His To Shatter Read online

  My parents had been predictably disappointing in their reaction to the news of my internship. I had called them to let them know I would be out of the country for the summer. That was the first we’d spoken since Christmas, but they didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Paris?” my father had snorted. “What are the French going to teach you about getting anything done? They’re just a bunch of lazy weaklings.”

  “Have you ever met anyone from France?” I’d asked.

  “Hell no,” He’d said, “What would I want to associate with those cowardly assholes for?”

  Takes one to know one, I’d thought. My mother wasn’t any more helpful. “Be careful while you’re there. European men can be very aggressive. You should dress more conservatively, so no one thinks that you’re a loose American girl.”

  I had started to explain the concept of victim blaming to her at that point, but quickly realized that it would be a fruitless endeavor. My mother was the ultimate victim, and had no interest in thinking of herself or any other woman differently. They really were a perfect match, my parents—they each let the other wallow in their shortcomings and never challenged each other to grow or change. Good for them, but I had better things to do with my life than wither away in West Chester.

  I shook all thoughts of my parents from my mind and breathed in the Parisian air. They couldn’t touch me here. Nothing about my past was packed in my suitcase. I could be whoever I wanted to be, in Paris. And from that first day, I starting looking for who, exactly, that might be.

  The summer took me completely by storm, and Ashlee and Dara were swept up, too. I began my internship immediately after landing in the city, and was blown away by the amount of information I was expected to swallow. Sitting through a year of graduate courses in marketing had been one thing, but being fully immersed in the world of it was quite another. For the first week or so, I felt utterly out of my depth. I was convinced that there was no way I’d be able to learn everything I needed to in order to do a good job. But slowly, I began to see the edges of the vast amount of information.

  Things began to make intuitive sense. I got to know the people I was working for at Corelli, and even ran into Mr. Corelli a couple of times when he came to Paris. His warm smile and easy confidence in me got me through a few pretty challenging moments. By the time June had drawn to a close, I knew that job inside out and backwards.

  Ashlee spent her days studying classical drama with her ensemble, and would come home every day with incredible stories about the work they were doing. For her part, Dara made an effort to completely immerse herself in French culture. She challenged us to speak the language as best we could, and surprised me by doing a lot more with her time than chasing men. Dara was an incredibly smart girl, and had ambition in her that I knew would be put to good use when she found something she was passionate about. When that happened, look out world, I said.

  During the evenings and weekends, when I was off from my internship, and Ashlee had finished rehearsal, and Dara wasn’t out growing more French by the minute, we did everything together. Saturdays that summer were some of the best days I’d ever known. The three of us would head out in the morning with a handful of destinations in mind, and spend the day exploring the city’s every inch. Museums, landmarks, scenery, everything—we drank in all that we could. Even if we spent a good chunk of the day simply lounging by the Seine, gazing up at the Eiffel Tower with a delicious baguette and more brie than three people should ever be able to consume, we were content. I’d never been so happy in my life, never felt like my life had more direction and purpose.

  Once the sun would set over the city, the second leg of our adventures could begin. Dara, Ashlee and I scarcely let a night go by without hitting some club or other, dancing night after night away. I’d been reluctant to go with them at first, given what had happened back in the Spring after too many drinks, but it hadn’t taken much for them to convince me. I was determined to be a new woman in Paris, and that meant that I needed to reclaim some aspects of my life.

  It wasn’t fair, I reasoned, that my father’s alcoholism should continue to hang over me like a dark cloud. It wasn’t fair that my parent’s pathetic relationship or the insidious verbal abuse of my college boyfriend should keep me from exploring my sexuality and discovering what I wanted from a relationship myself. I resolved to be my own woman in Paris, whatever that meant. If I wanted to go out dancing every free night, then I should be allowed to. If I wanted to make eyes at a cute Frenchman across a crowded cafe, I should be allowed to.

  I had started slowly on this new journey toward freedom from guilt and shame. I didn’t want to jump in too fast and scare myself, or let something like what had happened back in New York occur again. There were so many layers of shame and distaste separating me from the rest of the world. Years of living in fear of my father, in resentment of my mother, had created a barrier that was shielding me from some of the most exciting aspects of life. It would take a lot of coaxing to bring those walls down.

  So, I started challenging myself little by little. When we were out to dinner, I started accepting first a half glass, then a full glass of wine. I learned how to let alcohol be a part of my life without being overwhelmed by it. Soon, it was commonplace for me to share a bottle with the girls after a long work week, camped out on my wood floor, trading anecdotes about our travels and experiences so far. With so many new things happening all around me, it was exciting to fold in this new element to my life.

  It took a little more self-encouragement to start considering men along with my wine. I had very little experience with sex, and less with casual flirtation. The only casual sexual experience I’d ever had had ended very badly. I had had an orgasm, sure, but waking up with a disgusting hangover and crippling sense of shame was not exactly the best post-coital experience. This time around, I wanted to discover the joy in flirtation, the fun that could be had with a member of the opposite sex.

  Dara and Ashlee were with me every step of the way, as wonderful friends and excellent wingmen. I would point out men that caught my eye during our trips around the city, and they would help me find excuses to engage them in conversation. Soon, I was doing this all on my own. When we went out to the clubs, I would dance with men, accept their drinks sometimes, and then part ways at the end of the evening without panicking. I didn’t go home with any of them, or bring any home. That would have been too much, too soon—like downing a whole bottle of wine when a glass would suffice.

  The summer flew by, and soon August was drawing to a close. I couldn’t believe how much I’d learned, how much I’d grown since arriving in Paris. I truly didn’t want the summer to end. But nothing gold can stay, as they say, and I had to face the fact that soon I would be on my way back to the states. Not that New York was a shoddy replacement for Paris, but The City of Lights would always have a special place in my heart.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nine

  * * * * *

  During our final two weeks in Paris, the three of us girls wrung every drop of excitement and experience that we could out of the city. Ashlee's ensemble performed a beautiful collection of one acts, I was commended at my internship for the excellent work I had done, and Dara was speaking flawless, beautiful French. To celebrate our successes, we planned an evening out at the insanely popular nightclub, la Passerelle. It was a gigantic space that had just opened up at the heart of the city, and we’d been dying to check it out since we first heard of it.

  Getting ready to head out that night, I was so proud of how far I’d come that summer. It wasn’t just my success at work that was exciting, it was the fact that I was comfortable with myself in social situations in a brand new way. I looked at myself in the mirror as I arranged my hair into a tasteful up-do. I had found a beautiful emerald green cocktail dress at a vintage shop in the city, and looked for the world like a 1960’s movie star in it. I turned this way and that before the full length mirror in my studio, pleased with the results of
my primping. I allowed myself to feel beautiful, and it felt damn good.

  We set out into the lamp-lit city and soon arrived at la Passerelle. Dara was rocking head-to-toe black, and Ashlee had chosen a white lacy shift for the evening. I could feel eyes on us as we were ushered into the club, but the crowd of beautiful people soon subsumed us. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place, but I reminded myself that I had every right to be there, that I deserved to be there. My heart quit hammering, and a smile spread across my face. This really was the life.

  Ashlee led the way toward the bar, cutting through the thick crowds like it was nothing. Dara and I trailed along behind her, the electronic dance music working its way into our blood. I could hardly keep from dancing as I perched on a high barstool and asked the bartender for a martini. It was a bold choice, and I was more accustomed to wine, but it felt like a great way to celebrate my newfound outgoingness. The bartender was back in a flash with a round of martinis for us, which he was pleased to announce were on the house. We smiled and took our glasses, raising our drinks for a toast.

  “To Paris!” I said over the music.

  “To Paris!” Ashlee and Dara agreed happily. We clinked our glasses and relished the first sips of our martinis. The gin was incredibly smooth, and so delicious on my tongue. I promised myself that I would take it easy and enjoy the night that was spread out before us in all its glittering potential.

  Over the rim of my glass, a flash of perfect porcelain white caught my eye. I peered across the huge circular bar, and my eyes came to rest on a stunning woman in profile. Her perfect cheek bones were made all the more clear by an elaborate up-do, and her lithe body looked as though it had been painted into her black dress. She looked for the world like Audrey Hepburn’s twin, but why was it that she looked so familiar to me? Suddenly, her sharp eyes swung toward my side of the club and I understood, with a sinking feeling in my gut.

  It was that caustic woman from the train all those months ago. The one who had chided my miraculous rescuer. That afternoon came screeching back to the forefront of my mind, unwarranted. I tried very hard not to think about the events of that day if I could help it. The image of that drunken man exposing himself to me flooded my head all of sudden, and I winced at the memory. I don’t know what I would have done if that mysterious and devilishly handsome man hadn’t stood up for me. As I sat, paralyzed with fear, he had come out of nowhere and placed himself between me and the drunk. And when that degenerate had produced a box cutter and threatened to hurt me, my savior had flung him against the metal subway pole and knocked him out cold. He even had the decency to put me in a cab afterwards so that I didn’t miss my interview.

  And all the while some horrible woman that he was traveling with had berated him for interfering. Right in front of my face, this woman—Monica, that was her name—had basically said that I should have been left to fend for myself. A fellow woman suggested that it would have been better for me to wind up with a lap full of diseased semen or a knife wound than for her companion to ruffle his suit. Girard, that’s what he was called, had referred to Monica as his assistant, but the possessive look in her eyes suggested that their relationship was a bit more than that.

  I couldn’t believe this vision from the past was sitting directly across the bar from me. I remembered noticing the slight accent of Monica and Girard’s speech, but in my haste and disarray I hadn’t put the pieces together. And the language they had slipped into while they argued on the subway platform, it was French that they had been speaking! My heart began to race as I realized that, more likely than not, I was in the same city as Girard, the hero who had come to my rescue. I had hardly let myself dwell on him in the months since our encounter. He was so heart-stoppingly beautiful, so brave, so good, that it almost hurt to let my mind linger on him for more than a moment. Girard was by far the most attractive man I had ever seen, up close or otherwise, and his act of valor only made him more appealing. All at once, the full force of my desire to see him again hit me like a wrecking ball.

  A wild thought crossed my mind as I gaped like an idiot toward Monica. If she was here at la Passerelle, I had to talk to her. She could lead me to Girard! He must be in the city if she was—it didn’t seem like she often failed to follow him wherever he went. She might be reluctant to give me information, but I wouldn’t give her a choice. If there was anything my time at Corelli had taught me, it was to be assertive and persuasive.

  I didn’t care if this woman was made of stone, I had to crack her. She was my link back to Girard, and there was no way that I could pass up this opportunity. I had to thank him for saving me that day. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have missed or completely blown my interview. I never would have come to Paris, or had the best summer of my entire life. I had to find him and tell him how grateful I was to him. And if I was honest, I just wanted the chance to be near him again, to stand so close to perfection once more.

  “Maddie?” Ashlee said, sounding concerned. “Maddie, are you OK?”

  “What?” I said, turning toward her.

  “You look possessed or something,” Dara said. “What’s up?”

  But I could hardly hear them. Across the bar, Monica took two lowball glasses from the bartender and turned back toward the pulsing crowd. My muscles seemed to have developed a mind of their own, because suddenly I was on my feet in pursuit. I slugged back the remainder of my martini and headed off after her.

  “Hey!” Ashlee said, hurrying after me. “What the hell is going on? Where are you going?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to shake her off. “I just saw somebody I recognize.”

  “OK,” she said uncertainly. “We’ll be right here.”

  I waved her off and hurried after Monica. I spun and dodged around writhing bodies and careering cocktail waitresses, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the ice woman herself. My martini had been just potent enough to give me the courage I needed to track her down. I craned my neck, searching for her in the sea of people. The club was absolutely massive, and I knew that finding Monica would be like finding a needle in a haystack, but I had to keep trying. I tore through every nook and cranny of the place, and quickly realized that there was an entire balcony that I’d failed to investigate. A low groan escaped my lips as I made my way up, down, and all around the joint. As the moments ticked on, my hope of locating Monica among all these strangers began to fade. I slowed my steps and turned back toward the bar to collect my friends and regroup.

  “Did you find who you were looking for?” Dara asked, as I retreated back to my barstool.

  “No,” I said, disappointed. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Who was it, anyway?” Ashlee asked. “Who do you know in Paris.”

  I looked back and forth between them, and realized that I’d never told them about Girard after he’d saved me. We’d been so caught up in my successful interview that we had breezed right past the entire occurrence. And when our celebration of that interview landed me in bed with a stranger, I had been too ashamed to talk about any man, hero or otherwise. But for some reason, I was still reluctant to fill them in on what had happened with Girard. It was like I was afraid that saying anything about him out loud would make the memory less mine, somehow.

  “Just someone I met in New York,” I said simply.

  “Oh,” Ashlee said. “Weird.”

  “I don’t know about you two,” Dara said, “But if I don’t get out on that dance floor soon, I might just lose my mind.”

  Ashlee and I smiled as Dara wiggled away from us. We followed her lead, and the three of us made our way out into the press of dancing bodies. The music was a good distraction, and I could nearly lose myself in the pumping beat, and the amazing mass of people around me. But my mind was still reeling with thoughts of Girard. I’d gotten my hopes up, seeing Monica, and now the fire of my admiration for him was only growing hotter. I let my mind linger on that razor sharp jaw line of his, those deep soulful eyes, his perfe
ctly cut and balanced body. It was enough to make my mouth water.

  A few different men approached me as I shook my stuff on the dance floor, and I accepted their advances. But all the while, as I pressed up against them, I tried to imagine that it was Girard there with me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost picture it. Ashlee, Dara and I bumped and grinded our way through at least a half dozen songs before we knew it. As a tiny lull occurred in the music, Ashlee signaled that she was ready for a another drink and began to push back out of the crowd. Dara and I followed, weaving through the ever-growing mass of dancers. The bar on the ground floor was packed three people deep, so we bypassed it. There was a second, smaller bar located on the balcony of the club, so we made our way up to it instead.

  The steps leading up to the balcony were lit with golden neon light, and I felt for the world like a visiting princess as I stepped onto them. As we climbed, I let my eyes wander across the club below, hoping against hope that I might finally spot Monica. But it was useless. The club spread out before me, in all its pulsing glory, but there was not a soul that I recognized within it. I tried to shake off my disappointment, and decided that another martini might do the trick. The three of us walked purposefully over the second story bar, past a dozen intimate nooks that were built into the wall and shrouded with gold curtains. Ashlee bought us all another round of drinks and we accepted them happily. We turned toward an empty table against the balcony’s far side, but as we passed one of the private stalls, a hand shot out and caught Dara by the arm.

  “Hey!” she shouted, pulling away from the disembodied hand. “What’s the idea, asshole?”