I look at the screens showing the arrivals and departures, and see that my flight—a bargain fare from Norwegian Airlines—is scheduled to leave in a little over an hour and a half. I take a deep breath as I head in the direction of security, telling myself that in spite of the lateness of the train, and the hectic Metro ride from Gare Saint-Lazare to the airport, I still have plenty of time to get to my gate and get on my flight.
You should have at least given Jacques a chance to explain himself, I think, shifting the straps of my backpack a little higher up on my shoulders. I wasn’t able to pack everything up, so I’ll eventually have to come back to France and take care of all my bills and details here. But right now, all I can think of is how I need to get as far away from Jacques as possible.
“Miss Nora Nolan, please report to Norwegian Guest Services. Nora Nolan, please report to Norwegian Guest services.”
I blink at that; is there something wrong with my ticket? But I can’t go through security until I’ve figured out whatever is going on with my flight or my ticket.
If they oversold it and are bumping me, they had better put me on the next flight out of here and get me some food and drink vouchers. I turn around and head back in the direction of the check-in desk, hoping against hope that whatever the problem is, it’ll be resolved quickly, and that I can get on my plane in time.
As I’m walking through the terminal, it occurs to me to wonder why whatever was wrong didn’t come up when I was checking in fifteen minutes ago. It’s probably just something minor. They’ll figure it out, and you can get into the security line, and you can get on the plane. I take a deep breath.
I get to the desk, skipping the line. I think I’m possibly entitled to that, since they asked for me to report directly there, and ignore the baleful looks people are casting in my direction.
“Yes,” I say, taking a few moments to collect my thoughts in French. “I just heard I need to report here?”
“Yes, Miss Nolan,” the woman says in English, and I wonder just how much my French has actually improved since I got here. “There’s someone who urgently needs to speak with you.”
I frown at that; who could possibly need to talk to me? It dawns on me a moment later, and I’m about to tell the woman at the desk in the Norwegian Airlines uniform that if I’m late for my flight because of this, I will hold the airline itself accountable, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Jacques, don’t even—” I say, and I’m not even sure in the moment if I’m speaking English or French. I turn around and Jacques is standing there, with Yann at his side.
“Please, just hear me out,” Jacques says. “If you still want to get on your flight and go back to America when we’re done, Yann can get you in the express lane to go through security.”
I look at Yann and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I have to admit, there’s part of me that was almost wishing for something like this to happen. What woman doesn’t want the grand romantic gesture?
“Look,” I say. “I just don’t think we should see each other anymore...at least for a while.”
“Because you think that I knocked up Hélène?”
I stare at Jacques.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll admit that the fact you didn’t even see fit to tell me you were having sex with her…while calling her ‘Crazy Hélène’ and telling me to stay away from her—”
“I have never had sex with her in my entire life,” Jacques tells me, and my heart sinks. If he had at least admitted it, I might be able to see past it; after all, we hadn’t been official, at least as far as I know, when he would have gotten Hélène pregnant.
“She told me she’s pregnant,” I say.
“And you trust her?” Yann snorts. “You do remember we call her ‘Crazy Hélène’, right?”
“Yann, shut up,” Jacques says. “If I could prove to you that Hélène was lying—about everything—would you feel differently?”
“How would you prove it?” I look at him in shock that he would even suggest something like that.
“Would you believe it if it was her voice on a recording saying that she made it up?”
“You could have forced her,” I counter.
“No force,” Jacques insists. “I know that I’m a big guy, but trust me, I’d never lay a hand on a woman. Listen to this. Please, Nora.”
“Maybe,” I say, after thinking about it for a moment. He takes out his phone, and pulls up a recording.
“I made this while Yann and I spoke to Hélène,” Jacques says. “We knew that it had to have been something she said to you.”
I listen to it, not all that inclined to believe that Jacques is telling me anything near the truth. But the recording seems genuine; the time stamp marks it as being from three hours ago, right around the time that I told Jacques that I was leaving the country. There’s no indication in the recording that Jacques or Yann are threatening anything other than that they won’t leave until Hélène comes clean.
“Fine, fine,” Hélène says, close to the end of the recording. “I told your girlfriend that you and I had sex six weeks ago, and that I’m pregnant.”
“I know for a fact that you’ve never had sex with me, and if you’re pregnant you definitely aren’t pregnant by me,” Jacques says. The three of them are talking fast, I have to keep re-listening to parts to make sure I’m catching everything, but they at least speak mostly clearly.
“I’m not pregnant,” Hélène says irritably. “I gave up a night of drinking to make that story more believable.”
I listen to the rest of the recording, and I don’t know what to think. I want to believe that Jacques is telling me the truth, but I don’t know if I can trust him; not after Ethan. Not after spending three years loving someone and thinking that someone was faithful to me, and then having everything thrown in my face.