“But I’m not famous,” I say jokingly.
“Not yet,” Louis says with a glimmer in his eye.
A few minutes later, we’re seated at the corner terrace of this famous café, alongside many chic Parisians. The white cursive lettering announcing Café de Flore is almost covered by the lush plants hanging from the balcony above. I sneak glances around, wondering if I’ll recognize anyone, but, except for dancers, I’m not too familiar with the French art scene. The older couple next to us eats their steak frites in silence, white cloth napkins neatly placed on their laps. Their glasses of red wine barely fit on the tiny table and clink against each other with every move.
“I live not too far, with my dad,” Louis says, pointing to his left. “It’s a few streets away, off the Jardin du Luxembourg.”
“Wow” is all I can come up with. I try to picture what it would have been like to grow up around here, just off a gorgeously manicured park, wandering past centuries-old monuments on your way to school, peeking inside elegant boutiques and stopping by a star-studded café in the afternoons. It sounds like a pretty good life.
He blushes a little. “It’s not as fancy as around here. I swear,” he says, then adds, “my mom’s in London. Well, when she’s not traveling. She’s a director, so she’s always off filming somewhere.”
Louis goes on to talk about his mom’s latest film, a dark drama set in various parts of Europe, which is coming out in theaters later this summer. He says it like it’s no big deal, and when he starts asking me questions, I hesitate to tell him about my way-more-average American family.
“My mom is not a famous director, but she works in marketing at a beauty company, so I get a lot of free makeup.” I shrug. “My dad and my little brother don’t get so excited about that, but it’s a pretty good perk for a ballerina.”
Our salads arrive, bursting with colorful crudités （aka raw vegetables）， and we switch topics to his favorite things about Paris: the Canal Saint-Martin, where he goes to hang out with his friends; the outdoor concerts in summer, and the crêpes slathered with Nutella, for sale on many street corners. Apparently I’m not allowed to leave Paris without having at least one.
It feels oddly comfortable between us, like we’ve done this many times before, even though I didn’t even know Louis existed a few days ago. We’re sitting close together, and I can feel the vibration of his knee bouncing, almost like he’s nervous. I don’t know why he would be; Louis is way too cool to be nervous about anything or anyone. Especially me.
“Why ballet?” Louis asks me, tearing into his second piece of baguette, which he smears with salted butter.
“It’s in my blood.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Louis raises an eyebrow.
“I’m kidding. Sort of. I just fell into it when I was little, and that was it. I love being transported by music from hundreds of years ago. It’s like I belong to a different era.”
“Like you belong in those paintings we just saw?”
“Yeah.” I feel myself blush. “You’re going to think it’s stupid,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Try me.”
“There’s this story my grandmother told me…”
I tell him what I’ve kept to myself all these years. How the women of my family have been dancing for generations, and how my grandmother even believes that our ancestor was one of the Degas dancers. That it’s supposed to be a sign that being a ballerina is my destiny.
“I told you, it’s stupid,” I say when I’ve finished.
Louis just stares at me with wide eyes. I’ve said too much. I don’t understand what happens to me when I’m with him. “I think you and I have a different definition of stupid,” Louis finally says. “What else did your grandmother say?”
“Not much. She gave me the phone number of her aunt who lives outside Paris.”
Louis starts playing with the bread crumbs on the table, crushing them with his index finger one by one. He frowns as he does this, like he’s completing a very important task. Even his frowns are cute. “And you think that this aunt would know something more?” he asks.
“I don’t know, maybe?”
The white-aproned waiter interrupts us to take our plates, and we order two cafés, which arrive a few minutes later in microscopic cups branded with the café’s name. A square of chocolate wrapped in foil sits on each saucer next to a sugar cube. I like how the French do coffee: strong and sweet.