He shrugs. “Pour emporter?”
I shrug back. I have no idea what he’s saying, what that means. But I don’t care. When he hands me the long baton of bread, I realize my mistake. I’d pointed at what I of course know is a croissant. I hide my grimace and hand over the few euros in my bag. A small victory, but my own. I did it. If the same thing happens at the airport, I realize grimly, I might end up in England or something, but at least I will be the fuck out of here.
Clutching my prizes to my chest, the cafe door closes behind me. My stomach is so empty I feel the coffee wind and burn its way down my throat. Or maybe it’s raw from taking in King.
Now to get a cab. The wind whips my skirt around my legs and I hold my free arm aloft as I reach the intersection, and immediately a cab is at my side. Gratefully I open the door and sit.
“Where you going?”
“Why aren’t you speaking to me in French?” I ask, puzzled.
“Because you are clearly Americain,” he replies. “Where you going?”
“The airport,” I say almost happily. The sensation of happiness is feeling so foreign to me right now. I wonder the last time I felt it. “Going home. Finally going home.”
“Charles de Gaulle it is.” He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “As you wish, Madame.”
The ripped leather seats feel more comfortable than silk cushions ever could as I sink back into the sunlit ride. I close my eyes and rip pieces of baguette from the bag, tearing the buttery crisp crust with my teeth and letting the gentle flavor of the bread suffuse my mouth. The sips of coffee wash it down, and somehow this becomes the simplest and most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted.
“Good bread?” the cabbie says, smiling a little. Then his attention turns to the road, and he lets out a stream of invective words in rough French. “Do you see what these turkeys do?” he demands of me.
“Eh, I am not in a rush,” I say, swallowing. “I don’t have to make a particular flight. That is, I have to get it organized.” I do have one, but I didn’t know exactly what time it leaves—just that I’m pretty sure I’m early. I’ll just have to take whatever they can give me. Still, being free of R is worth it, despite the gnawing feeling in my mind.
Will he come after me? Do I want him to?
King is like a drug. Sure I am in the euphoria stage of getting away from him, from everyone. But I know the withdrawal will hit me, and I will feel the grief of Kelsey’s loss. And the loss of my idea of Kelsey. I will feel the finality of never being able to speak to her, to accuse her of taking me over, of running me like her personal safety blanket.
I push those thoughts away and try to regain the peace that I found in the sunlight and baguette before these thoughts begin circling like vultures in my mind. Vultures waiting for my “relationship” with King to die so they can feast on its bones. Bones like the over-picked carcass of Paris, the old and stately architecture taken over by the garishness of storefronts, the subdued ancient palate scarred with yellows and reds.
After a bumpy ride, we arrive at the airport. The sunlight is still in my eyes, but seems too bright now. Why is my happiness so fleeting? Will my entire life be a trial, where I move from one problem to another? Losing something every time along the way?
First I lost Kelsey.
That’s not true. First I lost my independence to Kelsey, trading it for some kind of servitude. Then I lost Kelsey, and got a chance to regain myself, to figure out who Jordan Burke is, but I immediately gave it to King. I gave myself away the first chance I got. I could have just left, instead of using King. My face twists.
You were grieving, some part of me says. You didn’t know what you were doing. And besides, he helped you forget. Oh how he helped me forget. You can still find yourself. I try to imagine what Kelsey would have said: “You look hot in that dress, girlie. You should spend enough for a down payment for a house on clothes all the time.”
I have to smile. Was she really that bad? The answer has to be no. It was all me. I was useless. Still am, basically. I met this man, and clearly I lacked the necessary strength to resist him. Sure he might be gorgeous; in fact, the best-looking man I’ve ever met—those cheekbones, that hair, the steep angles of his pecs, the six-pack, or maybe eight-pack. Abs upon abs. The line of his hips, leading down to that perfect, massive cock. One that practically tore me in two when it filled me for the first time, but in the best of ways. My inner core jumps as I relive the feeling of being taken by King, used, spanked.
The plane. How long have I been standing on the sidewalk outside the airport lost in thought? I have to set up my return flight. Now. Despite what I said to the cab driver, nobody really wants to camp out in the airport. They just don’t want to die in a cab, either.
And if I am not careful, maybe King will end up figuring where I am.
Do I want him to? Does part of me?
I take my place in line, ready to exchange my ticket. The other thing I realize is that I have to admit that I’m not even one hundred per cent certain what day of the week it is. How embarrassing. I don’t have luggage, leaving it at my musty hotel.
“Bonjour, ‘allo,” says a chic woman in a uniform, waving me over.
“Hi there. My name is Jordan Burke,” I say.
“Are you checking in for a flight?” she asks, eyes on her computer screen. I nod, because maybe. “Your passport?”
I fish around in my bag, trying not to allow my hands to shake, trying not to let them be seen. “One moment,” I say. King hadn’t taken my ID, did he? I ran out so fast, I didn’t check. Stupid. But then my fingers close around it and I’m safe. I hand her the small, leathery book.
“Uh, what day is it?”
Her eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. “It is Friday, Madame,” she says carefully, before returning to the computer. “When is your flight?”