Joy

“What time does the nearest cheese shop close?”

I pose the question to Google in French as I near my office building on Thursday of that same week.

Like a responsive robot, she answers me. “The nearest cheese shop is on Rue Cler, and it closes at five.”

Tra la la.

I’m learning French by osmosis. I’ve been picking it up and not even realizing it, and now, look at me. Owning the cheese deets. Paris, I’ve got you figured out.

With my phone close to my mouth like it’s a mic, I chat more with Google until I reach the entryway to L’Artisan Cosmetique, where I tuck my handy-dandy new friend into the side pocket of my Kate Spade bag. Before I know it, I’ll be conversing with my colleagues in the elevators, in the halls, in the break room, all thanks to this magical, fantastic device known as a smartphone.

Smart indeed.

Heck, I probably won’t need Griffin soon, and that’ll honestly be for the best. That man is temptation made flesh. It’s not just that he’s handsome. It’s not only that his accent makes me want to hump his leg. It’s that he’s so damn attentive. He listens to me. He cares. And he does it in a way that goes beyond his responsibility as a translator. He does it as a friend.

But even though I wanted to haul his fine body against mine when he drew his nose along my neck the other day, I resisted. Relationships are messy stews. They boil over, and then you’re left cleaning up a big old spill of something you don’t even want anymore. Besides, getting close to someone makes you lose sight of what you want in life.

I’m so damn lucky that I have this chance to focus on my career, and I don’t want to torpedo it by letting a little thing like lust overwhelm me. Whoever said you can have your cake and eat it, too, clearly was never involved with a man like Richard.

I shudder at the mere thought of his name then steer my brain toward happier ground.

Like chocolate tarts and that fantastic new pair of royal-blue wedge heels I picked up yesterday on sale at the shop on the corner. They look fabulous with the red skirt I’m wearing today, if I do say so myself.

I head inside my building and press the button for the elevator, letting thoughts of flirty British men, and inconvenient American men, and my own mistakes in staying too long fall out of my head, like leaves fluttering to the ground.

When I reach my floor, I find Griffin chatting with Marisol, and a flare of jealousy ignites in my chest.

I stop in my tracks, trying to process why on earth I’d feel envy. He’s effectively a contractor with our company. She’s signing off on the checks to pay him. It’s only natural they’d chat. I’m sure it’s a simple conversation about work forms or payday.

When I reach them, I say hello, and they both shift to English, which pisses me off for some odd reason.

“Good morning, Joy,” Marisol says. “We were chatting about how awful running can be.”

I furrow my brow. They’re supposed to be discussing paperwork.

“I’m training for a marathon,” Griffin says, a frustrated look in his pretty blue eyes. “Had a brutal run this morning. The kind where I ask myself why the hell I’m doing it.”

I didn’t know he was running a marathon.

Marisol sighs heavily, chiming in, “It was the same for me. I’m a runner, too, and it was just one of those days.”

The flare inside me burns brighter, turns hotter. It scalds my skin. I hate running so much, and I hate that Griffin is bonding with my HR manager even more, and the thing I detest the most is that I’m having this kind of incendiary reaction to them having a conversation. “Well, you should take up people watching. That’s my favorite form of exercise, right after shopping,” I say with a practiced smile, and it’s only when I stroll toward my office that I realize the words came out more haughtily than I intended.

Or perhaps just as haughtily as I intended.

Ugh. I suck. I drop my forehead onto my desk.

“You okay?”

I raise my head at the sound of Griffin’s voice. He stands in the office doorway, studying me. I offer another smile, hoping it’s more authentic than the last one. “Fabulous. Ready to tackle the day. Since, you know, I didn’t run this morning.”

Oops. I went there again.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Is something about running bothering you?”

“What? No. Why would that bother me?” I glance at the clock. “Meeting time.”

When in doubt about your bizarre emotional reaction to something, practice avoidance.

Fortunately, the meeting provides the perfect opportunity to do precisely that.

In the conference room, we discuss time-to-market for the new body spray, and then we brainstorm product plans for our lavender lotion. Next on the agenda is our wish list of items. That excites me, as developing new products is a true passion, especially when Griffin translates and tells me they want to explore making perfume.

My ears prick with excitement, and my heart pounds faster with possibility. I sit straighter as I ask questions about what they might want, scribbling down ideas in my notebook as quickly as I can.

By the time the meeting ends, my brain hurts again—from trying to comprehend what they said before Griffin translated for me.

And failing.

I need him so badly, and today it’s ticking me off because I don’t want to feel jealousy. I don’t want to feel longing. I don’t want to want to kiss him so damn badly it’s like a persistent ache in my chest.

I want to be friends, just friends.

I need to put myself in a time-out and try to sort through the barrage of emotions I didn’t expect this morning.

Naturally, I retreat to the ladies’ room. Once inside, I take out my phone and check my messages. My sister replied to my email that had my Montmartre caricature attached to it.

Allison: Oh my! Never has a likeness of you and your big mouth been so accurate! Also, love you madly, and miss you much.

That brings me a smile and makes my heart hurt the slightest bit. Understanding my sister is so easy, but understanding everyone here is so hard. I’m more homesick for English than I want to be.

But I’m not going to be visiting that familiar place anytime soon.

* * *

That afternoon, I sequester myself in the lab with blotters and vials and tubes. Griffin is gone, as he usually is at this time. Off running, or doing written translations, or meeting beautiful French women who run, or having sex with trim French women who whisper dirty French things in his ear.

Gritting my teeth, I reach for a tube of synthetic orange blossom molecules.

Nearby, Charles is working quietly, too.

I swing my gaze back to my own work, wishing I felt comfortable casually asking him what he’s working on, bantering about the day, gabbing as we test formulations. Hey there, Chuck. What’s shaking? How’s the body lotion formulation going? Does it smell amazeballs?

Oh yes, it’s fantastic. Want a sniff?

Why, thank you! Oh my, that is wonderful. You’re so talented.

I followed the process you outlined in the meeting last week. And yes, I think the process is amazeballs, too.

Yeah, that conversation doesn’t happen, even though I make a mental note to look up the correct translation of “amazeballs” later. Clearly, such a critical word in English must have a French equivalent.

But I can’t say any of that, so I offer a professional smile and return to my work. Today, I’m fine-tuning a formulation for a body lotion. It’s close, but not quite there. It needs that final top note. Something that makes customers want it. Something that makes them think of their happiest moments.

Orange blossom isn’t cutting it. It’s too close to a cleaner in this blend.

Closing my eyes, I try to picture all my favorite days, but my memory isn’t cooperating. Unpleasantness intrudes, images of Richard calling me the day he fell from the ladder, telling me he injured his back and was being taken to the hospital. My shoulders curl inward, tensing. I’d been ready to break up with him before that fateful call. I’d known I wasn’t in love with him anymore. But how do you break a man’s heart the same day he breaks his back?

You don’t.

You woman up.

You stay. You help. You do everything you can.

Until you can’t do any more.

When I open my eyes, I try to will away the unpleasant images. I can’t brew the scent of guilt. I can’t bottle our antiseptic relationship.

As I stare at the white-tiled walls of the lab, I cycle through some of the most pleasing scents. Vanilla and jasmine. Honey and rose. Peach and apple. You can’t go wrong with peach. It’s like bread; it’s like puppies. It’s impossible to dislike the scent of peach.

But I can’t find the vial I need when I search for it on the shelves. Sighing, I grab my phone, double-checking the words on Google Translate.

“Do you have the peach?” I ask Charles in French, adding the dilution amount.

His eyes light up. “Yes.”

He rises, reaches for the tube, and hands it to me.

“Thank you.”

But when I mix it up, the scent is too strong, too intense. And I know why. I asked for the wrong variation. Because my pronunciation is as good as a garbage can.

“Do you like it?” he asks me in his native language.

“A little,” I tell him.

It’s a lie.

I can’t stand it.

Mostly, I can’t stand myself.

When I leave work that night, I take out my phone and curse it. “You’re only good for bakery information.”

The phone beeps. “I can give you bakery information,” the robotic woman answers.

I curse at her.

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat the question?”

“Ugh.”

“I did not understand you. Can you try again?”

I bark into the phone. “Where is the nearest bakery that’s still open? I desperately need a peach tart.”

“I’m sorry. There is no bakery open.”

I imagine she adds, with a snicker, you pathetic idiot.

I go home, wishing for a tart but needing so much more. I head to my rooftop and text my sister.

Joy: What’s shaking, sugar?

Her reply is swift.

Allison: Can’t talk. At work. Skype later?

But later I’ll be asleep, and once again, I’m lost in time. Stuck between two worlds. I don’t exist in my old world any longer, and I don’t fit into the new one.

Once upon a time I thought it would be easy to escape into a new life. But there’s nothing simple about starting over. I write back to Allison saying we’ll talk another time. As I close her message, I find a text from Richard that came through earlier in the day.

You were wrong. I’m not addicted. My new doctor says my previous doc didn’t know how to manage the pain. Hope you’re having fun in France.

Seething, I narrow my eyes and stare daggers at my phone then shout at it, “I’m not having fun. Not today. Not at all. And you’re wrong, you ass. You’re fucking wrong.”

Gripping the phone harder, I consider chucking it. Tossing it far across the rooftops of Paris for the crime of delivering Richard’s message to me, as well as tricking me into thinking a search engine could solve my language woes. But that would be cruelty to my smartphone, and my phone has, bakery misunderstanding aside, been pretty good to me. I set it on the chair.

Then I tromp downstairs to my bedroom, marching to my silver tray with my favorite scents. I snatch up a little tester tube of Obsession, and spritz it on my wrist. Next, I grab Angel, with its chocolate and caramel notes, and spray some on my other hand. Like a dog sniffing for food, I hold my nose up high and let the mixture of scents feed my olfactory senses. If Richard were here, he’d cough majestically, dramatically even, and tell me my perfume gave him a headache. He’d fling his hand on his forehead as if to prove his point. That wasn’t why I wanted to end our relationship, but it was one more Jenga block in a teetering tower.

A tower that came crashing down.

Tonight, I celebrate my freedom from him by dousing myself in all the scents he abhorred. By the time I’m done, I smell like a ten-cent whorehouse. I cackle as I twirl in my bedroom. Yup. I’m a regular mess right now. But I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t stinking care.

I do a little jig. I can finally do whatever I want in my own sweet time in my own dang home.

But admittedly, the scent of me right now is a wee bit overwhelming so I hop into the shower, wash myself clean, and pull on yoga pants and a sweater.

I return to my new favorite place, sinking back into the chaise lounge on my rooftop garden. With a cooler head, I grab my phone, delete Richard’s message, then go to his contact information. My thumb hovers over his name. I could delete him, too. I could even block him. Instead, I resolve to ignore him if I hear from him. After all, there’s nothing I can do for him anymore. I put down the phone and stare at the twinkling lights glittering on the Eiffel Tower.

I gaze at them until they turn hazy and blurry. I might have moved on from my past. I might be letting go of a relationship I stayed in far beyond its expiration point. But I haven’t fully stepped into my new life.

And I know why.

The answer doesn’t reside in Google.

It can be found in those lights.

In where they flicker.

In what they represent.

I text Griffin and tell him I have a proposition for him.