Louis seems deep in thought, and I’m still processing the fact that I just confessed this entire story to a boy I hardly know. But maybe time is not the only indicator of knowing someone, or feeling close to them.
“Seems like there’s only one way to find out about this dancer,” Louis says. “Do you have this aunt’s address?”
I laugh, certain he’s just kidding, but he looks at me deadpan. So I nod and pull up the photo on my phone. “I looked it up. It’s this tiny little village about an hour south of Paris. There’s no easy way to get there…”
“Easy isn’t what makes it fun,” Louis says, checking the map on his phone.
“I should give her a call, but she doesn’t speak English.” I don’t think Louis is even listening to me anymore.
After we split the bill, he pushes his chair back and gets up. “We have to go.”
I get up as well. “Go where?”
“If I tell you, you’re not going to come.”
“I still want to know.”
“Why?” Louis asks with the most charming crooked smile. Okay, by now we’ve established that all his smiles are charming—when they’re not gorgeous—but some hit me harder than others.
“We’re going on an adventure.”
He’s joking, right? “What kind of adventure?” I ask as I follow him down the street, back in the direction of the Musée d’Orsay.
Louis stops and stares deep into my eyes. “You ask too many questions.”
I cross my arms against my chest. “You don’t have enough answers.”
Louis bursts out laughing. It sounds like a magic spell, in the best possible way. And maybe it is, because just yesterday I swore off boys for the rest of the summer and promised myself I would give ballet all my attention. That’s the reason I’m here. Of course, I still feel that way. And yet, I know I’m in trouble…Because let’s be honest, I’m going to follow that sound anywhere.
FOR THE SECOND time this week, we’re zigzagging through the streets of Paris, and I can’t believe that it’s me on the back of this Vespa, my hands wrapped around his waist again, like this is where they belong. My heart knocks against my chest and my fingers tingle with excitement. I force myself to come to my senses when we turn onto a little street off a busy boulevard, passing by an entrance to a train station called the RER. Louis stops in front of a white building with large double windows and the same wrought-iron window guards I’ve seen all over Paris.
“Unfortunately, we can’t drive all the way there,” he says, locking his Vespa in place.
“We are not going to my great-great-aunt’s house,” I say, meaning it.
Louis purses his lips. “Don’t you want to know if this whole thing about your ancestor and Degas is real?”
I let out a sigh. I could say that I don’t even know my great-great-aunt, that I should go home and get some rest for the week ahead, that I didn’t come here to flirt with anyone, no matter how cute they are…
“We can’t just turn up there,” I say, but Louis starts heading toward the station.
“Pourquoi pas?” Why not?
We walk past a couple with two large dogs on a leash, which is too many people and animals for the narrow sidewalk. We have to veer onto the street just to avoid them.
“Because I don’t know this woman. I can’t just show up. I have to plan a visit.”
“That sounds extremely boring,” Louis says, taking the stairs down to the RER two at a time.
“It’s the normal thing to do.” Feeling like a seasoned pro at the public transportation system already, I scan my métro pass in order to keep following him, and soon we’re on the platform, waiting for the train.
Louis shrugs. “Normal, boring. Same difference.”
“What if she’s a serial killer?” I ask a little too loudly. A few heads turn to give me a weird look.
“If she is,” he whispers in my ear, “then it’s going to be one hell of an adventure.”
I shake my head, and his shaggy hair brushes my face. It smells lovely and feels so soft. I want to shake my head again. And again, and again.
“Look, you’re in Paris for what, six weeks?” Louis asks.
“Yes, to dance. Only to dance,” I say, more to remind myself than anything else.
“Fine, so you’ll leave at the end of the summer without knowing your true family history. You’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if your grandmother was right, and if maybe your great-great-aunt knew something she could have told you. And then she’ll die, and you’ll never know.”