The staticky sound ceased, and I heard the click of the door. I pushed on it and lifted my case over the threshold into a small and chilly foyer. No elevator, just a steep set of stairs on the left wall. I eyed my case, then the stairs. It could stay down there for now. Jean-Luc could come and get it. Or, maybe I’d be loading it back into a taxi in a few minutes.
I started up the stairs and, at the first landing, passed the door to the other apartment. The second set of stairs was even steeper, and I had to hold the railing. As I was about to step onto the small landing, Jean-Luc’s door opened.
He stood in the doorway, wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans, barefoot and with at least a two-day beard. He wasn’t grinning, but he wasn’t frowning. I, however, was rooted to the spot two steps from the top of the staircase. He stepped aside and tilted his head, an invitation to come in.
I tentatively walked into the apartment and took in as many details as I could. It was just as I had imagined it. It was so Jean-Luc.
Blonde-wood floors; floor-to-ceiling shelves along one wall, brimming with haphazardly stacked books and magazines; two linen couches, the kind that beckon you to sprawl on them, faced each other; a low coffee table sat between the couches, also covered with books and magazines; and a wooden staircase led to the second floor of the apartment, more books stacked along the edge of each step. At the back of the room was a long kitchen bench with two bar stools at one end, their backs to the room, and against the rear wall of the apartment were the fridge and stove, either side of a large window.
It was a beautiful space, welcoming. But was he?
I turned to Jean-Luc, who was watching me look around. “It’s lovely. Your home.”
A slight smile, no eye crinkle. “Thank you.”
I was so nervous I audibly blew out a stream of breath. “Hi,” I said, stupidly. None of the scenarios I’d played over in my head had me speechless and acting like a twit.
His face softened, just a touch, but noticeably. “Hi,” he said back.
“I read the letter,” I blurted.
He nodded. “And?”
“And it wasn’t the one I thought it was—you know, the last one.”
“The one where you told me not to write anymore.”
“Yes. That one. I was afraid to read it, because I didn’t want to read all those awful things I’d said, how I’d played down our friendship, our …” I trailed off, not knowing quite what we’d been back then.
“It was quite bad, that letter.”
Wait, was he teasing me?
Surely not. I forged ahead. “I know, that’s why I apologised …”
“And I, uh, I burned that letter.”
He took me by surprise. “Sorry? You burned it?”
“Yes. In the backyard. Then I took the ashes and I buried them.”
“Well, that’s a little dramatic.”
He shrugged. “I was nineteen.”
“Mmm.”
“But the one I gave you, I read that letter many times. I once thought … well, in the letter, it seemed like you felt the same.”
“I did.”
That took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I did feel the same. Back then. I only realised it when we were reading it—”
“We?”
My shoulders dropped in resignation. “Come on, you must know by now that women need a second opinion on these things. Besides, this one was my letter, and also besides …” also besides? I inwardly rolled my eyes at how inarticulate I’d become. “And also, I didn’t even see it until Jaelee pointed it out, especially the part about the blokey Australian guys.”
“That was my favourite part.” A smile with a slight eye crinkle.
“I was massively stupid.”
“I agree.” Definitely teasing me.
I realised we were moving towards each other. “And I have been massively stupid even more recently.”
“Yes. I also agree with that.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
We were only a few feet apart. “I was afraid.” No more banter, only truth.
“I know. And now?”
“I’m still afraid, but I’m being brave.”
His eyes searched mine. “You don’t have to be afraid at all, Catherine, not of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you. You’re perfect.”
A quick wry laugh. “I’m not. I am flawed, like you.”
Truth, only truth. “All right, yes, true.”
“So, what are you afraid of?”
It was here. The moment where I laid myself bare and he either wanted me or he didn’t.
“That I completely cocked this up—and I’ll lose you again.” Tears sprang to my eyes, but I dared not touch them—Dani’s eyeliner! I blinked them away.
“Oh, Catherine. Ma chérie.” He was close to me, his body almost touching mine as he took my hands in his. “You do not have to worry about that. I am right here.”
I chewed on my lip.
“So, you don’t hate me?”
He laughed and wiped away a tear that had escaped. “No. I definitely do not hate you. I adore you. I long for you. You are my Catherine, non?”
A gasp escaped me—overwhelming relief. I hadn’t completely cocked it up. Jean-Luc and I had a real chance to be together, to fall in love—again. I experienced a lightness I’d never experienced before. A burst of laughter erupted from me, then I stopped and looked into the eyes that made my heart flutter.
“You are okay?” Amusement danced in those eyes.
“Yes.” The understatement of the century.
“Bien. I’m going to kiss you now,” he said.
I didn’t speak. I just threw my arms around his neck as he pulled me close and pressed his mouth to mine. A zing of happiness pulsed through me, then I had a sudden thought.
I broke the kiss, “Oh, my case. I left it downstairs.” Sometimes, I can be painfully practical.
“Later,” he said, the low rumble of his voice awakening my lady parts. “You haven’t seen the rest of my apartment yet.” His smile held the promise of some delicious reacquainting. Then he took my hand and led me upstairs to his bedroom.
Fall in love
Two and a half Months Later
I hear a car door slam and peek out between the blinds. “She’s here!” I shout as I run out the door.
I leap down the three front steps, cross the lawn as fast as my jet-lagged little legs can carry me, and fling my arms around my sister’s waist. “Merry Christmas!” I say, my voice muffled by her shoulder. She hugs me back tightly and when we pull apart, we are beaming at each other.
“Merry Christmas! You look amazing,” she says, regarding my outfit—a bright-red summery dress, dangly silver earrings, and silver ballet flats.
“Thank you. I feel like utter crap, but you know, fake it ’til you make it, right?”
“Still jet-lagged?”
“It’s only been a day, Sez.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually here. This is …” There are tears in her eyes as she squeezes my arm. I can’t believe I’m here, either. It’s been years since I was home for Christmas.