Audrey raises an eyebrow. “You do not look like you wanted to talk about the color of the sky. Wait, is this about…？”
Am I seriously considering talking to Audrey about my love problems? The girl who I might compete with for the rest of my ballet career?
“So it’s about him,” Audrey says.
“Yes,” I finally admit. “His name is Louis. You know, I really didn’t come to Paris to fall in love.”
Audrey lets out a laugh. “I hope not! But then what?”
I shrug. “We were kind of together, and I know it was wrong, but I swear that’s not how I got Odile.”
I stop to study her, but Audrey doesn’t react.
“Yeah,” she says. “You got Odile because you deserved Odile. Everyone can see that.”
“Oh,” I say. Would it really have been that simple all along? “Well, anyway, now we’re not together anymore because of me, and I…”
“And you want to be again?”
“No,” I say firmly. But of course I don’t mean it. “It wouldn’t make sense.”
Audrey stops in her tracks. She gestures for me to come closer so we’re out of the way of the pedestrian traffic on the bridge. Next to us, a young woman in a green dress and a colorful scarf wrapped around her long dark hair sings édith Piaf’s “La vie en rose.”
“Mia, you’re going to do whatever your heart tells you to. That’s who you are.”
“But what about the show? What about the ABT director? I shouldn’t be thinking about anything else.”
Audrey sighs. “What about the regrets you will have?”
I know what my heart tells me; it’s been blaring the same name on repeat since the very first day. “You would never take the risk to get distracted by a boy,” I say.
Audrey chuckles. “Obviously. But I still would like to fall in love. When I’m a dancer at the Bolshoi Ballet or wherever I end up, I don’t plan on coming home to an empty apartment every day, and only having my pointe shoes for company.”
I look around me, all the way down the river, as I listen to the lyrics the singer is crooning. “Il est entré dans mon c?ur une part de bonheur, dont je connais la cause.”
Its meaning rings loud and clear in my heart. A piece of happiness has entered my heart, and I know the cause of it.
L.O.U.I.S.
I came to the most beautiful city in the world to focus on my career, and instead I found exactly what Paris promises: romance. I worked hard, and I got cast as Odile. I’ve rehearsed as much as I could, and I’ll continue to do so until the moment I enter the stage. So what’s the worst that can happen to me now? Regrets, I guess. I want to be with Louis. Even if it’s just for a few days, and even if we never see each other again after that.
I’m not sure I’ll forgive myself if I don’t give us a chance.
THE FIRST STOP on our Saturday itinerary is back at the Musée de l’Orangerie, inside the Tuileries. A Ferris wheel stands still at the top of the park, along with the Louvre at the other end, with rows and rows of trees in between. Birds perched on their branches chirp away under the shining sun. Our day of Degas hunting is off to a great start.
Last night on the phone, Dr. Pastels informed me that she had arranged for us to see the two paintings that aren’t accessible to the public. The third one is at Musée d’Orsay. I had taken a picture of it last time, and the dancer is looking away, so you can’t really see her face. Even if that painting were the one, there might be no way to tell.
“It’s funny that we’re here to see a Degas,” Louis remarks as we enter the museum.
“Why?” I ask, so focused on our mission that I sound a little too serious.
“This place is famous for the panoramic paintings of water lilies by Claude Monet.”
He leads us into one of the oval rooms. Shades of blue, purple, and green circle around the space, with dozens of tourists gathered in the middle to admire them. Only in Paris are the museums works of art themselves—from pyramids to old train stations and round rooms to match the paintings. I’m about to study them closer when Louis holds me back.
“Wait,” he says. “You forgot something.”
But before I have time to ask what, he kisses me.
I grin when he stops, and then I lean in again for another kiss. I know today is all about Degas, but…it’s too good to pass up. I’m not going to overthink it.
We roam the circular room, admiring the endless smudges of pastels that swirl and transform into a tableau. It’s absolutely mesmerizing and makes me forget all about Degas. But not for long.