The Pairing(14)

Sloane drops the accent and sighs, “Oh, Theo.”

“I know,” I say. I flip the camera to show her my view. “But look, it’s sparkling.”


I briefly consider staying in my room the next morning.

I have a few concerns, based on my track record. I’m concerned I might get pickpocketed because I’m not paying attention on the metro and wind up hopelessly lost with no way to find my way back. Maybe all the beautiful, feminine Parisian women might glare at me on the street, and not in a sexy way. I could discover I was right four years ago when I believed I couldn’t handle a city like this, that I belong in my familiar valley and the closest I should ever get to the wide, curious world is the label on a bottle.

And then I think of how many things I’ll never taste or smell, and I put on my boots.

I hike up to Sacré-C?ur to see its glistening white scallops and sit on the steps where John Wick died, then climb back down to gawk at the Palais Garnier. I ramble the old stone paths along the banks of the Seine, poking around secret corners and watching day drinkers on floating wine bars. Everything is different here, in small details I never thought of as changeable before, but I find the city easier to navigate than expected, and I don’t even embarrass myself when I order coffee and a croissant.

I’m beginning to suspect that a flirtatious smile and a genuine love of food and drink might get me anywhere.

The tour meets back up for lunch on a gourmet sightseeing cruise on the Seine, and I talk to Fabrizio for an hour about spaghetti Westerns while licking caviar off a spoon. We’re served an Irouleguy Blanc so carefully sculpted, I write down built like Swayze in 1989 in my notes. I’m in such a good mood, I don’t care when my eyes meet Kit’s across the dining room. I don’t even think about his pity cake or new relationship. In fact, I decide I’d be more concerned if Kit wasn’t dating anyone. He’s so good at it, it would be a waste for him to stay single forever, like Meryl Streep quitting movies.

I, personally, am single by choice, not lack of opportunity. I get plenty of opportunities. At my last wedding gig, I pulled a bridesmaid and a groomsman, and we gave one another so many opportunities that I had to have Gatorade for breakfast.

For the evening, we have tickets for the Moulin Rouge dinner cabaret, so I change into the nicest outfit I packed, a sleeveless black linen jumpsuit that plunges down my chest in a deep V. I turn in the mirror, pleased with the clean, subtle lines of my chest. I look good, strong, androgynous. Like someone who’s not afraid of this city and never has been.

My luck runs out under a glittering chandelier. Inside the theater, the space arches in lush, carpeted tiers with crisp white linens and lamps with opulent silk shades on endless tables. We’ve been divided into tables of six and eight, and as Fabrizio hands us off to our ma?tre d’, I realize who I’m seated with.

“Hello again,” Kit says.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Hi.”

He does clean up nicely. Or, he’s always clean, always neatly groomed and preternaturally fresh-smelling, but he knows how to make himself look like art. A cream linen shirt with a Cuban collar and delicate accents of embroidered flowers, tapered trousers cinched at his narrow waist, some of his hair twisted back into—did he braid it? Did he sit in his little room and lovingly braid his hair like he used to braid his sister’s?

To add insult to injury, dinner comes with one bottle of champagne for every two people, and we have to share.

Across the table, Blond Calum eyes his champagne. “What, no absinthe? We don’t get to meet the green fairy?”

“I reckon Kylie Minogue was booked tonight,” Ginger Calum says.

Kit and I let out identical, simultaneous laughs. Both Calums look at us with eyebrows raised.

“Got that one, did ya?” Ginger Calum says. “Most Americans I’ve met don’t even know who Kylie Minogue is.”

“Heathens,” Blond Calum adds.

“We’re—” Kit says. “I’m a massive Moulin Rouge fan. It was my favorite movie growing up.”

I’ve been trying not to think about it, Kit at thirteen, obsessed with a high-camp, high-saturation tragedy about forbidden love and dying of consumption. He’s always been so completely himself.

“Once,” I say, “in the eighth grade, he made me watch it four times in one night.”

“I didn’t make you,” Kit teases, and then he flinches, like he doesn’t know if this is allowed. His voice softens as he adds, “You were the one who wanted to learn every word of ‘Elephant Love Medley.’”

“And you were a full-grown adult when you convinced me to do it with you at someone else’s karaoke birthday.”

“Crikey,” Ginger Calum says. “That’ll kill the party.”

“Oh, tanked it,” I say.

“Very poorly reviewed,” Kit agrees, beginning to smile.

“We pulled it out, though, with—”

“‘Can’t Stop Loving You,’” we finish at the same time.

Our eyes meet, and I feel my mouth slipping into a smile. God, we got some mileage out of that song. So many nights in smoky bars or house parties, the two of us laughing into squawky microphones over an instrumental track. I haven’t been able to think of it in years, but strangely, it doesn’t hurt the same right now.