When I reach him, he wraps an arm around my waist, dips me, and kisses me.
I swoon.
There’s no other way to describe it. He has me in his arms, and he’s taking my breath away on the street outside the world’s most famous cabaret, and my head is a fantastically static haze. He kisses me like we’re in the movies, like this is one of those kisses a photographer will capture, and it’ll become a classic black-and-white photo. Women will post it online with captions like I’ll have what she’s having.
And I’m having it. The kind of kiss that makes my head spin. That makes my heart thump. That turns me on from ankles to eyebrows.
When at last our lips separate and he pulls me up, I blink at him, sighing contentedly. “You’re too much.”
He laughs. “I’ll assume ‘too much’ is a good thing.”
“You’re cake. I’m having you and eating you,” I say dopily, because I think I might be high on him.
“So much talk of eating things,” he says, running a hand through my hair as his soft lips travel to my neck. “And yet I still need to eat you again and again.”
That spark flares through me, and I’m already dangerously wet.
We head inside, taking a seat for the show, where we spend the next hour entertained by dozens upon dozens of women in sequins and feathers dancing and kicking to bright, bold, and sometimes seductive music. Their sumptuous costumes shimmer on the stage, the cherry reds, glittery golds, and shiny silvers adding to the decadence of the evening. This place is, and has always been, a portal to the hedonistic, an invitation to dance till dawn, to sleep in past noon, to drink and live and be so very merry.
Griffin’s hand is on me the whole time, moving from my leg, to my hand, over my shoulders. As I watch, I exist in a state of heightened awareness. I’m a hummingbird, wings buzzing, waiting to dip my beak into the honey water.
When we leave, we wander through the hilly streets of Montmartre, past cafés where the clink of wineglasses and bits of conversation float past my ears. I pick up phrases here and there, crystal clear in my brain for once, and I grab Griffin’s arm, my eyes widening.
“I’m starting to understand what they’re saying,” I tell him in French.
He smiles and kisses me. “Your dream is coming true.”
My heart flutters. I want to tell him I have new dreams. I want to tell him he’s part of them.
Something holds me back, though. Maybe it’s my own ancient fears. My worries over what happens when you let someone in. How you start to give up the parts of you that matter most. If I’m going to keep giving the most precious real estate in my heart to him, I want to know him more, and understand what drives him.
We stop in a small park and grab a bench in a quiet corner, away from the Friday night revelry. But before I can ask him what I most want to know, he squeezes my fingers and says, “I want you to see what’s on the list.”
I straighten my shoulders, surprised at this sudden declaration, even though it’s as if he’s read my mind. “You do?”
He nods. “You’re important to me. I want you to understand my life, and my choices.”
His words are heavy, anchored by a weight I don’t fully understand. He sighs, rubs a hand over his jaw, and I tense more. Something is on his list that I won’t like, and I don’t think it’s about other women. It’s about him. It’s about us.
I brace myself for hurt. “I want to say you don’t have to tell me, but I think I might need to know,” I say softly.
He swallows and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. “I’m leaving.”
My ears ring. My head hurts. A cold, hard echo reverberates in my body, like a crash of cymbals. I must have heard him wrong. “What?”
“I’m leaving Paris. When the assignment at your company is over.”
I blink, and if I were standing, I’d stumble. Instead, my hands curl around the wooden slat of the bench, holding on tight. “You’re leaving?”
He nods. “When I go to Indonesia. . .”
“You’re not coming back?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, heavily.
I nod a few times, my brain slowly processing this new input. It’s like someone dropped a molecule of bleach into a vanilla-scented perfume. “Wow.”
He rubs his palms along his slacks. “I’m sorry.”
Those words hit me hard. They make me feel like Richard did. Responsible for his fate. I paste on a smile. “Don’t be sorry. I was just surprised. That’s all.”
“I should have said something sooner.” Running a hand up my arm, his fingers tiptoe over my shoulder. My body has the audacity to form goose bumps. “But I had no idea where we were going, or if we were ever going to happen, or really what to say other than that I was going there for the race.”
I take a calming breath. “You don’t need to clear things with me. This is your life. You need to live it the way that makes sense to you.”
“Joy . . .” His voice is tinged with sadness.
“Are you planning to live in Indonesia?” I ask, drawing all my strength.
He nods. “For a little while. I’ve been saving the money to do this. But I’ll also travel all around. I’ve always wanted to.”
Like that, understanding lights up my
