The Pairing(13)

“He does that a lot?”

“You mean Kit?” Maxine arches a brow. “The Sex God of école Desjardins?”

I nearly spit out my wine again. “The—what?”

“Oh, only the most annoying thing about him,” she says. “He had everyone he wanted. It was like a rite of passage in our year to have one glorious night with Kit and then be in love with him for a week. I know three different men who thought they were straight until him.”

“That’s,” I reply, “something.”

Now the dessert course is coming out, and I’m confronting the idea of Kit distributing life-changing orgasms to his entire pastry school class.

Of the thoughts I don’t have about Kit, the memory of what he’s like in bed is one I keep inside a steel-reinforced vault. I was born a dumb, hot, horny creature who will abandon all reason if I think too long about the kind of sex we used to have, so I don’t. Not an inch of skin, not a flash of pink tongue, not one hot, slutty breath on the side of my neck.

I’m not about to start now. If Kit has become some kind of minor sex celebrity, that’s none of my business.

The waiter returns to mop up the spill, but Kit takes the towel and insists on doing it himself, which only flusters the waiter more. He backs into a waitress and gets a citron tart smashed into his shirt before beating another retreat.

“Get off your knees, man,” Maxine says in a low voice. “Have some dignity.”

I make sure to laugh at the right time.


After Fabrizio has pressed kisses to the cheeks of every waiter, we gather on the street. Maxine steps away to pull a silver cigarette case from her purse and light up.

“Theo.”

Kit is waiting for me, half lit by the orange streetlight glow.

Longer hair suits him. It curls at his collar and kisses the highest points of his cheeks with a languid grace all his own. I wonder hopefully if it irritates him when he’s baking, if he has to tie it back to get it out of his face.

He holds out a small paper shopping bag he’s been carrying since the afternoon.

“It seemed like this one was your favorite,” he says. “I thought you should have one to yourself, in case you’re not in Paris again for a while.”

Inside is a shiny olive oil cake, packed tidily in a ribbon-tied box.

“Did I get the right one?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring into the bag in stunned silence for five full seconds.

“Yeah, you did,” I say. “How did you know?”

He glances away, up at a flower box in a window across the street.

“Lucky guess.”

As if waiting for her cue, Maxine appears and links her arm through his, and now I understand. She probably takes note of what guests like on her tours, and she slipped him a hint. This is a couple gift. A conciliatory treat. An olive-cake olive branch.

“Thank you,” I say to them, resolving not to feel pitied. “I heard the Calums and some of the others are going out for another drink, are you guys coming?”

Maxine takes a drag and exhales a cloud of smoke that smells like tobacco and lotus and high-end weed. She smokes hand-rolled herbal spliffs. Jesus, she’s so fucking chic. I can’t even remember to charge my vape.

“Darling, I just worked a full day,” she says. “I’m putting myself to bed.”

“Are you walking back to the flat?” Kit asks her. The flat, not your flat.

“It’s a nice night for it, don’t you think?”

“I’ll walk you,” he announces, like I’m stupid. Obviously he’s going home with her to their apartment, so they can put each other to bed. We can be adults about it. “Maybe tomorrow night, Theo?”

“Sure,” I agree. I put on my most suggestive grin. “Have a nice walk!”

Kit gives me a weird look, but they turn and leave together.

“Theo!” shouts Blond Calum as I watch them disappear arm in arm around the corner. “You with us?”

“Nah,” I decide in the moment. “I’m gonna go see the Tower.”

I set off on my own, across the street and through the wide green lawn at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, past amorous couples and teenagers with cheap champagne and guys selling light-up rubber balls that bounce thirty feet in the air. It’s five minutes to eleven, which means five minutes until the lights on the Tower sparkle.

It’s funny. I’ve seen this tower on so many screens, I assumed it’d be underwhelming in real life. None of those establishing wide shots capture how complicated it is up close, all the flourishes and arches and curlicues and starbursts of intersecting ironwork. It’s not so bad being romanced by something familiar.

Sloane answers my video call on the second ring.

“Oh, hello,” she drawls in a Katharine Hepburn voice. “I do hope you received my latest telegram.”

“Sorry, I was trying to reach my sister, but I must have dialed the Titanic.”

“The director thinks I should try more of a Transatlantic accent. I’ve been practicing.”

“By God, I think you’ve got it.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” she agrees. “How’s Paris?”

“Well, Kit and his hot girlfriend gave me a cake. Also I drank a lot of wine and now I might have to pee in a bush under the Eiffel Tower.”