We hand over our mics and proceed to the elevator. “I want Five Guys,” I tell him.
“We’re in the gastronomic capital of the world and you want a greasy American fast-food burger?”
“Precisely. And Paris is not the gastronomic capital of the world. Tokyo is, based on Michelin ratings. Like, a hundred and ninety-four to one twenty-three. And as my husband, I’m sure you wouldn’t force me to walk back down the Champs-Élysées alone at night, so I guess that means you want a burger too.”
“I absolutelywouldlet you walk back alone,” he replies. “Fortunately for you, I’m starving.”
We call a car and have him deliver us to the middle of the Champs-Élysées. Theo nods at the restaurant. “Order for us both. I’ll be right in.”
I don’t love walking into Five Guys in a floor-length gown alone, but I do it and am having a friendly chat with the girl behind the counter when he returns…triumphantly brandishing a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
What a good husband he’d make. I always wanted to end up with someone who realizes I need wine with my cheeseburger.
We drink it on the patio with our food, and as fun as it is, it’s also bittersweet. This was a short trip—Theo will return to London tomorrow night, and I’ll remain behind to be interviewed one-on-one for the show.
I wish it was longer. I wish he was coming home withme.
We slowly walk back to the hotel. I’m leaning on his arm because I’m drunk and he’s allowing it because he’s tipsy too.
There’s an outdoor bar, surrounded in greenery. Everyone is singing together, some French song I don’t know.
“Vive l’amour!” shouts a guy, glancing at our rings. “American, I think? And newlyweds? Come in, come in! A glass of champagne on the house tonight. We must toast to your union. May it last forever.”
“Shall we toast to our union lasting forever?” I ask Theo.
I’m absolutely certain he’s going to say no when he shrugs. “I suppose one can never toast to a union too often.”
We are led to seats at the bar. A bottle of champagne is opened, and glasses are filled.
“Now you must kiss,” our benefactor pronounces.
Theo and I glance at each other. “Nothing we haven’t done before,” I say, leaning over to chastely brush his lips with my own.
The man groans. “Pathetic,” he says, hitting Theo on the shoulder. “Surely you can do better.”
Theo’s mouth slides up on one side. “I can do a little better, yeah.”
Just like the dream I had.
I’d tell him that I might have psychic powers but there’s no time as he presses his palm to my face and drags my mouth back to his, harder. His lips open and mine do as well, and despite the cheering around us, when his tongue brushes against mine I can hear his groan, as if he’s finally digging into a meal he’s wanted for a very long time.
I’m blinking, silent, wordless when he finally lets mego.
He takes in my swollen mouth and smirks. “You look surprised.”
“I expected you to kiss more like Margaret Thatcher off camera,” I reply.
“Because she’s dead?”
I laugh. He made the joke before I could.
There is more champagne. The guy—who turns out to be the bar’s owner—asks me if Theo is a good husband. “He’s a terrible husband,” I reply.
“We will fix this,” he says, and then he pours us shots. “The cure for every bad marriage. Also, the ruin of a good one, but this is another story.”
We toast. I’m now so drunk I’m having a hard time sitting on this bar stool, and Theo is so drunk that he decides it’s a good idea to buy a bottle of champagne.
“Whyhaveyou been such a bad husband?” I demand, giggling. “We haven’t even consummated our marriage.”
