlessly down the unknown street. I don't know where I am or where I'm going. Tourists snap pictures and locals bustle by with purpose. The early fall sun is making all the monuments and the Seine golden but I'm drowning in my own inner conflict and can't admire any of it.
I try to see a bright side. I’m going to be the Head of UK Public Relations for Allard Couture. I can hold my head up high. Eric will hear the news. My old clients will. I’ll have risen from the ashes like a Phoenix. No one played me or used me this time. I worked the system to my advantage. So why do I feel like I might punch something or cry?
My phone buzzes. When I see Gabriel’s name tears do swim in my eyes. But they’re tears of relief, not pain.
Sorry. I got… overwhelmed. I walked home. Can you grab an Uber back?
I text him back a thumbs up and pull up the car app on my phone.
* * *
On the ride over, Gabriel texts me the code for his building so I don’t have to buzz him to get in. I ride the tiny elevator to his floor and knock softly on his door. “Ouvert!”
His voice is so sexy when he speaks French. It gets velvety and smooth. I turn the handle and walk inside and the smile that was toying with the corners of my mouth disappears when I see him. He's just past the entryway, in the living room. He's standing perfectly still, his jacket off and his tie hanging loosely. His sleeves are rolled up and his belt is undone. His socks and shoes are off and his face… is pale. Even the freckles.
“I saw Damien. He said it went well. This doesn’t look well,” I say as I walk toward him.
He nods, and his eyes dart away from mine. “They found video. It proves my side of the story. She signed paperwork to drop everything.”
"Great!" I say, but the enthusiasm in my voice doesn't reach my body. I feel cold and kind of anxious like there is a shoe that still has to drop. Or maybe an atomic bomb.
“Yeah. Great. For my career and yours, right?” Gabriel smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes and there isn’t one degree of warmth in it. “Allard Couture’s new Director of UK Public Relations.”
He starts to clap. Slowly. It echoes around the apartment mockingly.
“Gabe.”
“So when do you leave?” Gabriel asks. He runs a hand through his hair, sending it askew, and then turns to the window. It’s wide open and the curtains, which are a gauzy white fabric, are blowing a little bit. “I don’t get to London much. I hear it’s great though. Henri called and he wants to talk ‘exit strategy’ but I don’t think we need to make this formal. I mean hell, we kind of went off-script already. Might as well just write our own ending too. You can leave whenever it suits you.”
I walk closer. His living room faces a courtyard. Somewhere in another apartment with its windows open someone is playing the piano. The sound of the music wafts up and into the air around us. “I should have told you about that part of the deal.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t,” I agree and let my fingers brush his hairline at the back of his neck. He steps away, moving across the room, putting the couch between us. “But I still should have told you. Truth is I haven’t thought about it much.”
He nods. “Yeah. I mean there’s been a lot going on. Well, I wanted to say I appreciate all you’ve done. And how you made this arrangement fun. It probably would have been unbearable with someone else.”
Is he really doing this?
“You’re welcome?” I say it because it sounds as absurd as what he’s saying.
We stare at each other, silently, with nothing but faint piano chords as the soundtrack to this break-up. But can it really be a break-up if it was never real? His phone chirps. Breaking our staring contest, he snatches it off the end table and looks at it. Then he strides over to the dining room and grabs his suit jacket. “We have to pack and leave.” He holds up his phone before tucking it in his pocket. “The car is taking us to the airport in forty minutes.”
“We’re leaving now?”
"Yeah. I have to be in France for the GP tomorrow." Gabriel sighs and rubs his forehead like he has a headache. "And we have to fly commercial. I can't pick the times."
“And you want me to come?”
He stiffens at that question. “We’re still playing this game, aren’t we? Or do you want to just vanish? The press will ask questions either way so, like I said, up to you.”
