The Pairing(115)
Guillaume takes it reasonably well, but he lets me know in no uncertain terms that I will not be getting my plate back. Fair.
When I get home, I do the next thing on my housekeeping list: I call my dad. He answers as if we last spoke a few days ago, which doesn’t surprise me. He’s not in Rome, but he is currently writing in residence at the Ace Hotel in Manhattan, even though his apartment is only six blocks over. He’s been translating a German vampire novel for fun in his spare time. I tell him about the tour, about the food and the paintings and the sea, but not about Theo. The closest we get to addressing our last conversation is a vague mention he makes of wanting to visit Paris and “leave work at home this time.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be living here,” I tell him. “I’ve been thinking about making some changes.”
On the other end of the line, he’s quiet for long enough that I think he must not have been paying attention. My suspicions seem confirmed when he says, “Did I mention my editor is leaving? I had dinner with him last week.”
“Oh?” I begin trimming the basil plant in my kitchen window, ready to ease myself out of the conversation.
“I was telling him how happy Violette would be to know you’d wound up back in France.”
My scissors still.
“You were?”
“He’s moving abroad for his wife’s job, and they have two sons. Sixteen and eleven. He asked me how the three of you adjusted when we moved from France. I said, well, Ollie was old enough to be excited about it, and Cora was too young to remember much. But our Kit—he was the one Violette worried most about. Our sensitive one. He’s the most like his mother, and her heart belonged in France.”
My throat tightens. He doesn’t like to talk about my mother, especially not with my siblings and me. I think it hurts too much to draw attention to all the pieces of her in us, like how I spoke only French the first few months after losing Theo so I wouldn’t have to hear the English phrases and inflections I’d adopted from them. This is the first time in years he’s said something like this to me. It’s the closest he’s ever come to saying he regrets taking her away from France for the last six years of her life.
I glance at the watercolor paintings that hang on the kitchen wall exactly as they have since Thierry hung them years and years ago. The centermost one is a garden scene, all green except for the brown shape of a little fox curled up in the roots of an orange tree.
“Do you think I should stay, then?” I ask.
“I think,” he says, “that I’m thankful you have my spirit, but her heart.”
That night, I scroll job listings in bed, half-heartedly searching for something that might make me happier than my current one does. There are plenty of openings for part-time bread makers and sous chefs and cake decorators, but the more I try to imagine myself doing any of them, the harder it gets to ignore what I don’t feel: the startling rush of possibility I felt when Paloma told me about the patisserie in Saint-Jean-de-Luz.
I type out a text to Paloma: can i call you tomorrow?
When I’ve sent it, I swipe back into my messages, to my conversation with Theo. I haven’t heard from them all day, and I tell myself it’s nothing to be concerned about. They’ve probably been busy enjoying their time alone in Palermo, sunning themself on the beach and eating arancini. I’ll hear from them tomorrow. We promised.
I fall asleep thinking of them. The curve of their shoulder, the slant of their smile. Their hands covered in pizza grease, an apricot-flavored kiss. I miss them so badly already. But I’ve learned to love that ache.
The next day, I go back to work, and it feels better than it has in a long time—not because I’ve decided to stay, but because I’ve decided to leave. I find that I can put up with any amount of tweezering when I can imagine my own tasting menus while I do it. It’s good to feel like I’m working toward something, even if I don’t yet know exactly what that will be.
I still haven’t heard from Theo. I sent one text this morning, asking if they’ve eaten any more granita and brioche since I left, but they haven’t responded. I catch myself leaving my phone face up on my station all morning, even though it’s expressly forbidden. Maybe Theo’s preparing for their transatlantic flight tonight. Maybe that’s all it is. Any minute, they could send me a photo of a priceless sculpture’s cock and balls, and everything will be fine.
Maxine meets me for apéro at our usual café. She’s happy to see me, once she’s finished scolding me because Guillaume has started charging her for coffees again. I tell her that I’m trying to break things off with every hookup in my rotation, and she says it’d be faster to send out a newsletter.
I tell her everything that happened on the trip—even the horny parts, which are more interesting to her than the parts where I experience new heights of human emotion while staring at old churches. She understands how we arrived at the decision we made, but she doesn’t agree with it. I find it harder and harder the longer I talk to explain why it makes sense.
It made perfect sense two days ago, when I was so afraid of my own predisposed selfishness, so sure I’d carry on the family curse. But I keep remembering my dad’s words. Your mother’s heart. I wish I could talk to her about it, have her tell me I’ve done the right thing. I wish she could tell me if she ever doubted what she gave up for love.