“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning. I haven’t told him anything about my family. I haven’t told anyone, in fact.
Louis shrugs. “You’re a dancer. Degas painted dancers.”
“How come you speak English so well?” I ask, not just to change the subject, but also because I’ve wondered about that since we met. Louis speaks English with such fluidity that I almost forget that I’m in France.
He rubs at the back of his neck, as though he’s embarrassed at the compliment. “My mom is half-French, half-English, and she travels a lot for work. And my dad…” He pauses.
“Yup, definitely know your dad.”
“Right. Well, they liked talking to me in English when I was little. I even went to an international school in Switzerland, but I wanted to come home for high school. I can speak English in Paris. I mean, I can speak English anywhere, but Paris is the only place I want to be.”
“I think I understand why.” I glance through the window, across the Seine. I spot the Sacré-C?ur, the famous basilica towering over the city in the distance. It seems like it’s hovering on the horizon wherever you look, like when you’re driving and the moon follows you. I can’t wait to see it up close. With Louis. Or not. Whatever.
We keep walking, and I don’t know why I notice this, but our steps are in sync.
I recognize the next piece along the wall immediately, and my heart nearly stops: Ballet Rehearsal on Stage.
“Oh. My. God.” I say with a gasp, “It’s here!”
I can’t contain my giddiness as I shuffle in front of a large group so I can get closer to my favorite painting ever. There’s a similar version of this painting at the Met in New York City, but this is the one I love the most. It’s so surreal to finally see the original. Paris really is a magical city: so far it’s making all my dreams come true.
“It’s soooo incredible,” I whisper. Louis walks closer, stepping up next to me.
“I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a painting,” Louis says, gently nudging me. My mind flashes back to when I was sitting on the back of his Vespa, and how I’d wanted to rest my head on his shoulder. Deep down a little voice tells me that it can’t be a coincidence that we bumped into each other twice in a week. I don’t want to shut it down.
I force myself to focus on the painting again, and grin. “I have a poster of it in my room,” I say. “It’s my favorite.”
Louis smiles. “Give me your phone,” he says.
I hand it to him, and he waits until the large group has moved on to take my picture in front of it.
“Parfait,” he says after he gives me my phone back.
“I’m going to sound like a total nerd, but I’m really excited to have this.”
Louis chuckles. “I like art nerds.”
I beam, and probably blush, but mostly his words make me feel bold enough to grab his arm and pull him close to me. “You should be in the picture, too,” I say, bringing my phone up to our faces. He presses his cheek against mine, and it sends shivers down my spine as I click on the button. Afterward I itch to look at the picture but hold myself back. I can gaze at it all night if I want to. And I already know I’ll want to.
“And what gets you excited?” I ask, hoping my cheeks are getting back to a normal color.
He takes a moment to think about it. “Taking trips with friends across France. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Really good food. In fact”—he checks his watch—“one of my favorite cafés is not far from here, in Saint-Germain, and it’s almost lunchtime…Do you have plans?” Louis asks. “We could go. I mean, after you’ve finished studying every Degas with a magnifying glass, obviously.”
I can’t go. I mean, I shouldn’t go. I need to stay focused on why I’m here, on dancing and knocking the socks off ABT, and it’s pretty obvious that Louis is…distracting. Distractingly cute. So cute. But I do need to eat, so…
“I guess I have time for that,” I say, trying to keep my face straight.
* * *
We walk down the twisty streets of the sixth arrondissement, but just as we arrive at the place Louis mentioned, he has another idea. “Café de Flore is just around the corner. Do you know it?”
“It rings a bell,” I say, trying to figure out where I’ve heard the name before.
Louis smiles, like he’s about to let me in on a secret. “It’s one of the oldest cafés in Paris. It’s always been the meeting place of the most famous Parisians: authors, journalists, actors, and all kinds of celebrities. It even has its own literary prize.”