Sleeping With Paris (4 page)

So, with a plane ticket, an acceptance letter, $15,000, and a broken heart, I was still on my way to Paris.

I pulled up the blog again and stared at it for a few minutes. I thought about the cheating epidemic and how horrible it was that I had to go through this. That any woman ever had to feel this low, this unloved. Why should we all keep making the same mistakes? There had to be a better way.

 Instead of hitting the “delete” button, I hit the “edit” button. I trashed the picture of me and Jeff and hoped I’d never have to look at it again. Then I deleted the cheesy title and typed:

Rule # 1: Men are bastards.

Rule # 2: Do not fall in love with one of these bastards. Ever again.

Rule # 3: Date like a man—use men for sex when necessary but do not get attached.

I read over my entry, felt deeply satisfied and hit the “publish” button
.
I sent a mass email to all of my girlfriends with a link to my blog telling them I would write more once I got to Paris. I also included a side note about how Jeff was sleeping with some whore and that I was moving to Paris alone.

After leaving a voicemail for my parents to inform them that Jeff was a cheating son of a bitch, the wedding was off, and I was leaving the next day for Paris, I spent the next hour man-bashing with my friends over the phone while frantically searching online for apartments or sublets in Paris. Anything to get me out of DC and away from this hellish situation.

One of my friends who had studied abroad in Paris told me to contact the
Fondation des États-Unis
, a large dorm for American students located in the 14
^th
arrondissement, at the southern border of the city. Apparently, it was dirt cheap compared to everything else in Paris, and it was situated on a campus called the
Cité Universitaire
, which housed tons of international students. I wasn’t having any luck finding an affordable apartment online, so I pulled up the website to the Fondation and called the office.

To my surprise, a cheery woman answered the phone and told me that yes, in fact, they did have rooms available. She emailed me the application, I faxed it back, and within an hour I had secured a room at the Fondation des États-Unis. I wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of dorm life at this point, but I’d take it. After all, beggars can’t be choosers. Plus, it would provide a great opportunity to meet guys and get the research flowing for my blog.

I managed to finish packing up all of my things and say my goodbyes to friends without too much worry. There was one last thing that was eating at me though—I wasn't sure what to do about the ring. Seriously, what do you do when something like this happens? Of course, I’d already transferred $10,000 of Jeff’s money into my account, but for some reason the ring was different. It was more personal. And I had no idea how much he’d spent on it. I knew it wasn’t cheap though, not by a long shot.

I felt like he owed it to me to let me keep it after what he had done. But at the same time, did I really want to keep a ring that would only remind me of the life we didn't have together? I decided that I at least needed to talk to him about this one thing, and, more importantly, I needed to find out if he was still going to Paris.

Before picking up the phone, I took several deep breaths to force myself to stay calm. I wanted to be cold, heartless and cruel. I wanted to make him feel as worthless and unloved as he had made me feel. I would not break down on the phone with him.

I would not.

So, with my little speech ready to go, I dialed Jeff’s number and felt the queasiness pile up inside of me like a toxic poison.  

“Charlotte?” he answered, breathless.

“Hi, Jeff. I'm calling because I want you to know that I've decided to go to Paris alone, and I'm leaving tomorrow. I don't want to hear your excuses or your apologies; I just want to know if you want the ring back.”

Nothing but silence on the other end. Surely he had thought of this.

“I don’t know, Charlotte. I've been so upset.”

Oh poor baby. Really, cry me a river.

“Whatever. Do you want it back?” I demanded, determined to keep my ruthless tone even though my insides were crumbling.

“No, keep the ring, it's yours. I would never take it back.” His voice quivered. “I really need you to know that I still love you, Charlotte.”

“What does Brooke think about that?”

Ouch. He could definitely feel the sting of my bite through the phone. 

“I know you’re angry with me, but I wasn’t going to talk to her anymore once we moved to Paris.  Nothing was going on with Brooke, really, she was just a . . . a friend.” Jeff stammered his way through his pathetic excuse and actually sounded like he might cry. “I want to be with
you
Charlotte . . . I can’t imagine being with anyone else.”

That’s it.

“Stop it, Jeff. Just stop! Do you think I actually believe you? That you were going to stop cheating on me just because we moved? I’m not that stupid, Jeff. And don’t even try to make
me
feel bad for
you
. You’re such an asshole. I can't believe you.”

Silence.

My hands trembled so fiercely I could barely hold the phone to my ear. “I just need to know one more thing and then you can go live your life with some other dumb girl who’ll fall for your crap. Are you still moving to Paris?” I held my breath, waiting for his reply.

Jeff took what seemed like a year to answer me.

“No, I’m not going.”

All of the pain from the previous day flooded right back to me. Amidst all of my man-bashing, part of me had actually hoped that he would say he was still going to Paris, that somehow we'd still be going together, and that this was all just a nasty dream. But it wasn't. It was real. Jeff wasn’t going to Paris with me. He wasn’t going to Paris at all. 

“I have to go,” I mumbled, having lost my desire to destroy him over the phone.

“Charlotte, I'm sorry. Please—”

“Jeff, I have to go.”

And that was it. I hung up the phone. I couldn't bear to hear another word out of his mouth. 

It was over. My engagement to Jeff was over. 

Four

lundi, le 27 septembre

Don’t judge a French man by his tight jeans.

“
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
,” the Parisian cabdriver said as he heaved the weight of my life into the trunk of the cab. Even he was struggling with it.

“
Bonjour, Monsieur
,” I responded with a tired smile.
“
15 boulevard Jourdan, au quatorzième, s’il vous plaît
.”

I asked him to take me to my new address in the 14th arrondissement, where I would begin my new life. I rolled down the window and rode along in silence, taking in the early-morning hustle bustle of the city.

Miniature cars buzzed in and out of the skinny, winding roads, their drivers not paying any attention to road signs or stop lights. Rows of black balconies with splashes of pink and white flowers lined the endless view of gray apartment buildings. Slim Parisians donned long sleeves and dark pants, despite the humidity that weighed down on the city like a ton of bricks. Puffs of cigarette smoke billowed from their mouths as they strolled toward the metro, not seeming to be in any kind of hurry. As we passed by a
boulangerie
, the scent of warm, buttery croissants drifted into the cab, but even so, I didn’t feel an ounce of hunger.

It had been almost five years since I’d last visited Paris, and as I sat alone in the sweaty, leather seat of the cab, listening to the bizarre sound of French sirens race past, my stomach churned. I didn’t feel good about being here. It felt forced and wrong. In my rush to get away from Jeff and the hurt he had caused me, I hadn’t dealt with any of it. And now here I was—alone in France, with no friends, no fiancé to go home to, and the thought that Jeff probably had someone to go home to tonight. Brooke. How depressing.

After an hour of nauseating stop-and-go traffic, we pulled up in front of a massive brick building on boulevard Jourdan. Happy to rid my lungs of the stale taxicab air, I handed over the equivalent of my life’s savings in cab fare, lugged my bags up to the information desk and collected the key to room number 360. God, I hoped it was nice.

As I let myself into my new abode, I dropped my suitcases onto the dirty tile floor and scanned the room. It was tiny. So tiny that it wasn’t even half the size of my studio apartment in DC, and the “bed” was actually a flat little cot with a thin plastic mattress. A grungy sink stuck out of the pale blue wall and a rusty mirror stared back at me, making me realize I didn’t have my own bathroom. Ugh. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to fit all of my stuff into this space
and
try to get a good night’s sleep on that cot while sharing a communal bathroom with complete strangers. The pictures of the building on the Internet had given the illusion that the rooms would be nicer than this. Or I’d been in such a rush to get away from Jeff, that in my delirious state, I’d agreed to the first place I could find. Not the best planning I’d ever done.

My room did have one thing going for it—a giant window framed by a set of deep red curtains. I stuck my head through the wispy drapes and spotted a few other international dorms and a sprawling lawn filled with students playing soccer, or “
le foot
” as the French called it. It was charming, but it didn’t matter at that moment—I was exhausted and alone.

And despite everything, I missed Jeff. Maybe I had acted rashly, never giving him a chance to explain, never even considering working things out. I lay down on my rock hard cot-bed thing and wallowed in self-pity for a while. I felt horrible. Why did this have to happen to me? I was supposed to be with my fiancé, lying in a cushy, king-sized bed in a
beautiful apartment overlooking the Seine. Not miserable and alone in this dingy little room on this piece-of-crap bed.

My desperation was reaching new heights. I needed to talk to someone, so I reached for the phone and dialed home.

“Hello?” my mom answered anxiously, clearly hoping to hear my voice on the other line.

“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her wearily.

“Charlotte!” she said in her panicky mom voice. “Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?”

“Don’t worry Mom, I’m in Paris. I made it here just fine.”

“Where are you living? You’re there all alone?”

I explained my change of plans to her so she would stop flipping out.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re okay. Your father and I have been worried sick since we got your message a few days ago. You are okay, aren’t you dear?”

“Mom, I’m fine,” I lied. Hearing the concern in her voice made me miss her immensely.

“Charlotte, are you crying?”

Only one stray tear had made its way down my cheek, but moms always know.

“Mom, I don’t know what I’m doing here . . . I have no one. I’m totally alone.”

“Oh honey, you’re going to be okay. You’re not alone. I love you.”

“Jeff’s such a bastard.”

“Yes he is, dear.” My poor mom tried to comfort me, but I was past the point of help. I needed to go back to bed. After I hung up the phone, I passed out on my rock hard mattress. I didn’t even care that it felt like a rock. I just needed to sleep.

***

I woke abruptly to the sound of high-pitched sirens racing down the street. I shot up in my bed, not realizing where I was for a second. As the blaring noise made its way past my building, I remembered. I was in Paris. Alone.

I checked my watch—it was eight p.m. Paris time. I had slept for twelve hours. So much for adjusting to the time zone and going to sleep later that night. I peeled myself off of the hot, sticky, plastic bed, hung up some of my clothes, and decided to go exploring. I refused to sit alone in a puddle of my own tears on my first night in Paris.

After dragging my weary body down the hall, I found the world’s smallest and nastiest set of showers. Fabulous. Not having a choice in the matter though, I battled with the ice cold water until, with no warning, the high-powered stream became boiling hot. Once I’d had enough, I wrapped myself as tightly as I could in my skimpy bath towel. As I emerged from the steamy shower cell, I bumped smack into another wet, towel-wrapped body.

I took a step back to have a look at the man who I’d just lunged my half-naked body at and found a tall, lean, muscular guy with light brown hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow. He was gazing down at me with a devious grin.  

“
Oh,
pardon
,” he said as he checked to make sure his towel was still wrapped around his waist.

I was at such a loss for words that, like an idiot, I let out a burst of high-pitched laughter, bolted out of the bathroom and booked it as fast as I could down the hallway.

Back in my room, I blew dry my long hair, dabbed on a touch of make-up, and threw on my favorite pair of jeans and a silky black tank, all the while replaying my intimate encounter with the hot, half-naked French guy over and over in my head. I wished I had said something even remotely intelligent instead of letting out that horrible laugh and running out of there as if he had cooties or something. On the bright side, if all the guys around here looked like him, this communal shower thing might not turn out to be so bad after all.