I give her another day before I head to her work.
When I go there, the manager tells me she hasn’t been in at all or notified them why. Keith shrugs his shoulders before he walks off.
Calling her cell, it doesn’t even ring. Simply goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Carla. I can’t answer the phone right now. I’m too busy living my best life in Paris.” Then it goes blank.
Heading to where she used to live with Emma, I bang on the door and the person who answers it, I don’t expect.
“Man, what are you doing here?” Barry says, rubbing his face as if he’s just woken up.
“Where is she?” I ask, looking behind him.
Barry opens the door wider, and I don’t see her things. “You mean Carla?” I nod. “She stopped by this morning to say goodbye. I assumed you were going with her.”
“Where?”
“Paris. She went to Paris.” I look at him, confused. “She said she needed to breathe, and Paris helps her do that.”
“Fuck.”
“Hey, asshole.” Emma walks up behind Barry, wrapping her arms around him. “You really fucked her up. She’s a mess.”
“Where is she?”
Emma looks away from me but answers, “Do you even want her?”
“Yes, I want her.”
“Why?”
“Because I fucking love her,” I say, and shock myself as those words leave my mouth.
“Go to the Eiffel Tower at seven. She said she will ring me then, telling me she’s there, as she wants to watch the lights.”
“That’s in France,” I say, shocked.
Emma looks at me and gives me a pointed look. “Well, you better hurry, then.” She steps back with a smiling Barry as she shuts the door in my face.
Fuck! Paris.
Really?
I hate that place.
The last time I was here was with my mother. It was the last time I remember her happy. It’s mid-September and the weather’s nice, so I make my way to the tower and look around. There are many places she could be. Tourists line up everywhere to watch the tower as it shines bright. It really is a magnificent sight.
People come up to me asking me to buy shit. I ignore them and keep walking. I will find her. Tourists bump into me, as they’re too busy gazing upward instead of watching where they are going.
“Whiskey?”
That voice stops me. I turn around to see Carla standing behind me.
She gives me a puzzled look, then glances around, confused. “Is that you?”
I walk up to her, and in two seconds I have her face in my hands and my lips on her mouth. She doesn’t kiss me back at first, but eventually she does. Her hands touch my arms and she sinks into me. How I love her touch. Then, all of a sudden, she pulls back and looks at me.
“What…” She shakes her head.
“I came for you.”
“This isn’t some movie, Whiskey, where flying across the world and coming to tell me you love me will make this all better.”
“How did you know what I came to say?”
Carla’s mouth opens and closes. “I was joking.” She rubs her arms and looks at me nervously.
“Should we go eat?” I ask.
She nods and I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away before I can capture it with mine. Waving a cab down, we slide in and she directs him where to go, and soon we’re pulling up in front of a café called Angelina’s. Neither of us speak in the cab, but I can feel her watching me. I must admit I didn’t think this through.
The realization that I love this woman only happened a short time ago, and now that I know it, I don’t plan to lose her, no matter what. And I will do everything in my power to make sure she knows it.
She gets out of the cab, and I follow her inside. The waiter seats us, and Carla orders a chocolate crepe and a coffee for me and tea for her.
“Do you want food?” she asks.
“No.”
The waiter leaves, and we sit in Angelina’s in an awkward silence. One thing I never liked about Paris is how close all the tables are to each other. There’s no privacy at all.
“Why are you here, Whiskey?”
“You guessed it earlier.”
“Say it, Whiskey. It’s not real if you don’t speak the words,” she says as our drinks are placed in front of us.
“I love you, Carla Whiskey. Is that what you want to hear?”
She stirs her tea, looking down at it.
“And I’m sorry. I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize it. Sorry for what I did, and that’s how our story started. I’m sorry.”
She looks up at me with wet eyes. “I’m highly emotional.” She lifts her drink and takes a sip. “I’m also pregnant,” she says, making me push my chair back to a stand. I look down at her, and her eyes fall to the teacup, not looking at me.