“No—I…” I almost blurted out everything, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t tell Lucy that I was meeting a guy for lunch in the middle of a school day, because I wasn’t prepared to admit it to myself.
Instead, I sheepishly told her that I needed to get some allergy medicine. From Lucy’s expression, I could tell it worked. Bingo.
When I arrive at our meeting spot, I realize that Louis didn’t give me the address of a café or a restaurant. In fact, as I stand halfway down a nondescript street, I check on my phone that I’m where I’m supposed to be. There are a couple of tall, glass-walled office buildings behind me, and cars parked along the street. A bus drives past and stops just a few feet away. People get on, others get off, and I’m starting to have doubts about this date. But then I spot Louis walking toward me and I smile.
He smiles back, and any concern I had about slipping out of school is gone. I take in his outfit—his signature creased linen shirt, light blue chinos, and floppy hair. By now it feels both totally familiar and still kind of…sexy. He’s also carrying a wicker basket. White cloth napkins and a bottle of sparkling water peek out of it, but it’s the baguette I zoom in on, my mouth already watering. When I’m back home, I’m going to find a way to import these to Westchester. Now that I’ve gotten a taste of straight-out-of-the-oven baguettes, I’m not living without them for another day.
For the first time, I don’t flinch when Louis leans in to kiss me on the cheeks. I’m cool. I’m your totally blasé Parisienne who’s meeting her handsome date for a romantic lunch like it’s no big deal. And now that I’ve mastered la bise, I try to go as slowly as possible to feel the warmth of Louis’s skin against mine. He smells like the outdoors. Like sunshine and sweat and something woodsy I can’t place.
“I was kind of hoping you’d be wearing a pink leotard, maybe even a tutu,” he says with a sparkle in his eyes.
I blush. “Oh yeah?”
My reddening cheeks only make him tease me harder. “Yeah. I bet you look totally…” He pauses and looks into my eyes. I’m yearning for him to finish his sentence. “Like a ballerina,” he adds mischievously.
I laugh to hide my slight disappointment. “I can confirm that I definitely look like a ballerina in my leotard.”
“Good,” he says, still staring at me. “I guess I’ll just have to keep imagining.”
The world around us comes to a halt. Everything goes quiet. Sometimes I think I’m imagining Louis. Because I had no idea a guy could make me feel like this. I never want it to stop.
“Mademoiselle,” Louis says, offering me his arm. Fine, I’ll come back to earth, I think, hooking mine through it.
Then he points at a green metal stairwell off to the side, behind me. “Par ici,” he says, leading me up the steps. Right this way.
“What is this?” I ask when we get to the top. We’re at the start of a narrow pathway, lined by many plants, trees, and benches. Above us, an archway covered in greenery makes it feel like an oasis in the middle of the city.
“This,” Louis says as we walk along, “is the French ancestor to—”
“The Highline in New York!” I finish for him, remembering the elevated pedestrian walkway going through downtown Manhattan.
“Yep. I went there with my mom when she had to go for work, and I must have walked up and down the Highline three times. French people like all things American, but I think the feeling is mutual. We’re always stealing each other’s ideas.”
A sign informs me that the Parisian version is called “Promenade plantée” （Planted Promenade）， which sounds more poetic. Louis tells me that it goes on for miles—well, kilometers—but we don’t need to go very far to find an empty bench by a patch of grass.
“I love a good terrace,” Louis says, unwrapping goodies from his basket—cheese, charcuterie, a carrot and beet salad from his local deli, and a pint of cherry tomatoes—“but since it had to be close to school, and cool enough to impress you, I thought this would tick both boxes.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, ripping off a piece of baguette with my hands. I like how the hard crust snaps to reveal the soft-as-a-cloud flesh.
Conversation is easy with Louis. He tells me that his mom is coming from London next week. From the way he talks about her, I suspect that, even though she moved away to pursue her career, he’s closer to her than to his dad. It’s hard to imagine Monsieur Dabrowski doing anything else besides shouting “Higher! Lower! Faster! Slower!” I wonder what their relationship is like. Immediately, I feel the twitch of uneasiness at the thought of my ma?tre de ballet. Louis’s dad has the power to make or break my career—I’m sure the ABT apprentice program director values his opinion more than anyone else’s—and going out with Louis is at best risky, and at worst totally wrong. So wrong. But so good.