Griffin

The first time I traveled to Paris, I was three.

My mum took Ethan and me to see where she grew up, before she left to live in England. Shockingly, I don’t remember a lick of that trip. But the photos are enough to make me shudder. Mum dressed us in prissy little shirts that no child should ever wear.

We visited again when I was six and Ethan was five. Apparently, we were little shits then. The story goes that we nicked a little Eiffel Tower keychain from a young boy selling them by the carousel near the famous landmark. I’ve always suspected the story was apocryphal, told at dinner parties by my parents to entertain the guests. But there is a photo of us in front of the tower, and my dad wrote a caption on it: Little troublemakers.

We visited many times over the years, seeing Mum’s sister, who now lives in Brittany. We’d check out the sights and the famous landmarks, and go to the open-air markets. Though I did all that with my family, I also looked elsewhere on those trips. Down alleys, around corners, in the passages. Always seeking unknown treasures and odd little curiosities.

As a teenager, when I went about the city on my own, I started keeping track of all the unusual things I saw—level markers, corner guards, antique signs. I was like a surveyor conducting an inventory of Paris, recording all the things that caught my eye.

Funny that I never noticed the angels Joy keeps telling me about.

I’m still not an angel person. I don’t believe they’re watching over me, and I definitely don’t think my brother is an angel. That’s just not how I’m wired. But since Joy mentioned the very first one on the door knocker, I’ve been intrigued with their presence. Because I’d missed them. Because I failed to notice them on my journeys around Paris. That’s why over the next week I research them online, marking where to find them.

When I hop on my bike one afternoon, I ride around the city, visiting a pair in the window of a luxurious mansion, another blowing a horn on the frame of a hotel, and one more in a Japanese garden, that came from the remains of a church bombed in Japan during the Second World War. The damaged angel sculpture was sent here as a symbol of peace.

I stop at the last one, staring for a long time, as if I can find a special meaning in it. But I don’t know what to make of the angels scattered around the city, unless it’s as simple as this—each one whispers a story of how Paris came to be. Some offer clues about art and music. Others tell of how the city moved through war and revolution. Still others speak of survival, lasting among the wreckage.

Maybe that’s what links these winged statues—they’re a new form of connect-the-dots in this city. I smile as I hop back on my bike, pleased that I’ve figured out this little riddle.

I’ll miss discovering oddities like this, puzzling them together to learn what they mean. I’ll miss many things about this city, I realize as I ride along the river. The bread, for starters. I don’t know that there has ever been better bread in the entire world. I’ll miss the streetlamps, the cafés, the sidewalks themselves. I’ll miss that everywhere around me there is beauty, even if it’s simply in a shop window.

I’ll miss the people. Marie at the bakery, Julien by the river, even Jean-Paul and his absurd stories. I’ll definitely miss Christian and his devil-may-care spirit.

Most of all, I will miss the woman I’ve spent so many hours with over the last few months. As I ride aimlessly along the Seine, I think back to the day many weeks ago when I was ready to take off and explore Indonesia before the marathon, finishing my training on the island. Instead, what frustrated me at the time gave me three months with Joy.

Three unexpected months I wouldn’t ever want to give up.

I only wish it were longer. I wish we’d started sooner. I wish it were fair to ask for something from her that I know in my heart is wholly unfair. Even so, there’s a part of me that longs to ask Joy what she’ll be doing six months, maybe twelve months from now. If she might want to somehow make a go of this. But I honestly don’t know when I’m coming back, or if my journeys will take me elsewhere. Is that even fair? To ask someone to wait for you when you don’t know how long you’ll be gone?

I slow my pace as I near Julien’s green stall by Notre Dame. Hopping off the bike, I lean the metal frame against the stone wall by the river. He raises his chin and barks at me. “Where is your lovely woman? I’d rather look at her pretty face than your ugly mug.”

Yeah, I’ll miss his gruffness, oddly enough.

“Nice to see you, too.” I clap him on the shoulder. “And to answer your question, I’m taking her out tonight. I’m meeting her friend, and she’s meeting one of my mates.”

He huffs, parking a weathered hand on the faded green wood on one side of his stall. “She likes you more than you could know.”

I tilt my head. “Why do you say that?”

“You must have charmed her. That’s all I can figure. She was here the other day.”

“She was?” I smile, picturing Joy here, perusing the wares.

“She bought some postcards. She asked me questions. How long have I worked here, how I was doing?”

The grin spreads as I imagine Joy practicing her language skills. “Were you nice to her, old man?”

He scoffs. “She was about ready to have a nightcap with me.”

I laugh, amused. “Don’t steal my girl.”

“Does she know how much you’ll miss her when you do your stupid run in some stupid country that isn’t France?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

“You’re a fool.”

“You’re extra salty today.”

“You have a woman you love, and you want to leave. You’re a fool.”

“Love?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, surprised at his quick verdict. “The woman I love?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Young people. You don’t realize what you have.”

He’s wrong. I do realize it. I see it plain and clear.

But there are choices that aren’t mine to make. There are promises I made more than a year ago.

That day will never fade.

“What can I do? Anything. Just name it. I’ll do it for you,” I told Ethan when he took his last turn for the worse. The infection had done irreparable damage to major organs and the doctor had just told us there was nothing more they could do. The fighting was over. The infection had won.

“You don’t have to do anything for me.”

“Let me,” I pleaded, desperate to be his voice, his legs, his last chance.

“You want a bucket list?” There was the faintest laugh in his voice.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“I mean it. We were going to do everything. We had plans. What would you do if you could? I’ll do it for you.”

“You mean it?”

I nodded savagely. “Yes, I’ll do anything. Except skydiving. Anything but skydiving.”

Silently, he watched me for a long moment, studying my eyes as if searching for something in them. He found whatever he was looking for, perhaps the permission to ask me to do what he couldn’t. Because then he smiled amidst the tubes and beeping machinery of his hospital room. “Okay. Let’s do it. One last list.”

I scrambled for a pen and paper, and he started to write. The pen wobbled in his weak fingers. My heart splintered, and I choked back a tear. “I’ll do it.”

Ethan shook his head, his grip tightening, harder than I’d seen him hold a pen.

The lump thickened in my throat. “I need to get some water.”

I excused myself for a moment, ostensibly to head to the water fountain. Jamming the heel of my hand against my eye, I wiped away the evidence, then returned to his room, and watched as he managed to write it all down. Ten items, and a final postscript.

I blink away the harsh memory, and gesture to the shelves of books and small notecards. “Anything here she wanted?”

Julien surveys his goods, then taps a notecard with a photo of Monet’s garden. “She liked this picture. She bought it for herself. Maybe she doesn’t need you to buy her things.”

My shoulders tense. His words clang around in my head.

He’s right. He’s ridiculously right, but not about buying things. About Joy needing me. She doesn’t need me, not truly. She’s independent and capable and bold, and she’s learning a whole new language. She won’t want to wait for me. I need to excise the idea of even asking her to.

Instead, I’ll make the most of the last few weeks with her.

I buy a few of the small notecards of flowers, grab a pen from Julien, lean against the stone wall by the river, and write a note.

But when I look back at my words, I can’t say that. I can’t ask that. I tuck it into my wallet, and write another.

An invitation.

* * *

Ivy climbs the white walls at the back of the six-room boutique hotel, while songbirds chirp in the night air. Music pulses low and sensual, and absinthe flows freely in glasses at this outdoor enclave, a secret nighttime garden that Joy uncovered deep in the heart of the hip Oberkampf district in Paris. It’s at the Hotel Particulier Tenth, nestled among verdant trees and lush bushes, off a quiet side street with an address nearly impossible to find.

Her friend Elise knows the owner. I have the impression Elise knows everyone worth knowing in Paris.

“So, this is the woman who says days should be eaten,” I say as we’re introduced.

“So, this is the man who’s so enchanted my friend,” she says, her chocolate-brown eyes skeptical behind her glasses, almost as if she doesn’t quite trust me. Elise has a sisterly protectiveness to her, even though I doubt Joy needs it. She’s the kind of woman who can fight her own battles.

I tip my forehead to Joy, next to me. “The enchantment is entirely mutual.”

Elise raises an eyebrow appreciatively and nods at me. “Good. Then you’ve passed my test for the night.”

I wipe my hand across my brow. “Whew. I was worried.”

“A woman needs a friend to keep her man on his toes.”

Joy laughs and sets a hand on my arm. “By the way, have I told you Elise has been appointed in charge of all the inquisitions in my life?”

“No. I’m in charge of the fun,” Elise corrects playfully from atop her towering heels. I suspect they add four, maybe five inches to her height. I also suspect she’s the type of woman who could run in heels and never wobble. She has that air about her.

“Fun? Did someone say fun? I believe that’s my middle name.” Christian is here. He strides across the patio, stopping next to Joy and Elise. I make the requisite intros, and Joy throws her arms around him, hugging him like an old friend, then to Elise I explain that he’s a translator, too.

“French to English?” Elise asks my friend.

Christian shakes his head. “Yes, but no. I specialize in the Scandinavian languages.”

Elise roams her eyes over his tall, blond frame. “You do look something like a Viking.”

Christian laughs. It isn’t the first time a woman has said that to him. “Denmark is my first love. Copenhagen-born.”

“A Dane with a British accent. You look like Alexander Skarsgård, and you sound like Tom Hardy. This might very well be fantasy made flesh,” Elise says, waving her hand to fan herself.

He smiles. “Why, yes, I’d love to take you home right now.”

Joy laughs loudly. “And clearly it’s time for us to go.”

Elise shakes her head and pats Joy’s shoulder. “Don’t be silly. I can admire your man’s friend and make sure you get drunk on absinthe at the same damn time.”

“You’re a multitalented woman,” Christian says, and Joy and I step back, grabbing a spot on the outdoor couch and ordering absinthe.

“Copenhagen is a lovely city,” Elise says to Christian. “I traveled there a year ago. I took one of those canal tours.”

“What was your favorite part of the tour? Seeing the palaces? Hearing the stories of all our crown jewels?”

Elise chuckles, shaking her head. “Neither. I most enjoyed when the boat glided past a private dock, where a very fit, very muscular Danish man was doing handstands naked on the dock.”

Christian taps his chin, his expression serious. “Was it right by Nyhavn? A little past the outdoor food market?”

“I believe so,” Elise says with a curious smile. “Do you know this gentleman? Is he the Mad Naked Handstander of Copenhagen?”

“Mad? No. More like fit, handsome, and well-hung.”

She scrunches her brow. “You’ve been admiring his package, too?”

“So, you were indeed admiring it?”

“There was a lot to admire,” she says with a happy shrug, and Joy nudges me as we watch them like spectators.

Christian taps his chest. “That was me.”

A laugh bursts from Elise. “What?”

Joy turns to me with wide eyes, whispering, “Was that Christian?”

I shrug, laughing quietly and listening to Christian’s answer.

“Well, I suppose it’s entirely possible there could be other tall, fit, muscular men who have homes on the water in Copenhagen, and do handstands, yoga, and other acrobatics naked in an attempt to entertain the canal tourists with other crown jewels,” he says, and Elise laughs. “In fact, I have a few good mates who also engage in this pastime. But there’s a good chance it was actually me.”

Elise whistles. “Then I’m even more pleased to meet the man whose photos are already on my cell phone.”

The waiter arrives with our drinks, and I thank him, then wrap an arm around Joy and nuzzle her. “Looks like they’re getting along without us.”

She stretches her neck, inviting me to kiss her more. “That means you can entertain me.”

I brush my lips along her throat, kissing up to her chin, along her jawline, then to her ear. “How do you most like to be entertained?”

“With your tongue,” she whispers.

I groan. “Now, you’re going to make it so very hard to stay here.”

She reaches for our glasses and hands me one. “Just think how worked up you’ll be when we finally leave.”

Raising her glass, she takes a drink and murmurs her appreciation. The sound of her pleasure over the drink is sensual and dirty, and turns me on even more. “I’m already worked up.”

Her eyes wander down my body, and she raises an eyebrow. “Good. Now, think about what it’ll be like when we head to my flat, I go upstairs ahead of you, and you find me naked on the rooftop terrace.”

We last thirty minutes, and then I make an executive decision. There’s not much reason to stay here any longer when there are tongues that need to be used for entertainment.