I smother a half smile. She doesn’t have the acting skills of her brother to hide the disappointment in her tone.
Mike laughs. “It’s killing me, but she’s worth it.”
Laura doesn’t react to that, either, her focus fully on her cake. The conversation stalls, then drifts to the movie studio in Cannes, the Riviera versus Paris, the weather. The evening winds down. Outside the bistro, we exchange the customary pleasantries. And then Laura and Mike head to the Métro station, and Celeste and I to the parking garage.
“You’re nowhere near over Laura,” Celeste says as we drive out into the Parisian night.
The remark blindsides me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Not at all. The way you look at her, the way you?—”
I interrupt her, “It’s the guilt, like you said.”
“I think it’s much more, Antoine.” Her eyes settling on something distant, she adds, “I should have trusted my instincts.”
“About what?”
The headlights cut through the darkened streets, and the soft hum of the engine fills the silence between us.
She shifts her gaze to me. “You and Laura.”
“There’s no me and Laura.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
I slow down for the red light ahead. “It’s the truth.”
“When I watched you two on TV”—she smiles ruefully—“your affinity was obvious, but I convinced myself you were acting.”
“I was.”At least, the first day or two.
“I told myself you were pretending to like her to ensure the success of your mission.” Her smile becomes bitter. “For prince and country!”
“Celeste…” I have no idea what to say next.
The light turns green, and I step on the gas. The weight of her words settles in the car. As we drive through the city, I steala look at her. She seems so miserable in the glow of the passing streetlights that I want to hit myself.
“You’re overthinking this,” I say.
“Am I?” She angles her body toward me. “Will you swear to God you were faking it?”
I go for a cheap dodge. “Only women can ‘fake it.’”
“Come on,” she insists. “Swear it wasn’t real!”
Instead of replying, I focus on the road ahead. Seconds pass. Paris glimmers outside the windows.
Celeste turns away from me and sinks deep into her seat.
Depeche Mode’s crappy rhyme—a great song, though—floats into my head:
Words are very
Unnecessary.
The song haunts me all night, keeping sleep out of reach. Celeste and I stay at Le Meurice, as planned.
But in separate rooms.
