“It’s easy for me. I have no other passion.” His voice has a hint of bitterness.
This stings, but I deserve it. “I discovered my own dream when I was so young; it’s hard for me to remember that not everyone has their whole future figured out. You’ll find your own way. I know it.”
“Hmm, maybe,” Louis says.
“But before you do, I need to ask you something. I only have two weekends left in Paris, and I know how I want to spend them. Would you like to go find this painting with me?”
WE MEET AN hour later in front of the Musée de l’Orangerie. As Louis’s Vespa pulls up, my heart knocks so loudly, it resonates in my ears. He gives me la bise without hesitation. The memory of our make-out session flashes in my mind as I breathe in his familiar smell. It was only about a week ago, but everything has changed since then. I’ve missed him. I know it’s wrong. It can’t work. Won’t happen again. But while I’m not sure I can deal with this distance between us, I won’t lie to myself: it’s better than not seeing him at all.
We join the line outside the museum, which snakes across several lanes.
“Why is there a question mark in front of Musée de l’Orangerie here?” Louis asks after I hand him the list.
“Dr. Pastels said this painting is owned by the museum, but it might not be on display. I figured I should check it out anyway.”
He breaks into a smile. “Dr. Pastels,” he says. A memory from happier times.
“It’s a great nickname.” I look away, feeling my cheeks grow hot. An hour ago I would have sworn that being with Louis again was the worst idea possible. And now…now I need to focus on why we’re here.
The line ahead moves slowly, bringing me closer to facing my great-great-great-grandmother. Maybe. She could be here inside these historic walls, immortalized for eternity. And maybe one day, I’ll tell my daughter the story of chasing this painting around Paris, so she never has to wonder where she comes from.
Louis checks his watch as a museum employee walks along the other side of the line.
“Le musée va fermer bient?t. Nous sommes complets pour aujourd’hui,” he announces to the crowd.
“They’re about to close, and they won’t let anyone else in?” I ask Louis, to be sure.
He answers with a sorry smile. “Yep. But, on the bright side: your French is really improving.”
I laugh, even though I’m crushed. “Could we explain that we have an art emergency?”
Louis raises a quizzical eyebrow. “And cut in front of all these people? You really are turning French.”
The crowd starts to dissipate, and security guards close the front door. We’re not going to get inside today. “I’m sorry I made you come all the way here.”
Louis shrugs. “You can buy me a drink to make up for it.”
I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t. I can’t have a drink with him, and I can’t say that to his face. But…he tried to solve my family mystery, even after what happened. I can at least thank him for that.
“Deal,” I say.
We make our way along Place de la Concorde—which is topped by a centuries-old Egyptian obelisk—on the edge of Jardin des Tuileries. I stop to take photos along the way, trying to capture everything. I don’t suggest any selfies—things are still obviously tense between us—but at least I can be grateful that, once again, I get to discover this city’s many treasures through Louis.
We walk through Place Vend?me, where we also find an imposing column—this one green—standing tall in the middle of the square. It’s surrounded by some of the most expensive jewelry stores and hotels in the city, including the famous Ritz. Yet there’s nothing flashy about it: the creamy buildings are just a little brighter here, and guarded by men in white gloves and three-piece uniforms.
We find a lovely café on the sweetly named Rue des Capucines off the square, with a large terrace and free seats in the corner that offer plenty of opportunities for people watching. Louis orders a beer, and I try not to flinch as I remind myself that he’s almost eighteen—it’s a normal thing to do here. I opt for “un Perrier rondelle,” in memory of my first night in Paris. So many things have changed since then, including my accent. I don’t want to brag, but give me a few more weeks in Paris, and I’ll fit in like a local. Except I don’t have a few more weeks. Soon I’m kissing all of this—the terraces, the paved sidewalks, the ancient buildings—goodbye. Which means I have to get everything off my chest now.