Page 8 of Only After We Met

“What time’s your plane leave?”

“Eleven thirty tomorrow morning.”

Ten minutes later, we were in front of the Eiffel Tower, which stood just past the river that cut through the city. I leaned my elbows on the wall in front of me and exhaled, satisfied. I was here; I was in Paris. A few hours before, I’d been crying into my pillow, regretful, and now I was here contemplating one of the most famousmonuments in the world with a guy with gray eyes and a mysterious smile who had effortlessly managed to make me start to forget Dean. Or at least to make me able to think of him without feeling sorrow.

It was the most wonderful madness I’d ever known.

“You know the Nazis almost destroyed it?”

“I heard that,” I said, not looking away.

“It was in August of 1944. The Allied troops were approaching, and Hitler knew they would lose the city. So he ordered it destroyed. He and Choltitz came up with this complex plan to demolish it, but fortunately, the Swedish ambassador intervened. Imagine. And here we are now.”

We looked at each other and smiled.

4

Rhys

That was the problem—I couldn’t stop looking at her.

I couldn’t, and I knew that soon I’d have to. And weird as it seems, I think that was what I liked the most. How ephemeral the moment was, Ginger and me under the moon, which cast a reflection on the gleaming water, showered by the glimmering lights of the city. Talking. Getting to know each other. Observing each other. Touching without touching.

I’d never met anyone who shared so much with me and was so transparent, so ready to open up to me without expecting anything in return. And it made me want to know her better. I looked at her from the corner of my eye as she took the last sip of her beer. The wind was tossing the strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Her eyes were still swollen. She must have cried the whole flight. I asked myself what she’d be doing in a few days. What I’d be doing. What we’d be doing.

“Is this your favorite place in Paris?”

“No. I like Montmartre. But I wanted this to be the image you held on to, I don’t know why. It’s simple. A memory. You can’t askfor more with less than twenty-four hours in the city. Or wait—I’m trying to think of how to make it better.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

“You’ll see.”

I finished my beer and put my bottle down next to hers before looking for a song on my phone and turning up the volume. I set it down on the wall as the first chords of “Je T’aime…Moi Non Plus” began to play.

I reached out toward her. “Here, dance with me.”

“Are you crazy?” She looked around. I didn’t know if her cheeks were red from the wind or from embarrassment, but she looked unsettled. A couple passed us, and some tourists who didn’t pay us any mind.

“Even if someone notices us acting stupid, they’ll forget it five minutes later, but you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. And just think, you’ll never see me again.”

She looked wary as she stepped forward and took my hand. Her fingers were soft and cold. I squeezed them and pulled her close to me, resting my hand on her waist. She looked at me and laughed shyly as we started dancing, enveloped in the voices of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin.

“Why’d you choose this song?”

“I can’t tell you. I’d scare you off.”

“Rhys…” I liked how she said my name, the way the finalsslipped through her lips, which puckered as she heard the moaning of the melody.

“Because this song is like making love.”

Now she really was blushing, but she didn’t look away. Hereyelashes were long and dark; her eyes were staring straight into mine. Like embers. I pulled her closer. I had no idea what I was doing. When I decided to put the song on, I disconnected. All I knew was that I wanted the memory of those notes to belong to this stranger named Ginger, and maybe in ten or fifteen years, I could look back and remember the moment with joy. Tell someone else about it, maybe.I met this girl who was lost one time in Paris, and on the spur of the moment, we danced together.One of those incidents you collect in the course of your life.

But it wouldn’t be like that. Even if I didn’t know it yet.

Ginger wouldn’t be just another story.

I hummed to the tune of the song.