One Paris Summer (Blink) (22 page)

“Thank you. It will.”

“I hated the stupid thing. You’re lucky it’s not smashed to bits.”

“This is yours?” I was surprised he still had it.

“
Oui
. You may keep it. I noticed you didn’t have one on your piano at your father’s.”

I bit my bottom lip, my heart so full of gratitude it was the only way I knew to contain it. It seemed stupid to be so happy over a metronome—something most piano students hated—but it was more than the object itself. Not only had he been thoughtful enough to realize I needed it, he’d given me the one that belonged to him. Jeez, Mathieu turned me all gushy. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “
De rien.
”

I turned the metronome to a super slow speed, then began to slowly pick through the section I was working on. After a
while, the sound of a boy speaking French behind me caught my attention. I turned around to see a boy who looked a year or so younger than me.

“You must be Etienne,” I said, turning around on the bench. “I’m Sophie.”

He moved closer, studying me like I was an exotic animal plunked down in his apartment. Then he said something in French. Mathieu replied in a short burst of French before he said, “In English.”

Etienne grinned. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh really?” I cast an amused glance at Mathieu, then back to Etienne. “What have you heard?”

Mathieu’s brother seemed to consider his words. “That you are Camille’s new sister.” Then his smile spread. “And that you are pretty.”

I blushed as Mathieu reprimanded him in French.

“Are you staying for lunch?” Etienne asked. “I’m starving.”

“Oh . . .” I had no idea what time it was, but it had to be later than usual since I’d always left before Etienne came home from his swimming practice. “I guess I should be going.”

“You can eat before you go,” Mathieu said.

“Yes,” Etienne said, grinning. “Please stay. Eat.”

“What time is it?”

“After twelve,” Etienne said. He was clearly up to something, but he didn’t seem malicious about it. It was like he knew Mathieu liked me and was playing matchmaker.

“Can you call Camille and tell her I’m staying?” I asked. “My brother might come looking for me.”

Mathieu’s smile fell at the mention of his ex-girlfriend’s name.

No, I couldn’t ask him to do that. Practicing here was one thing, but eating lunch was going too far. I stood and gathered
my music. “On second thought, never mind. I forgot I have something I need to do.”

“What is it?” Etienne asked.

“Just a . . . something.”
Brilliant, Sophie.

“Is it with Thomas?” Etienne asked. “Mathieu is angry with him.”

I shook my head, feeling a little happier about Mathieu’s anger than I should have. “No, it’s not with Thomas, not that Mathieu has a right to care.” I closed the flap on my bag and gave my attention to Etienne. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Maybe you can stay longer and I can ask you questions about
les États Unis
.”

“About what?” I asked in confusion.

“The States,” Mathieu said, glaring at his younger brother.

“Maybe next time. Is Monday okay?” I asked as I opened the front door. “You don’t have to walk me back, Mathieu. I can find the way.”

“I can come—”

I closed the door behind me, torn over my decision. It might be good to put a little distance between us.

It was becoming harder and harder to stay away from him.

JUST AS MATHIEU
had said, Camille went to a club again that night. Dane and Eric went with her while I happily stayed at home. She had reluctantly invited me, but I didn’t feel like watching Dane and Camille make out all night. And would Thomas expect me to dance with him if he came? I had a feeling it wouldn’t be like the dances at my private school in Charleston, which were so lame most people stood around listening to bad music for forty minutes to an hour before leaving early. And if Thomas did want me to dance with him, what would he expect? It was less complicated to just stay home.

Dad and Eva had planned a date night because they’d presumed we would all go out. After Camille and the guys left and they realized I was staying home, they suggested changing their plans and staying home with me.

“Go ahead and go,” I said. “I was planning to stay here and play the piano.”

Dad frowned. “Have you done anything other than practice the piano today? How long were you are at Camille’s friend’s house?”

“Several hours, but it wasn’t—”

“You spend entirely too much time at that piano.”

“What?”

“William,” Eva murmured, looking cross.

Dad ignored her. “I told Eva that it would be a bad idea for you to go over to that boy’s house to practice. I wanted you to enjoy this summer, not sit at a piano the entire time you’re here. You can’t hide behind your keyboard and let life pass you by.”

“I can’t believe you said that! Do you even know me
at all
?”

“I know you better than you think. You’re in Paris, Sophie. You need to go out and see the sights. You can play piano in Charleston.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I didn’t realize I was going to be interrogated for staying at
your
apartment.”

“I think you need to be honest about why you sit for hours behind the piano. You’re afraid to step outside of your comfort zone.”

“Stop,” I said, furious now. “Don’t you dare presume to know anything about me! I’ve changed since you left—
a lot
—and you’re not even trying to understand me.” I grabbed my bag from the piano bench and slung it over my shoulder, then grabbed the key I shared with Eric from on top of my music. “I’m doing what I love. Isn’t that why you abandoned us? To do what you love?” I shook my head in disgust. “I’m going out. You have fun coming up with new ways to insult me.”

I stomped to the door and slammed it behind me, ignoring my father’s protests and Eva’s stunned look.

I had no idea where I was going, only that I wanted out, but it wasn’t a surprise when I found myself headed toward Mathieu’s apartment. I told myself it was out of habit, but I didn’t stop walking. When I reached his building, I stopped outside and wondered what to do next. I considered walking past, but I didn’t want to be alone. So I took a deep breath and pressed the button next to his apartment number. Seconds later, a man’s voice came through the speaker, speaking in garbled French.

“Uh . . . is Mathieu there?”

There was silence for several seconds before I heard a voice I recognized. “Sophie?”

Suddenly tears filled my eyes. I pressed the button, hoping my voice didn’t shake. “Mathieu, I’m sorry to drop by, but I really need to talk to someone.”

“You can come up.”

I hadn’t recognized the first man’s voice, which meant his stepfather was probably home. I wasn’t about to go up to his apartment and embarrass myself any more than I already had. Especially since Eva and Mathieu’s mother were friends. “Can you come down?” What was I doing? I was making an utter fool of myself. I pressed the button. “Never mind. I’ll just see you on Monday.”

“
Non
!” he practically shouted. “Wait there. Don’t leave. Please.”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Okay.”

I stood to the side of his door, my face pressed to the wall because now that the dam to my tears had broken loose, I couldn’t seem to make them stop.

A couple of minutes later, he bolted out the front door of his apartment building. He looked worried, but the worry switched to panic when he saw my tears. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. “Just my heart.” But that seemed to worry him even more, and I shook my head again and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. “My father. We had a fight.”

Understanding filled his eyes, and he gave me a slight nod.

That made me cry even more, because I knew he empathized.

“Uh . . . would you like to come up?”

“Are your parents home?”

“Oui.”

I shook my head several times. “No. This was stupid. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come at all.” I started to walk off, horrified that I’d made such a spectacle of myself, but he grabbed my arm and gently pulled me back.

“Sophie.” His voice was soft and understanding. “Just wait here, okay? I have to tell my mother I’m leaving.” I hesitated, and he grew more insistent. “Please. I don’t have my phone, and she will be worried.”

“You’re not going to tell her I’m down here crying, are you?”

He looked confused. “No . . . ?”

“She’s going to think I’m one of those emotional, drama queen girls. Don’t tell her.”

“I won’t. Come inside the front door.” He took my hand and pulled me into the lobby between the double doors. “Wait for me here, okay?”

I nodded, still sniffling. He bolted through the second door and up the stairs, and to my relief, I had myself reasonably together by the time he came back down, a couple of tissues in his hand. He held them out to me, and I turned my back and blew my nose, then stuffed the tissues into my bag.

“This is becoming a bad habit,” I said with a small grin. “Next time I cry, I promise to be prepared.”

He looked relieved that I’d made a joke. “Where would you like to go?”

My amused look faded. “Do you know that is the first time anyone has asked me that question the entire time I’ve been here?”

A soft smile lit up his eyes. “I’m happy I’m the first. Where do you want to go?”

“The Eiffel Tower. I can see it out my bedroom window, and Eric and I walked over to it the day we got here, but I’ve never been back.”

“Then we shall go to the Eiffel Tower.”

He held the outer door open for me to exit, then fell in step beside me. “You didn’t go out with Camille.”

“No.” I didn’t want to admit to my lame reason for not going. “What about you?”

“I was about to leave.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Mathieu, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you—”

“I was going because I hoped to see you.” Then he slipped his hand in mine, twining our fingers together.

“Oh.” A flutter of anticipation washed through me, stealing my breath.

He looked down at me, then squeezed my hand, his warm and strong against mine. I squeezed back.

“What happened?” he asked.

“My dad just insulted pretty much everything about me.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks I spend too much time at the piano, but he doesn’t even know how much time I practice. He doesn’t know why I chose not to go to the club, but he thinks I should be there. The only reason he cares is that he’ll feel guilty if he goes out.”

“I’m sorry.”

I teared up again. “How could he forget so much about me in only ten months?”

He didn’t answer.

“I used to wonder why he didn’t try to take us with him. He says it was because my mother threatened to fight him, but I wish he’d at least
tried
.”

“My father didn’t fight for me either. I told you they argued, but they were ugly fights. Lots of yelling and throwing things. One day they had a huge fight and my mother kicked him out. I didn’t see him for five years.”

“Oh, Mathieu. I’m sorry.”

He sighed. “He finally came back, and we started having Tuesday night dinners. We still do, and now we’re friends.”

“Friends? Not a father?”

“Non.”

“And you don’t get along with your stepfather?”

“No. He’s good to my mother, but he’ll be glad when I go to university in a year.”

My heart hurt to hear him say that. I hardly knew Eva at all, but I knew she’d never so callously dismiss me. “Where do you want to go to university?”

“London, I think. I want to study international banking.”

“Like Eva. Which is why you need the internship.”

We sidestepped a father who was bending over a stroller, adjusting his baby’s straps. Mathieu’s hand tightened around mine so we didn’t break contact, sending flutters through my stomach.

Get it together, Sophie.
Nothing could come from this. We were friends. Friends who held hands. “Your mother is a piano instructor at a conservatory and your dad is a taxi driver. What does your stepfather do?”

“He’s also an instructor at the
conservatoire
. He teaches violin.”

“Does Etienne play?”

“Not anymore.” He grinned. “They stopped giving me a hard time about quitting piano when he quit the cello. What does your mother do?”

“She’s a nurse at a local hospital.”

“Does she play piano?”

I laughed. “No. Just my grandmother.”

“Is your grandmother excited you want to study piano at university?”

I smiled up at him. “
Oui
.”

“You should audition for my mother’s
conservatoire
.”

“What?”

“It’s a university, but they have a
lycée
program
.
”

“What’s a
lycée
?”

“It’s a three-year school, like your high school. Next year I’ll be in
terminal
, which is similar to your senior year. You would be in the
première
, or your junior year.”