“You’re so beautiful,” Louis whispers into my ear.
I take a deep breath, scared that if I say or do anything, I might disrupt this moment.
His lips find my neck and slowly travel upward. I shiver, and soon I feel like I’m watching us from above. Am I really nestled in a gorgeous French boy’s arms in a centuries-old room ornate with floor-to-ceiling gold? How did this even happen?
When his lips reach my ear, Louis pulls back just a little to look me in the eyes.
“Louis…，” I start.
“Mia…”
Louis sighs deeply, which lets me know that maybe I’m not the only one feeling beyond nervous. I feel like my legs are about to give out. Lucky he’s holding me.
“Ahem,” someone says next to us.
We don’t move at first—I definitely don’t want to—but a loud clearing of a throat tells us that we don’t have a choice.
Finally we pull away from each other, just a smidge, and slowly look to the side. A group of older Chinese tourists—maybe thirty of them—stare at us with a mix of annoyance and amusement. A short lady with bright red hair shakes her head while her companion looks on grumpily. I glance around and realize what the problem is. We’re blocking the way to the next room. Louis and I look back at each other and chuckle, both of our cheeks growing hot. Then we shuffle to the side, still in each other’s arms, not ready to let go of the moment.
“YOU KNOW, MY dad has meetings here sometimes,” Louis says when another horde of tourists interrupts us for good.
My heart skips a beat as my head whips around as I look across the room for Monsieur Dabrowski’s white mane.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Louis adds, but now there’s panic in his eyes. He searches the room as well, and I grow more and more uncomfortable.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, feeling like all romance has gone out of the window.
We leave Opéra Garnier and walk to where Louis has parked his Vespa.
“Maybe this Degas thing was a bust,” Louis says on the way, “but there’s one thing that can’t go wrong on a hot summer day.”
“What’s that?” I ask with a flirty smile.
“Ice cream.”
“Oh!” I say, excited. I’m still full from my late breakfast, but I always have room for ice cream. “Is there a place nearby?”
Louis grimaces with mock outrage. “You can’t just get ice cream from anywhere. There’s only one place in Paris for ice cream. Trust me, even their vanilla is extraordinary.”
“I trust you,” I say with a laugh.
So off on the Vespa we go. As we drive across half of the city, most of it along the Seine, I remember a conversation we had at the dorm about the best food places in Paris. Best crêpes, best desserts, best café, best traditional bistrot…we’ve been swapping addresses on our WhatsApp group, and I’m pretty sure an ice cream place was mentioned.
It comes back to me as soon as we park near two wooden-clad shop fronts facing each other on a narrow street, with “Berthillon” written in gothic lettering at the top. A dozen people wait in line outside, and many more snake around the corner. That’s it. Lucy, Anouk, and I tried to come here one night—it’s a short walk from the dorm—but we were too tired to wait.
Today the line moves surprisingly quickly. Once it’s our turn, we have a hard time choosing between the wide range of flavors. Louis opts for a raspberry and peach sorbet, while I decide to pair the aforementioned vanilla with salted caramel.
Afterward, we walk around ?le Saint-Louis, licking our already melting scoops as fast as we can. We stop off to the side of the bridge—Pont de la Tournelle—to enjoy the view of the water.
I point at the cone in my hand. “You were right, by the way—this is the least ‘vanilla’ vanilla ice cream I’ve ever tasted.”
Louis frowns.
“You know,” I explain, “it’s not vanilla at all? It’s flavorful and distinct.”
More frowning.
“I don’t get it,” Louis says, looking from me to my ice cream. “It is vanilla, so it should taste like vanilla, non?”
We stare at each other for a beat, and then it finally hits me. “We call something ‘vanilla’ when it’s kind of bland. Boring. Basic.”
Louis nods. “Ha! So you’re like, the opposite of vanilla.”
“Very funny,” I say, gently hitting him on the arm.
“I mean it,” Louis replies, taking hold of the hand that just touched him. He rubs his fingers along my palm, and I shiver.