A Phantom Enchantment (21 page)

“Hmm?”

“Some of the kids told me about him when I first arrived here. Apparently, he wanders this neighborhood where the Bastille once stood, a shell of his former self, his life stolen because of a mistake he made long ago. Now he haunts these hallways to remind himself what it feels like to be young and alive. And I think he's been stealing our stuff.”

Monsieur Crespeau chuckled. “Le fantôme? C'est moi.”

“What?”

“I am your ghost. I clean up after you in the chapel and sometimes I pick up a memento or two. I must confess I listened to your CD and forgot to return it.”

“I'm so relieved,” I said.

“Your songs are beautiful. Heartbreaking and beautiful. He inspired you, no doubt, your Gray.”

I frowned, knowing it was true. “Why can't we let go of our first loves?” I asked suddenly.

He sighed, surely thinking of his long-burning flame for Mademoiselle Veilleux. “I don't know. They take hold of our hearts, don't they?”

“Exactly. And just when we think we're ready to move on, we freeze.”

“I know,” he said. “I've been frozen here for twenty years.”

“Oh, Monsieur Crespeau.”

He smiled sadly. “Do you still love him?”

“I think a part of me always will. But it was a different girl who fell in love with Gray. I'm ready to move on, but I'm afraid of hurting him.”

“It will hurt more the longer you wait. Trust me on this. You must tell him.”

“Then why haven't you ever told Mademoiselle Veilleux how you feel? I mean, I know you're afraid of her response, but come on, it's been years. Why can't you—”

“Because,” he shouted, “that's exactly what I'd been about to do when . . .” He thrust a hand over his eyes.

“When the car crashed,” I said, my heart breaking for him. “Oh, Monsieur Crespeau, I'm so sorry I pushed.”

He wiped his brow and looked at me. “It is all right,” he said. “But I can't help thinking I was punished for my selfishness.”

“Your selfishness? How could you be selfish for loving someone?”

“I wanted too much. I was not good enough for her. I never deserved her.”

“That's not true!” I said.

“Oh, Emma, you should have heard her sing
La Bohème
. She was exquisite. I used to hide in the back of the theater listening to her and watching her, mesmerized. I taught myself to play piano and to dance because I thought it would impress her. But she never noticed.”

“How do you know?”

“Emma, you see her going out with a different young man every week. How can I compete with that?”

“Did you ever think that the reason she does that is she's just as lonely as you are? Maybe she's been waiting for you, too.”

“No, it is too late for us,” he said. “If it were going to happen, it would have by now. The stars do not align for us.”

“The stars don't control your fate, Monsieur Crespeau. You do. If you want something, you've got to make it happen.” I thought about my grandma's reminder that our actions define us.

“Says the girl who refuses to tell her boyfriend the truth,” he said. “Aren't we a pair?”

“Yes, we are,” I said. “You know, I always thought Gray and I were soul mates, that we were ‘destined' to be together forever. I even put a padlock on the bridge at Pont des Arts. If I break up with Gray, it feels like I'll be breaking some cosmic promise I made.”

“The padlock is only a symbol,” Crespeau said. “It is not reality. You must not be a slave to your first love like I have been.”

“I know; it's just so difficult.”

“Come with me,” he said. “I have just the thing you need.”

“What?”

“You'll see.”

I followed Monsieur Crespeau outside to his toolshed, where he found a pair of bolt cutters and wielded them in front of me.

“Seriously?” I said.

“You begin moving forward with one step,” he said. “Or one cut, in your case.”

“No, I couldn't.”

“Then I will help you,” he said. “As you've tried to help me.”

We walked together through the city, chatting about life and love, until we came to the Pont des Arts. The man selling the padlocks eyed us suspiciously, but Crespeau looked so resolute that the man didn't question us.

When we found my padlock, Crespeau handed the bolt cutters to me and gave me a brief demo on how to use them.

“Emma,” he said. “This is just one symbol of your past with Gray, but you must say good-bye in small increments. It is the only way to mourn your losses without losing yourself.”

The bolt cutters were heavy in my hands, but I knew Crespeau was right. I pulled apart the blades and snipped down on the padlock, watching it drop into the Seine, feeling a sharp pain inside, like a part of me was breaking off with it. But the pain was followed by a slackening in my chest, like maybe this had been the first step in setting my heart free.

C
HAPTER
20

I
pretended everything was fine as I tried to work up the nerve to tell Gray the truth. The worst part was that Gray seemed a little better over the next few days—less brooding and more optimistic. It gutted me to think of breaking his heart. But I had to do it in order to salvage my own. I didn't want to end up like Crespeau, letting nostalgia for a past love freeze me in place, never allowing me to experience a possible different future.

One night, I asked Gray to take a walk with me, as I didn't want to have this talk in my room with all its disturbing associations. We strolled through the cobblestoned streets of the Marais, silent except for our footsteps. It was already dark out, and the air was cold but held a promise of spring.

“This feels like a walk with a purpose,” Gray said. “Yet you haven't said anything.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm trying to find the right words.”

“Then it must be the answer to my question.”

“Yes,” I said, noticing a temporary brightening in Gray's eyes. We were in a quaint little alley in the Jewish quarter, and I reached out to grab his hand. “Gray, I think you've known my answer since Bruges. But I owe it to you to explain why . . . why I have to say no.”

He pulled his hand away and grew rigid, moving slightly away from me and leaning against the wall of a bakery, long since closed for the night.

“I know you're upset,” I said. “But you have to understand, I'm eighteen years old. And we've both been through so much this year. I think we need to slow things down and . . .”

“Slow things down? Emma, it sounds like you're breaking up with me.”

“No. I mean, I don't know, Gray. I didn't even know you were alive two months ago. Now you're asking me to spend the rest of my life with you. And I'm not even sure you really mean it. This could just be fear talking. You're scared of things changing. But things need to change. People need to change, or they die.”

He moved away angrily. “I get it, Emma. You're ready to move on. You and Grasshopper Boy want to hop off into the sunset.”

“Gray, it's not like that. I told you before this isn't about Owen.”

“Oh no? Emma, it's no accident that you lost my scorpion. You wanted to lose it.”

“Gray, that's ridiculous. And I don't want to lose you. You've been a part of my life since I was four years old. You're my oldest, dearest friend.”

“Friend? You think when I was stuck on that life raft for sixty-one days that what kept me alive was the thought of being your friend? Do you have any idea what kind of hell I went through?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “But do you know what kind of hell it was for me to think you were dead? To mourn you and accept that I wasn't ever going to see you again?”

“I wish I had died out there,” he said. His breathing had grown shallow and erratic.

“Don't say that.”

“Why? What do you care? You wish I'd never come back.”

“That's not true. I wished every day for you to come back.”

“So what happened, Emma? Now I am back. Why can't you be happy? Why can't it be like it was before?” The vein in his forehead was throbbing, and the intensity in his eyes was beginning to frighten me.

“Because I'm not the person I was!” I said, feeling desperate. “Losing you made me face my worst fears, but I came out stronger on the other side. And so did you. You might not believe it now, but you're different, too.”

“No, Emma, I'm the same. And so are you. We can be like we were before.” He gripped my arm and pulled me toward him.

“Gray, you're hurting me.”

“Well, you're not listening. I have to make you listen. Think of what you're giving up.” He pressed his body against mine, pinning me to the wall.

“Gray, stop! What's happened to you?”

“You know what fucking happened to me!” he said. “And the only thing I want right now is you. Is that too much to ask? Don't I deserve to get what I want after everything I've been through?”

“Not if it means hurting me,” I said. “Gray, we were good together once because we both wanted each other. I still love you, but I want new things in my life, new experiences.”

“So you get what you want, and I lose everything. You said you still loved me. You're such a liar!” He pounded his fist against the wall just above my head.

I cowered from him, something I'd never done in my life. “Gray, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Whatever. I'm going to make things easy for you, Emma,” he said. “I'm going to leave. For good this time.”

“Gray, don't leave things like this.”

“Like what? Horrible and depressing as hell?” He tore off his Virgo angel pendant and threw it at the wall, nearly missing my head. “My guardian angel? What a joke.”

“Gray, it was never a joke.”

“Well, love is. The fairy tales tell you otherwise, but it's all bullshit. Happily ever after is a fucking lie. People break your heart. That's the real end of the story.”

“Gray, I'm so sorry,” I muttered, wiping tears from my face.

But Gray just gave me a devastating stare and said, “You're not sorry, Emma. But you will be.”

Then he turned and fled the alley, leaving me a quivering wreck against the wall.

My first thoughts ran to Owen. In Gray's state, I had no idea where he might go or what he might do. He seemed to hold Owen responsible for all of this. At this time of night, Owen would probably be at the hostel or maybe at a café with Flynn. If Gray managed to find him, at least he wouldn't be alone.

But I felt compelled to check on him anyway. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number.

“Hey, Emma, where have you been? We're at Opéra Bastille. We got the go-ahead to move rehearsals into the Studio space, and it's amazing. Do you believe Jean-Claude and Yseult beat us here? Bastards!”

“So you're not alone?” I asked.

“No, Flynn and Elise are with me. We've been calling you for hours.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I've been a little preoccupied. Gray and I . . . we just broke up.”

“Oh.” Silence radiated across the phone line.

“Do you mind if I check out the space tomorrow?” I said.

“Emma, are you okay?” he asked, nothing but kindness in his voice. “Why don't I take you out somewhere so we can talk?”

“No, I'm not really in the mood to talk,” I said. And the last thing I needed was for Gray to stumble upon me and Owen together. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

After we hung up, I picked up the Virgo pendant from the ground and put it in my pocket, then set off in search of Gray. I ducked into a few of the cafés Gray and I had gone to together, checked the park where he went running, and ended up back at the school, hoping he might be in my room.

But as I was heading up the stairs, I ran into Monsieur Crespeau.

“Emma, I just saw your friend. He had his bags packed. I asked him where he was going, but he wouldn't answer me.”

“Oh, God,” I said, feeling a tiny twinge of relief. Maybe he'd decided to get a flight home. Even though I hated the way things had ended between us, this scenario was a lot better than the alternatives.

“You told him?” he said.

“Yes. And he didn't take it well.”

“You did the right thing, Emma.”

“I'm not so sure. I feel terrible.”

“Of course you do. You didn't want to hurt him. But dragging things out indefinitely wouldn't help him move on. Or you. It was time.”

He reassured me again and again that I'd made the right decision, but somewhere in my gut, I still feared the consequences.

That night I had a horrible nightmare in which Gray had Owen trapped in a tank that was rapidly filling with water. Owen was gasping for breath, flailing as the tank filled, and Gray stood by watching and doing nothing. Gray, who had the power to rescue him, was so enflamed with jealousy that all he did was watch Owen die.

And I stood helpless, frozen in place, unable to save either one of them.

C
HAPTER
21

T
wo weeks went by with no word from Gray. I went to classes in a fog of distraction, worrying every second that Gray had done something awful. It was possible he'd just flown home, but I didn't want to call his parents and risk alarming them if Gray wasn't there. Or perhaps he had gone traveling to blow off some steam. Something in my gut told me neither of these possibilities was likely.

Meanwhile, as my thoughts became darker and more disturbing, the weather got more springlike and intoxicating with each passing day. Owen began spending more time with me, trying to take my mind off things. We'd walk all over the city or go sit in a park, relishing the sunshine that seemed to be out in full force.

“Are you holding it together?” he asked as we lazed on a blanket at Parc de Bercy on an unseasonably warm afternoon.

“As much as can be expected.”

“You don't have any idea where Gray is?”

“I really don't,” I said. “And it's driving me insane. I don't know what to do.”

“There's nothing you can do but wait.”

“I feel like that's all I ever do with Gray,” I said. “I don't mean to sound uncaring, but this is so selfish of him. Leaving like this without a word after what I went through last fall.”

Owen didn't say anything, perhaps not thinking it was his right to criticize. But I knew where he stood on the subject of Gray.

“I don't really want to talk about Gray anymore,” I said. I'd had enough of him monopolizing my every waking thought and even my non-waking ones. Gray had brought me nothing but grief all year, and I was so exhausted. So ready to feel something good again.

Owen gave me a surprised look. “Fine by me,” he said. “So . . . in another few weeks, you'll be getting your acceptance letters. Any idea where you're going to school next year?”

“Well, first I have to see if I get in.”

“Oh, you know you're going to get in.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You're being modest,” he said, smiling, “and that's cute. But let's just say, for argument's sake, that you get into all your schools. Where do you want to go?”

There was the question again, and I still didn't have the answer. “I don't know,” I said, flopping onto his shoulder. I wanted to bury my head in his neck and stay there forever, not have to think about some future that loomed before me, immense and terrifying.

“Well, let me propose an alternative, just for fun. What if you took a gap year?” he said.

“A gap year? You mean, not go to college in the fall? I think my father might have something to say about that.”

“Emma, you're eighteen. I think your father gave up a long time ago trying to control your life.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” I said. “When I was home, he tried to convince me to stay and finish my senior year at Lockwood.”

“But he didn't succeed. Look where you are now,” he said, squeezing my arm.

“So what do you suggest? That I bum around Europe like you?”

“How about you bum around Europe
with
me?” he said.

I fell silent, not sure if he was serious but also trying to quell the excitement his suggestion had generated in me. “Very funny,” I said.

“I'm not joking. Travel is the best education. It helps you figure out who you are and what you want to do. College will still be there waiting for you at the end of the year.”

“So you're not planning to go back home and try college?” I said. “You're going to stay in Europe?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” he said, “but the longer I'm away from traditional school, the less I want to go. If I went to college now, I'd only be wasting my father's money.”

He had a point. Not everyone was ready to begin planning for their future at the age of eighteen or nineteen. Society told us we should be, but this was the reason so many thirty-year-olds were camped out in their parents' basements playing video games while their expensive business degrees went unused.

“What are you going to do with your life?” I heard myself asking, horrified by the scolding, motherly tone of it.

“I don't know. Play music. Backpack. Maybe write a little.”

“And for money?”

“Staying at hostels is cheap, and I can get a temporary work visa, maybe wait tables. Become a tour guide. Flynn and I can arrange some more gigs and make a little money that way. I'm not worried.”

An ugly thought shot through my head:
It's easy not to worry when you come from money; there will always be someone to bail you out.

“My situation's not the same as yours,” I said. “I don't have money saved up, and my dad isn't going to give me a cent if I don't go to college. I've got a good shot at getting a scholarship somewhere. I don't want to jeopardize that by deferring enrollment.” But I felt myself softening ever so slightly to the idea of blowing off college, just for a year, so I could do what Owen said: travel and figure out what I really wanted out of life. “Why do they make us decide so early?” I asked. “Choose a major, apply for internships, commit yourself to one path when there are infinite paths to go down.”

“Exactly,” Owen said, his face glowing. “Now you're seeing the light.”

“But my dad—”

“Your dad will love you and support you no matter what.”

“But I don't want to disappoint him.”

“What about disappointing me?” he said, contorting his face into a doleful puppy pout.

“Well, we wouldn't want that,” I said, laughing. “Let me think about it.”

When the heat of the afternoon grew too oppressive, we ducked into the Musée des Arts Forains, a quirky collection of fairground art with antique carousels, swings, billiards, and an automatic orchestra that played creepy organ music. There, we took a ride on the gondola merry-go-round. The eerie organ music made it feel like we were in a haunted house and that the spirits of old clowns and circus freaks were hiding in the shadows watching us. I was actually a little relieved when we stepped outside and back into the sunshine.

When we said good-bye later that night, Owen leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, lingering there so I could feel the heat of his breath on my skin. I walked up to my room in a bit of a daze, wondering how I would ever sleep that night.

We had only three weeks until the opera competition, so rehearsals kicked into high gear. But after that kiss, I could barely focus as I watched Owen perform on the Studio stage, jealousy burning through me as he touched Elise's arm or gave her a smoldering stage glance. But when we'd pause to go over my director's notes, Owen would give me a real stare that made my insides melt.

Meanwhile, Elise was getting more and more obsessive as our deadline loomed. She began staying at the Studio long after everyone else had left, singing and re-singing her songs and beating herself up every time she made a mistake. This wasn't like her. Elise usually exuded confidence; to let her vulnerable side show was a rarity.

“I'm just not satisfied yet,” she said. “I've got to keep practicing.”

Flynn sighed, irritable from hunger or boredom. “I feel like we're at that point where any more rehearsal is going to make me so sick of the material, it's going to take away from my performance,” he said.

“Yeah, we want a little rawness,” I agreed.

“I don't want to sound raw,” Elise said. “It's got to be perfect. You guys can take off, but I'm going to stay a little longer. I want to run through my solo one more time.”

I had a feeling this perfectionism had something to do with her being wait-listed at Berklee. Elise rarely suffered rejection, so this relentless drive to excel was her attempt to compensate for her feelings of inadequacy.

We left Elise at the Studio, and Flynn went to meet some girl at a bar, giving us a knowing wink before heading off. I was starving so Owen and I decided to take the Métro to our favorite dim sum restaurant in Chinatown. The hostess sat us at a tiny table toward the back beside an intricate carved wooden screen.

“I think this might be my favorite place in all of Paris,” Owen said as he poured us tea.

“Really? Not the café with the amazing foie gras? Not the brasserie with the to-die-for coq au vin?”

“Nope. This little Chinese restaurant with its cheesy red silk chairs and bad lighting. This is my favorite.”

“Why?”

“Because it reminds me of you.”

I blushed and looked down at my plate, took a sip of my too-hot tea. Something was happening to me—to us—and it frightened me, perhaps because I hadn't planned on it. And I was used to planning my life rather carefully.

We ate a huge platter of dim sum, sharing the ones we liked and stopping just short of feeding each other. Even so, the meal felt like some elaborate form of culinary foreplay. It was exciting to talk and eat with my friend Owen but imagine that afterward, we might go back to my room and become something different.

After dessert, our waitress returned with more tea and two fortune cookies.

“Choose,” Owen said, holding out his palm.

I reached out and grabbed the closest one, cracking it open and pulling out the little strip of paper.

“Don't let heartbreak stop you on your quest for true love,” I read aloud.

“Smart cookie,” Owen said, making me smile.

“Now read yours,” I said.

Owen looked down at his fortune and read, “Love is friendship set to music.” Then his face broke into his trademark dimples.

“That's kind of beautiful.” I felt a jangle of nerves that made me start babbling. “Don't you think it's strange when horoscopes or fortunes are so dead-on like that? I mean, you and I have been working on this musical and we're friends—”

He stopped my mouth with his, and suddenly we were kissing, really kissing this time with no interruptions or reservations. I forgot we were in a public place, dazed by the feel of his tongue in my mouth, dizzy from the sheer cinematic splendor of it. We pulled away a few seconds later, breathless, and he took my hand. His face was full of heartbreaking vulnerability.

“What's going on here?” I said.

“I don't know,” Owen said, “but I like it.” He ran his fingers along my arm, sending chills through every limb of my body.

“Want to get out of here?” I said, feeling reckless and excited.

He nodded quickly. “Uh-huh.”

We quickly paid our bill and left the restaurant, surprised to find it was raining. On the subway back to Bastille, neither of us said anything out of fear of ruining the moment. We had waited so long for it. When we finally got off at the station, it was raining even harder, so we ran the entire way back to my dorm, racing each other up the steps to my room.

Once inside, Owen's face grew very serious as he dripped rainwater onto the floor. My room felt completely isolated from the rest of the world, the only dry place in the universe.

“I'm nervous,” I said. “I've never felt nervous with you.”

“That's a good thing,” he said, moving toward me.

I had no idea what to expect but I knew it was somehow inevitable. This had been building for three years now. Owen stood before me and ran a hand through his wet hair, sending a thrill through me. For a moment, I felt paralyzed by the old fears. In some ways, I'd died on that ocean right along with Gray. Even once he'd returned, I'd still hovered in limbo, unable to feel anything but guilt and fear. But now every nerve felt alive and my body tingled with electricity and anticipation.

Owen remained in place, his face flushed and expectant. It was my turn to take a step forward, to lift up the anchor that had weighed me down for so long, unleash the moorings, and let sail my heart.

I began slowly, taking a few tentative steps toward him and draping my arms over his shoulders, feeling the strange dissonance of friendship crashing into unfamiliar romantic territory. Owen helped me adjust, grabbing my waist and pulling me toward him, then backing me up toward the bed. I didn't think, just acted and reacted, falling backward and feeling an immense sense of trust combined with overwhelming need. Owen was kissing my lips, my cheeks, my hair. I was a puddle of sensation, letting his mouth crash over me like a tide.

I hadn't known it could be like this with Owen, had never allowed myself to imagine it, which made the reality all the sweeter. We didn't actually have sex—neither of us had prepared for this—but it didn't matter. The end result felt the same as we lay in bed next to each other, nearly naked and spent, feeling desire twine through our limbs. We stayed up late talking in bed, and I tried to memorize the intense and intimate way it felt as we talked in hushed whispers and shared our most private hopes and fears.

“So that was . . . unexpected,” he said. I gave a shy smile. “Do you regret it?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don't know. It's just, everything going on with Gray . . .”

“I know it's been complicated,” I said, taking his hand. “And I'm sorry. For so long, I was living in the past or waiting for some future I thought was going to happen. And when that future disappeared, I felt lost. But for the first time, I feel like I could have a different future. I can't quite see what it looks like yet, and that's kind of thrilling. I'm enjoying living in the moment. With you.” I leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, feeling almost euphoric.

“You're incredible,” he said.

“And you're wonderful.”