An hour before the appointment was due to end, he announced that he had to leave but would be back by 1:30 so we could walk over to his place together.
I adjust the new bra I’m wearing, grab the bright yellow sundress hanging on the chair, and slip it over my head.
I step in front of the mirror to make sure it’s falling properly. I’ve worn black for so long I’ve forgotten how much I love color.
My phone buzzes again, and I abandon my self-scrutiny as I hurry toward the door and unlock my phone, ready to tell Tyson to hold his horses. But his text stops me in my tracks.
Take your time. I’m easy.
I laugh to myself because I know he’s not easy. But the fact that he’s trying to be makes me giddy.
I slip my feet into the flat, black sandals, check my teeth for lipstick, and hurry out to meet him.
I see him as soon as I step off the elevator. He’s sitting near the entrance, dressed as he was this morning. He’s holding a single peony in his left hand and is on the phone. He waves me over, ends his call, and stands just as I reach him.
“Hello sunshine, this is for you.” He hands me the flower and leans down to press a soft kiss to my surprised lips.
“Thank you.” I take the flower and press it to my nose, breathing in the sweet smell of it before I slip it into my hair.
“You look great, smell even better. How was the end of the service?” he asks and takes my hand in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. We walk out of the lobby and step onto the stylish Rue De Rivoli.
“I feel great. It was amazing. You’ve created a monster, though. I’m already looking for places like this in Houston, 'cause I need a Sunday like that at least once a month.”
“Regan will know.” He smirks and tugs me to the right. “Come on, it’s a short walk to my place, but it’s packed with plenty of Parisian landmarks.”
“You live that close to the hotel?”
“Just past Place de la Concorde at the Champs-Élysées.”
“Oh my God, that’s where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were beheaded.”
He laughs. “You say that with such relish, and yes you’re right, but then it was called Place de la Revolution. Today, it’s home to parades and the finish line for the Tour de France.”
“You say it like it’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal, but I think the company I’m in right now is a bigger deal than all of that.”
I step in front of him, plant my feet, cross my arms, and search his handsome face skeptically. “Who are you and what have you done with Tyson?”
“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes, slips an arm over my shoulder, turns me around, and we continue walking. “I’ve never been impressed by buildings that stand exactly where the people who built them intended them to.”
“What else was it supposed to do? Grow legs and move?”
“Of course not, and I’m not saying it’s not a great architectural feat. But when I’m walking home from work, the thing that makes me pause, look twice, are the people that are where and what they shouldn’t be.”
“And…that’s me?”
“Yes. But it’s also me. I mean, by all rights, neither of us should be here. Not just in Paris, but even alive.” He stops in front of a market with its produce on display outside. “Those mushrooms look good, right? You like mushrooms?”
“Yeah…sure,” I answer absently. He calls out to the man standing behind a till inside the store’s open window and orders a pound of them and then tells him we’re going inside to get a few more things.
I let him lead us into the small grocery store and stop by the entrance to pick up a small basket. “Any allergies besides gluten?”
“No.” But I’m still stuck on what he said outside. “Did you say we shouldn’t be alive?”
He grins while he scans the shelves, pulling things off and examining them. “I mean…My mother was born in Kingston, Jamaica, my father in Houston, Texas. Your mother was born in Dakar, Senegal and your father in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam—what are the odds that our parents would meet? And what are the odds that their children would be together in a city that was established by people who couldn’t even fathom our existence? And yet, here we are. Together. Free, secure, and if offered an inch, we take a mile.”
“Sounds about Tyson to me,” I quip.
He shrugs. “Where would I be if I didn’t? Certainly not in Paris, holding your hand. And you’re the same way. You don’t ask for permission, and you don’t let other people set limits.”
“You should have met me five years ago.”
“Wish I had.” He squeezes my shoulder, and my stomach flips. “Come on, let’s go pay.”
At the counter, he empties the basket, and I glance at him in surprise. “You are going to cook?”
“Why do you sound shocked?”
“I don’t know…I can’t imagine you behind a stove.”
“Well in a few minutes, you won’t have to imagine it. You eat pork?”
“Sparingly.”
He glances at his watch, thanks the clerk, and scoops up the shopping bags. “Perfect, we’ll make one more stop and then we’ll be home.”
We don’t hold hands again, but we walk in companionable silence until we reach the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
“When you come back, and we have time, we’ll stop at those gardens.” Tyson points to the gardens on our right.
I ignore the pang in my chest at the implication that there will be a next time—it’s one of those things people say flippantly—and soak in my first time on this world-famous avenue. “Where are all the cars?”
“It’s closed to vehicles on Sundays, so it’s even more picturesque than usual. When Regan’s kids are here, they spend their weekends with me, and I can take them there and let them play while I work and not worry that one of the boys is going to run into traffic because his brother dared him to.”
“I wonder where they get that from.”
“Their mother,” he deadpans, but there’s a fondness in his smile and in his eyes when he talks about his family that makes my heart squeeze.
Lord, help me, I’m jealous of children now. “That must be fun for them.”
“For me too. And when we’re all done, there’s a puppet theatre and restaurants that even their picky asses like. When they’re gone, I’m so tired, I usually just eat and go to bed.”
I try to imagine Tyson with Regan’s three kids being a doting uncle, and my heart is warmed by it. I don’t want kids of my own, but I love them.
“Do you want kids?” I ask him as we walk past the giant redwoods and sugar maples that dot the border of the street.
“No.” His answer is brusque. “One last stop.” He ducks into a butcher shop, letting go of my hand as he does. So I don’t follow him inside. Instead, I marvel at the amazing tall bronze and crystal fountains and the rose bushes and rhododendrons that create a border that breaks up the less contemporary monuments and statues.
“You ready?” He steps back out and drops a brown paper package into one of the bags from the grocery. “I’m just around the corner.” And he means it quite literally. Less than ten steps away, he unlocks a black wrought-iron gate and pushes it open for me to step through.