When she takes her leave, we rise from the table.
“Take a walk with me?” he asks.
“I’d like that.” I have questions and concerns and a host of things on my mind I want to talk to him about.
It fills me with a joyful expectancy to know… there’s no time limit.
It’s just me and him and a lifetime ahead of us.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Thought we’d take a little trip to the bookstore. You know. Where it all began.”
We walk hand in hand down the streets of Corsica. On our way back to where we had our first conversation.
Where my heart first began to beat in time with his.
Where it all began.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
Nicolette
“We’ll have two espressos, please,”Fabien orders in perfect English. It goes so well with his American-tourist disguise, I’m actually a little turned on.
“Of course, Monsieur,” the barista replies, also in perfect English.
Fabien takes out some cash and hands it to the barista with a confused look. “Tip?”
When the barista gives Fabien a look that borders on condescension, Fabien gives me a little smile, like it’s an inside joke. What he doesn’t know is that it is exactly that. He knows you don’t tip a barista here, but when the barista declines, Fabien pretends to go right along with it.
Fabien is no more American than I’m a blonde – my current truly fabulous disguise—but we have our fun. I’m wearing tight-fitting ripped jeans and a white T-shirt painted with an American flag stretched across my miraculously ample breasts.The boob inserts really are more fun than the wigs. I’ve got a mop of curly blonde hair that nearly hits my ass. Lash extensions and hot pink lipstick complete my ensemble.
I wink at him, hot as hell in a hoodie, faded tee, and ripped jeans. I wanna jump casual-tourist Fabien right here, right now. It’s almost as sexy as the professor get-up which I did, in fact, christen in a hallway closet. But for now, he’s leaning pretty heavily into the part of American tourist stereotype: his phone is set on camera mode, he speaks loudly, tries to tip everyone, and smiles a lot.
Now that I think about it, though—the smile, isn’t part of his act.
He smiles when we walk hand in hand.
He smiles when he wakes up next to me.
He smiles when there’s no one else to watch him, because Fabien Gerard is happy.
And so am I.
So happy.
I wake up every day next to the man of my dreams. Sure, ours isn’t a relationship like any other. His… work…is unconventional. He flouts the law like it’s child’s play, and there are times he comes home to me weary and troubled.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t want the answers, not really. I’ve found a kinship in his mother’s gentle spirit, and she’s taught me: don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer.
So I don’t. I crawl into his lap and kiss him. I undress him and lead him to bed. We make sweet love until the troubles of theday fall away like our clothing, discarded and unnecessary in the quiet certainty of our love.
Oscar Wilde once said, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris.”
I like that thought.
