“Merci,” I say, to both him and the woman, as I tuck it into my bag.
We walk away, and Louis lets out a deep sigh as we turn onto a much quieter street. “I hope you’ll remember me.”
“Of course!” I say. “I don’t think I could ever forget…this summer.” I wanted to say you, but my heart has taken a life of its own.
“I don’t know what to do…，” Louis says, looking down.
“About what?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “You. Me. You going home. Me being here.”
I nod slowly, tears welling up in my eyes. Has he been thinking the same thing all along? It doesn’t make sense for us to even start something. There are so many reasons not to. But, to me at least, the idea of not being together for as long as we still have is…ridiculous. Unacceptable. Something I’ll regret forever.
“I wish I could stay,” I say after we look at each other silently for a while.
“You don’t mean that,” Louis says sadly. “ABT is your dream. And ballet always comes first. You told me that.”
“Yes, but…，” I start. He’s right. But he’s also wrong. If this summer has taught me something so far, it’s not about ballet. Yes, I’ve learned that I have great potential and a real shot at ABT. Monsieur Dabrowski believed in me enough to give me Odile, and I’m so much less afraid of failing than I was when I got here. Being a dancer means everything to me, but my life is bigger than that. There’s room in my heart for so much more, and definitely for Louis.
“Ballet is not first right now,” I say, leaning closer to him. “Right now is about us.”
Louis’s eyes open wide as he pulls me to him. This moment feels different. Charged. Expectant. I wrap my arms around his neck. He brings his face and rests his forehead against mine.
I brush my nose against his and get another whiff of him, sunshine and cedar. I inhale deeply, trying to bottle it up in my memory. Everything about this moment feels right: the murmurs from the street around us, the warm air, the sweet taste of his breath. My heart can no longer handle the anticipation: I part my lips and close the tiny bit of space between us to go find his.
I’m sure you’ve had croissants before. You can get them pretty much anywhere. They usually taste fine, a little bland, maybe. But when you come to Paris, the croissants are unlike anything else you’ve eaten before. They’re warm and soft, golden and buttery. Like baked clouds. Deliciously decadent clouds. They may look the same as the other croissants, but they are far superior in every single way. And why I am thinking about that right now? Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get” them until you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.
AS A DANCER, I’m uniquely qualified to understand how bodies work. If I do a hundred relevés, my calves will burn the next morning. It’s completely normal, a sign that I did them correctly. So, naturally, the morning after my French-kissing lessons with Louis （numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4—let’s just say it was an accelerated course）， my lips feel swollen. I run my fingers over them a few times and check my face in the mirror of the locker room as I get ready for class. I can’t see anything, but I don’t need a visual reminder to think about what happened last night. Louis barely let us come up for air, and I was okay with that, because breathing felt totally optional. I’d say I’m walking on sunshine, but it’s better than that: I’m pirouetting up and over a rainbow of happiness.
The rainbow disappears at approximately 8:50 a.m. as I come out of the locker room.
Monsieur Dabrowski is standing right there. “Mademoiselle Jenrow, please, I need to speak with you.”
He points at the farthest studio along the hall, which is empty. As I walk inside, I start to wonder if I will make it out of there alive.
“Take a seat,” Monsieur Dabrowski instructs me. I remember the day he told me I was going to be in level five. Same place, same two people, though this time there is no doubt in my mind: he’s not here to deliver good news.
I take a seat on the bench, and he brings a chair over for himself. “I wanted to talk to you about the showcase.”
My heart drops. I tried hard to get this out of my head, but of course he saw it. Why did I think that I could get away with it unnoticed?
“What happened during the showcase, Mademoiselle Jenrow?”
“Don’t you know?” he asks when I fail to respond.