“You dressed…impeccably.” He smiles, his gaze scanning my attire.
I’m wearing a simple floral print dress I found in a little shop last summer. My hair is loose, diamond studs that Jonas gave me on my sixteenth birthday in my ears. I carry one of my mother’s old black Chanel bags, bringing it out only because I’m in the Ritz and I hope I look the part.
Always desperate to fit in. A habit that’s still proving hard to break.
“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I tell him with a smile.
“This old thing?” He glances down at his chest before returning his gaze to mine. “I was going for the dandy look.”
“I think you succeeded.”
The server approaches and Monty orders tea for us. “It’s still early,” he says once the server is gone. “They’ll humor us while we sit here for a few hours and gossip, until it’s finally lunch and we can order from the menu. Unless you have other plans?”
“My day is completely cleared, just for you.”
He props his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his fist as he bats his eyelashes at me. “Tell me what you’re doing. How many pretty boys have you met? Why haven’t you gained fifty pounds because of the pastries and butter? Swear to God you’re thinner than ever, darling.”
“Tell me first why you’re here.” I haven’t changed my ways when it comes to talking about myself.
I still don’t like to do it.
“Oh, a man. Of course.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I came for the dick. Unfortunately, he turned into a giant dick, kicked me out of his shitty little flat and now here I am at the Ritz for the next week, not sure what to do next. Change my flight and return home early? Or enjoy my time here in the city of love?”
“You have to stay.” I reach across the table to gently touch his arm. “Explore Paris. Eat lots of croissants with butter.”
“By myself?” He frowns. “I’d rather spend time in that shitty little flat with that shitty guy and his giant dick. Unless you want to show me the sights.”
“Haven’t you been here before? You could probably show me around better than I ever could,” I remind him.
“True. I’m sure you’ve been on a bus tour and went up the Eiffel Tower since your arrival and that’s about it, am I right?” He raises a brow.
I roll my eyes. “Of course that was one of the first things I did. It was my first time here. But now I’m over that. I only hang out in the Louvre when I’m in class. Otherwise, I hate it around there. Too many tourists.”
“Ah, soon you’ll be smoking cigarettes, sitting outside of a small café, full of disdain.” He laughs, sounding thrilled. “Paris has been very, very good to you.”
“I’m sorry that it didn’t work out with your boy,” I say softly, once his laughter has died. “Are you sad about the breakup?”
“Darling, I am most definitely not sad. It wasn’t what I would call a breakup. I came here for the sex. That’s it. It wasn’t a grand love. Not like what you suffered through.” Monty makes a tsking noise.
He’s the only one I told about Whit and what happened between us. I didn’t go into all the details, but he knows enough. And now, even a year later, he thinks we’re star-crossed lovers who were meant to be, until Whit’s family interfered and messed everything up. In Monty’s eyes, we are a modern-day retelling of Romeo and Juliet.
If only it were that simple.
For the next hour, we gossip and laugh and I hang on Monty’s every word as he shares stories from over the past year. He graduated from MIT in December and he’s now taking a gap year between college and real life.
“Is that a thing?” I ask, frowning.
“No. Probably not. But I made it a thing. Who wants to get right to work and toil their life away?” He waves a hand. “Not me.”
“Do you even need to work?” I ask, taking a sip of my milky tea.
“Of course not. My children’s children won’t need to work, not that I plan on having any. But I’d get bored. A man can travel around and fall into one relationship after another for only so long. Oh, and shop.”
“Do you like to shop?” I ask, sounding hopeful. I suddenly have the itch to check out a few stores. Something high end and beautiful. Little commercial works of art.
“I am gay and I’m into fashion. Of course, I love to shop,” he says drolly, rolling his eyes. “Let’s have lunch and I’ll take you somewhere.”
We order salads and split a sandwich, and the food is delicious. As is the company. Monty tells so many stories, about people I’ve heard of but don’t really know. Of people whose younger siblings I went to school with. He even mentions Sylvie.
“She was admitted to the hospital just before Christmas,” he says, his voice lowering. “She almost died.”
“What?” I may hate what she did to me, but I will always care about her. Even if she despises me.
“Yes.” He nods, his expression solemn. “The family kept it very hush hush. She’s out now. I believe she was released on New Year’s, but they still don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her. She’s never returned to Lancaster Prep. I hear Spence is beside himself.”
“That’s awful,” I say, gazing at the tablecloth, my mind filled with memories of Sylvie. She was so good to me—until she wasn’t. “And what about—Whit?”
“What about him?”
Monty’s voice is filled with so much barely restrained humor, I glance up at him sharply, my eyes narrowing. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“So. Much,” he says, his smile devilish. “Where shall I start?”
“Tell me the juiciest thing first.” I lean forward, anxious for any news. Good and bad.
“He ended everything with Leticia.”
“What?” I suck in a harsh breath, my mind awhirl with the news, turning it over and over. He may have said that’s what he wanted, but I thought that was just talk. That he didn’t mean it. That his parents would never allow it.
“Here’s the deal.” Monty’s voice lowers to a whisper, as if he could know someone in this room who would hear him gossip. And he just might. “She’s a huge coke addict. It got really bad. The Christmas before you left? She was in a bad way. Flunking school, barely functioning on a day-to-day basis. Her parents sent her to rehab at the beginning of the year. Whit came up with some nonsense about how they signed a contract, and that she broke a clause because of her drug use. I mean, I can’t blame the guy. Who wants to marry a coke fiend?”
“Is that true though?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that they actually brokered a bona fide deal. “They had a contract for their impending marriage?”
“Something like that. I’m sure they did. Old money families are weird. They want everything in writing.” Monty shrugs. “Anyway, he ended things with her. He also tested out like you did, and graduated early. Didn’t go away to college either, much to his parents’ shock and horror. He decided to do what every respectable young man of means does and travel the continent.”