Frenched Page 2

  My stomach lurched. “He didn’t.”

  Coco nodded. “He did.”

  Dropping my head back onto the pillow again, I flung my arms over my burning face. Tucker, you bastard. Did you ever really love me? Why did you even propose?

  I thought about the night Tucker had given me the ring, a big, beautiful diamond set in platinum, which he’d had the waiter place into a flute of expensive champagne on our one-year anniversary. At the time I’d loved the spectacle of his getting down on one knee in front of everyone at the restaurant, but I had to admit half of the thrill was because everyone had told me what a playboy he was, that he’d never take me seriously, that he’d break my heart into a million pieces. But he hadn’t.

  For a solid year we’d had a blast together—whenever we had time, that is. Running Devine Events kept me crazy busy, and he worked a ton of hours as VP of Sales at his family’s bolt and screw corporation. Neither of us was particularly clingy or emotionally needy, so we enjoyed each other’s company when we could and didn’t whine about the times we were apart.

  He often said I was the ideal woman for him—beautiful, smart, and low maintenance. Those were his criteria. And I’d thought he was the ideal man—a gorgeous suit-and-tie guy with a master’s degree, a trust fund, and a flair for showy romantic gestures in front of an audience. The former drama student in me adored that.

  So after downing the champagne, I slipped that ring on my finger and got busy planning a wedding worthy of a princess and playboy heir. I also moved into his townhouse, but even then we didn’t make a lot of demands on each other’s time.

  Maybe we should have.

  Maybe you’re supposed to want to actually be together more than Tucker and I wanted to. Maybe you should miss each other when you’re apart. Maybe the regret you feel after your fiancé calls off your wedding should be more about the man and less about the dress, the roses, and the menu.

  (Surf and turf, by the way. Lobster and filet mignon. And the wine…oh good God, the wine.)

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed. How could I have been so dumb?”

  “Come on, Mia,” Erin said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Each of my two best friends took a hand and pulled me up to a seated position. “It was a fantasy, like you said. Anyone would have been caught up in it.”

  “Well, now it’s all just one big fucking waste,” I said bitterly. “All that time and money—gone.”

  They glanced at each other. “You know what we think?” Coco patted my hand.

  “What?”

  “You should go to France tomorrow.”

  “What! By myself?”

  “Yes.” Erin got off the bed and disappeared into my walk-in closet. Before I could ask her what she was doing, Coco started in.

  “You’ve been working nonstop, Mia, and planning your own wedding every spare second. Now you need a vacation, alone. You need time to reflect and think and just get over this.”

  I blinked at her in disbelief. “And going to Paris alone is going to help me do that? When it was supposed to be my honeymoon?”

  “Don’t think of it as a honeymoon.” Erin appeared with my big old suitcase, the only one that was not monogrammed with TBM. The bright red one that I’d taken on all our girl trips—just the sight of it made me perk up a little. “Think of it as Tucker’s parting gift to you—an all-expenses-paid luxury send-off!”

  “I can’t. That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Fuck the plan for once, Mia!” Coco bounced off the bed and gestured dramatically. “Just do it! Think of Paris—think of all the things on your list you’ve always wanted to see! Those things are still there, and they’ll look the same even without Tucker at your side. In fact, they’ll look better.”

  It was true, I did have a Paris list. I had several, actually. One for dining, one for drinking, one for shopping, one for museums and cathedrals, one for outdoor attractions, one for romance…the idea soured in my mind. “No. It was going to be my honeymoon, goddammit. All I’d do is sit around drinking wine and brooding that this was supposed to be the most romantic week of my life and instead I’m there alone.”

  “But think of how good that wine will be!” Erin smiled so brightly I almost laughed. “You’re just going to do the same thing if you sit around here for the week. Why not do it in view of the Eiffel tower?”

  “The Louvre!” Coco added, clapping her hands.

  “The Pont Neuf!”

  “Notre Dame!”

  “The Arc de Triomphe!”

  “OK, OK, please.” I put up my hands to stop the ad campaign. “Please don’t start singing The Marseillaise. I get it. France is awesome. Yay France. I’m just not up for it. And you know how I am about flying.”

  “I’ll give you a sleeping pill. You’re going.” Erin put the suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. “Now let’s pack your bags. This trip is paid for, and if you don’t go, then Coco and I are going, and we might love it so much we’ll decide we’re a lesbian couple and stay there without you.”

  “You’re so not her type,” I said. But I allowed her to pull me to my feet. “Coco goes for tall, dark, and tattooed. That little heart above your ass doesn’t count.”

  Erin smiled sweetly. “But it’s Paris. Anything can happen there.”

  “And I just thought of another benefit,” Coco added. “Your mother will be a whole country away. You destroyed your phone and we stole your computer, so she won’t even be able to get a hold of you.”

  I chewed my lip. That was a benefit—my mother’s anxiety drove me nuts even when she didn’t have to deal with the fact that her daughter’s wedding was just canceled.

  “Go to Paris, Mia.” Coco’s eyes pleaded with me. “You’ve been talking about it since you were a kid.”

  “If you’re miserable, you can hop on a flight home—my mom will change your ticket for nothing,” promised Erin, whose mother worked for Delta. “But at least you can say you’ve been there.”

  I hesitated. Could I do it, really?

  “If you don’t, I’m telling your mother to come back to Detroit because you need her.”

  I shot Coco a murderous look. “OK, OK, I’ll go. To the most romantic city on earth. Alone.”

  They squealed and clapped their hands. “Good girl,” Coco said. “Now let’s get you packed, and we’re putting in all the sexy little outfits you had planned—I know there’s an outfits list here somewhere.”

  “I’ll bet French men don’t jump out of bed to clean up right after sex,” added Erin.

  “Please. I’d be happy just to stray from the Approved Positions.” I stretched a little and actually felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach, which was odd because I am not a person who can fly by the seat of her pants and enjoy it. I am a planner, a list-maker, a think-it-through-in-advance kind of girl. But for once, I was going to do something spontaneous.

  Maybe I’d even enjoy it.

  This was a horrible idea.

  As the airplane shuddered and swayed from side to side, I closed my eyes and clutched my roiling stomach.

  3 Things I Always Wanted to Do in Paris,

  But I Died Getting There

  1) Sip champagne in view of the Eiffel Tower.

  2) Shop at the Clignancourt flea market.

  3) Make out in the rain without worrying about an umbrella.

  I opened my eyes and frowned. Even if I managed to make it to Paris alive, I’d have to scratch the whole kissing-sans-umbrella bit off the list since this was no longer a romantic vacation. The rainy liplock fantasy was actually very unlike me, since I always plan ahead and don’t tend to get caught in inclement weather without proper raingear. But there’s just something so romantic about being swept away by a kiss in the middle of a downpour, so swept away that you don’t even care you’re getting wet—in fact, that only makes it better.

  Once, one time, when we were first dating, Tucker and I were hiking near Tahquamenon Falls when it began to drizzle, and we made out for
about thirty seconds, but the whole experience was sort of ruined by the way he kept wincing and glancing skyward at the darkening clouds. He could be kind of fanatical about his hair. Truth be told, I couldn’t stop thinking about my hair either, because I’d just blown it out that morning, and it’s such a chore. So I was sort of glad when Tucker said, “I’m getting wet, babe. Did you bring an umbrella?”

  Of course I’d brought an umbrella. I always bring an umbrella.

  The plane lurched again and I clenched the armrests with both hands. “Oh!”

  The woman next to me patted my white knuckles on the armrest between us. “It’s just some turbulence. We’ll be through it in a few minutes.”

  Or we’ll all suffer death by unnatural impact with the Atlantic Ocean. That could happen too.

  But I just nodded, unable to speak.

  Oh God, why did I think I could do this alone?

  Somewhere in my purse was the sleeping pill Erin had given me, but I was paralyzed with fear and couldn’t seem to let go of my armrests.

  “See? All smooth now.”

  I looked over at the woman with the soothing voice. She was about my mom’s age, maybe a little older, with a neat gray cap of hair, beautiful skin, and a stylish blue scarf wrapped around her neck.

  She’s sitting in Tucker’s seat.

  Shoving that unwelcome thought from my head, I smiled weakly. “Nervous flyer.”

  She nodded. “I have a friend like that too. Never flies anywhere without a stiff drink first to calm her nerves.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Let’s get you one then. What’s the point of sitting in first class if you can’t get a little tipsy before dinner?” She smiled, revealing beautiful white teeth.

  She signaled the flight attendant, who brought us champagne in glass flutes a few minutes later. Trying not to gulp, I imbibed the fizzy golden liquid quickly, and my glass was refilled just as fast. Gradually, a warm buzz replaced the clammy anxiety.

  “First time to Paris?”

  I nodded. “Yes. It was…a gift. The trip was a gift.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Tucker. “I’m just a little unsure of myself, traveling alone.”

  “What a wonderful gift! I’m Anneke, by the way.”

  “Mia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mia. And don’t be scared; I travel alone quite often. I think every woman should take a trip just for herself, by herself, at least once in her lifetime. Just be careful and smart and enjoy yourself.” Her smile widened. “Paris is magical.”

  “Good.” I swallowed some more champagne. “I could use a little magic.”

  #

  Arriving with a hangover was so not on the Paris list.

  Neither was an argument with my mother.

  She picked up the phone on the first ring and shrieked hello. “Mia? Is that you? What’s wrong? Are you OK?” She thought my decision to travel to Europe by myself was ludicrous and she was positive I was going to be attacked, kidnapped, and sold into sex slavery.

  I held the phone away from my ear. “I’m fine, Mom. You said to call when I arrived, and I did.”

  “You don’t sound fine at all.”

  “I’m just tired, OK? I’m tired and hungry and I have to unpack.” And cry. There was definitely crying ahead. Maybe throwing things.

  “How’s the room?”

  I looked around the gorgeously appointed Junior Deluxe Suite at the Plaza Athenee. Tucker knew how to travel in style, I’ll say that much. The king-sized bed was laden with pillows, the seating area was spacious and elegant with its Louis XIV style furniture, and the view into the quiet inner courtyard was charming. Goddamn birds were chirping right outside the window.

  In French, no less. C’est magni-fucking-fique.

  “The room’s amazing. But Mom, I have to go, OK? I’m exhausted.”

  “OK, darling. But don’t take a nap, remember, otherwise your body won’t adjust to the time difference and you’ll be miserable for days. I learned that lesson the hard way. And I don’t think you should go wandering the streets alone at night so maybe do some sight-seeing now. Or go get a massage at the spa or something. You sound so tense.”

  My head threatened to burst. I couldn’t even speak. Stop talking, Mother.

  She sighed. “This was a bad idea. You’re not well. I wish you’d have let me come with you. Maybe I should meet you in Paris. We can do some shopping, or—”

  I found my voice, fast. “NO! No, Mom. I’m fine. Seriously.”

  “Well, I just don’t feel right about this.”

  I forced myself to sound cheerful. “Listen, the sun is shining, my suite is beautiful, and I can even see the Eiffel Tower out my window,” I lied. “I’m dying to get out in the air. I’m going to unpack a few things and take a stroll.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. And I need the alone time, OK? So I’m not going to be calling you every five minutes.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. Once a day is fine.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Fine. Once a day.”

  “I’m just worried about you, Mia. You’ve never traveled this far alone before. You’ve always had me or the girls or Tucker with you. And you’re not in your right frame of mind, either. Women make poor decisions when they’re stressed and heartbroken. Did you pack those pills I gave you?”

  “I have them, Mom.” No sense telling her I planned on self-medicating with wine, not Prozac. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “All right. Love you.”

  “Love you too.

  Finally, we said goodbye and I flopped in a heap on the bed. I’d promised Coco and Erin I’d call one of them and let them know I’d arrived without mishap but I didn’t think I could hold back tears if I heard their voices. Jet lag and loneliness overwhelmed me, and my eyes filled. This was not the way I’d planned to start off my trip, with a pounding headache and a sinking feeling that coming here by myself was a mistake. I was too tired to unpack my bags, too cranky to pull out my Paris guidebooks and get excited, and too miserable to write in the travel journal Coco and Erin had given me.

  Everywhere I looked there were reminders that this was supposed to be a romantic trip for two: the twin closets, the bottle of champagne and two glasses on the desk, the vase of beautiful peach roses on the coffee table. My chest tightened at the sight of those flowers as I recalled the 1500 Felicity roses that had been sacrificed for my nonexistent wedding.

  Even the incredible white marble bathroom depressed me with its fluffy his and hers robes and side-by-side sinks in the vanity. I returned to the bed, crawled in, and lay my cheek on a striped satin pillow. My eyelids felt heavier than my suitcase. I wanted a nap, and goddammit, I was going to take a nap, no matter what my mother said about jet lag. As I drifted off to sleep, I made a list.

  Things and People That Can Fuck Off

  1) Jet Lag, for obvious reasons.

  2) Anneke, for suggesting champagne on the flight.

  3) Air France, for turbulence that made me drink suggested champagne.

  4) My mother, for telling me to take drugs instead of a nap.

  5) Tucker. For everything. Repeatedly.

  #

  After a four-hour nap, I felt revived, my head clearer. I splashed some water on my face, drank a giant bottle of Vittel, and heaved my suitcase on a stand in order to unpack it.

  Living out of a suitcase is impossible for me, even if it’s just for a week or so. I can’t stand the way everything gets unfolded and jumbled up inside, and it’s too hard to keep clean and dirty clothes separated. Plus, unpacking and organizing gives me a ridiculous kick. I love it so much that Coco sometimes says I should have been a professional closet organizer, but who wants to spend their career in people’s closets?

  I plugged my iPod into the dock on the desk and scrolled to my Paris playlist. As Frank Sinatra crooned April in Paris, I actually hummed along while I unzipped my garment bag and hung dresses, blouses and two skirts. From my suitcase pouche
s I pulled out sneakers, flats, and two pairs of heels, and set them in the closet. I placed lingerie, pajamas, jeans, tops, and socks in drawers, scowling only once at the sexy black Aubade bra and panties I’d purchased for this trip. They’d cost me roughly the same as a car payment but I’d wanted to surprise Tucker, who appreciated luxury items. Vowing to put them on at least once during the next ten days, even if I just pranced around my hotel room in them by myself, I tucked them in alongside my usual cotton underwear and basic bras.

  By the time I pulled my toiletries from my bag and began setting them up in the gorgeous white marble bathroom, my steps were light and bouncey, the way they are when something makes me truly happy.

  The last thing I did was take out my guidebooks and set them up on the desk. Coco and Erin hadn’t let me have my iPad back, but they had let me print the daily itineraries I’d created and take a few books with me. I spread them out and stared at them before sweeping them all back into my suitcase and stowing it in the closet. Fuck it, I’m going to wander tonight, like Anneke said. I’m going to change my clothes, walk out the door, and just see where my feet take me.

  But first I had to check my outfit calendar to see what I’d planned to wear this evening.

  One step at a time, right?

  My first evening alone in Paris started out fine. Since I hadn’t eaten and was getting hungry, I thought about ordering room service but then decided to brave eating alone in a restaurant—something I’d never done before. Wearing a sweet little strapless flowered dress with a denim jacket and flats, I slung my bag over my shoulder with only my wallet, bottle of water, a street map of Paris, and my camera inside. I had no plan whatsoever and surprised myself by adoring the little kick of freedom it gave me.

  Heading down Avenue Montaigne with a spring in my step, I gravitated toward the Eiffel Tower, crossing over the Seine on the Pont de l’Alma and trying not to grin like an idiot while I’m crossing over the Seine! ran through my mind. I felt like shouting it. On the other side, I followed the river toward the tower, and even if I’d wanted to hide my smile, I couldn’t do it.