A Nice Fling is Hard to Find (6 page)

Abby, at the other end, glared. I looked at my watch.

We ordered. Pierre had a glass of merlot.

Tommy started talking in a French accent. Penny kept
giggling.

We ate more fries and mussels. Abby continued to glare.
Penny continued to giggle.

Pierre had another glass of wine.

I looked at my watch again.

Pierre, very gently, put his hand on my thigh.

No one else could see, because his hand was under the table.
He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “Lindsay,
comment ça va
?”

“Um,
bien. Merci
.” Had I just thanked him for
touching me thigh? I think so, because he then started to caress said thigh.

“After dinner, you want to promenade on ze beach? I have
merveilleuse
spot to show you.” Still caressing. “It is romantic. Just we
deux
?”

Just the two of us? Tonight? Of all nights? “But I—”

He put his finger to his lips, and then said, “We will meet
at ten. We will practice your French.” He winked and then removed his hand from
my body and returned to conversing with the rest of the table.

When it rains it rains buckets of men.

My heart was pounding hard and I glanced around to see if
anyone had witnessed to conversation…and caught Tommy’s eye. His expression was
. . . well it wasn’t nice. His nose and forehead were wrinkled and his lips
were pursed like he’d just eaten something disgusting. A bad
moule
? He
shook his head and turned away.

What is HIS problem? HE’S hooking up with some random
person. Why shouldn’t I?

After dinner I walked to the beach to regroup. Not only
could I not physically meet both Vlad and Pierre, but I wanted ONE fling. Not
two! Not two on the same night! That was just…dirty.

Now what am I supposed to do? I have plans with two
different flings at 10! But who should I chose? Who do I like better?

Vlad is a sexy Russian. He looks like a supermodel.

Pierre is a sexy Frenchman. He may or may not have already
hooked up with someone else on the trip.

Who is a better fling?

Here’s what I need to do. Visualize kissing both of them,
and see which one I prefer.

I’ll start with Vlad.

Yes, I can see that . . . kind of . . . I mean . . . I’m not
getting excited by the idea or anything. I don’t know anything about him.
Nothing. Just that he’s Russian, smokes clove cigarettes, and likes to travel.

Hmm. Interesting. Pierre? He’s a charmer. Good teacher. Kind
of sweet.

I imagine our lips touching . . . and . . . nothing.

Both of them – it’s like kissing my sleeping bag. What is up
with that? I have to want to kiss someone. Okay, I’m going to close my eyes and
whoever’s lips I see are going to be the lips of my fling.

Oh. No.

I just saw the lips of . . . Tommy?

Friday, July 20, 12:30 A.M.

It’s late. And I’m in my room. Alone. Kicking myself.
Fine, since it’s impossible to physically kick oneself, I am instead kicking my
sagging mattress. SLAM.

I didn’t meet Pierre. And I didn’t meet Vlad. After Tommy’s
lips popped into my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet Tommy is,
and about the look on his face when I ducked during the parade in Paris.

My second big epiphany of the trip was this:

I like Tommy.

Really like him. Did I always like him? Probably not. But
just because I never thought of him that way, doesn’t mean he couldn’t BE that
way. Maybe the idea just needed time to seep in. Like suntan lotion.

So of course I couldn’t hook up with Pierre or Vlad. Not
now, when I know I have real feelings for Tommy.

Which is a bit of a problem. Considering that Tommy barely
talks to me anymore. And the look he gave me tonight—it was pretty much open
disgust. He hates me. And on top of that, he’s obviously into Penny. And on top
of that, he’s still Becca’s twin brother! So even if he forgives me and stops
liking Penny, I still can’t go for him. See how messed up my life is?

I hate France. I hate everything French. I hate French
songs, I hate French Fries. And most especially I hate French kissing. Not that
it matters because in all likelihood I will never do it again.

Oh, crap, now I’m crying and I hear a key in the door—

1:10 A.M.

I’m sitting in the hotel lobby, on the ratty purple
couch.

Why?

Becca and Harold caught me crying my eyes out. “What’s wrong?”
Becca asked, running over to me.

“E-e-everything,” I blubbered.

“Harold, I’m sorry, I have to talk to Lindsay,” she said to
him. “We’ll hang out tomorrow.”

“But we only have two more nights together!” he cried.

“But she’s my best friend,” she said, giving him a quick
kiss on the lips. “Tomorrow.” Then she climbed up to my bunk bed. “What
happened?”

By this time I was practically hyperventilating. How could I
tell her?

“You have to tell me,” she said.

“I can’t!” I wailed. What was I supposed to say?
I think
I have the hots for your brother?
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

She placed both her hands on my shoulders. “Is it about
Tommy?”

KABAM! “How did you know?” I gasped, eyeing her warily.

“How did I know that Tommy was in love with you? Are you
kidding me? I’ve known since third grade.”

DOUBLE KABAM! “What?”

Then she laughed. “He’s always had a thing for you. Why did
you think he insisted on coming on this trip?”

Whaaaaaaaat? “Why did you never tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to weird you out,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“I knew you didn’t like him that way and I didn’t want you to feel
uncomfortable.” Becca rolled her eyes. “But then he had to try and kiss you on
Bastille Day—”

At this point I nearly fell off the bed. “You
knew
about that?”

She nodded. “Never mind knew—I
saw
. I would have
beaten him up, but he did a solid job of beating himself up. He felt awful. He
hadn’t been planning it or anything, but then he thought that maybe you felt
the same way…”

“But I—”

“I know you didn’t. He’s my brother and I love him to death,
but you’re my best friend and I love you too. I want both of you to be happy. I
hated that you two were suddenly all awkward around each other. That’s why I
lied and told you he was hooking up with Penny with a Y. So you wouldn’t feel weird.
I know how you get about these things. ”

I did a double take. “Wait a sec. Are you telling me that he
isn’t
hooking up with her?”

“No. Never. For some reason he thinks she’s sweet, but he’s
not interested in her. He only has eyes for you.”

“But she was out all night! Who was she with?”

“Who knows. Vlad? Or Pierre possibly. Harold said he’s a
major player. He hooks up with all the girls on his teen tours. The rumor is
that he’s already made out with Abby, Max and even Kristin.”

Vile.

“But anyway,” she continued, “don’t worry about my brother.
His feelings are obviously upsetting you, so I’ll talk to him again. I saw that
he was giving you his googly eyes again at you at dinner, and he’ll have to
stop that. I don’t want you creeped out. We’ll work around this. I don’t want
you to get all freaked out on me. When we get back to the city, everything will
go back to normal, we can all try and forget any of this ever happened and
then—”

“But I don’t want to forget,” I blurted out.

She paused. “You don’t?’

“I think I’m in love with your brother,” I whispered.

Now it was Becca’s turn to almost fall off the bed. Except,
she did fall off the bed. She did a weird summersaulty backward thing and
landed on her butt on top of my open backpack. “Ow.”

“Jeez, are you okay?” If that had been me, I would have
needed another trip to the hospital.

“Yes. I think.” She lifted one of my many t-shirts up from
under her. “Your clothes broke my fall.”

And that’s when my guava rolled out of the sleeve and across
the floor.

“You found it! You’re my hero!” I squealed.

She picked it up and tossed it into my hand. “Can we get
back you loving my brother, please?”

“Right. Is that bad?”

She broke out into the biggest smile I have ever seen.
Pretty impressive for someone who just fell off a bed. Then she shrieked:
“We’re going to be sisters-in-law!”

I started taking faster breaths. Bigger breaths. Trying to.
Couldn’t breathe. Needed air. “But. What. If. It.” I wheezed. “Doesn’t . . .
work out?”

She put her arm around me. “Linds, take a deep breath,
okay?”

I tried. From our window we could hear people laughing
outside.

“If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out. You break
up. You can’t live your life afraid of things breaking down.”

“But…that’s what I do.” That’s what I’ve always done, I realized.
I’ve lived my entire life in fear of breaking my legs. My toes. My heart.

But for good reason. “But I did break my toes,” I mumbled to
myself.

She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I mean, what if it doesn’t work out? What if we break up?
What if I break his heart or he breaks mine and then I can’t be your maid of
honor anymore?”

She nodded, and carefully considered my point. I love that
she knew exactly what I meant. “We’ll have to consciously try to keep our
relationship separate from your relationship. It’s complicated. But doable.
There’s a difference between being careful and being afraid.”

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t you come on this vacation to learn to take risks?”

I nodded.

“So what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Go tell him.”

Becca said he was still out with the rest of the group. I
didn’t want to leave the premises hunting for him in case I somehow missed him,
so instead I parked myself on the tattered couch in the lobby. My heart was
thumping like rain against a window.  I guava-fied to calm myself down. Maybe
my guava had stayed hidden until I had found the person worthy of being kissed.

Oh God! I see them. Hear them. Penny’s giggles. Max and
Kristin’s flashes. I can see him through the glass door. I feel sick. Afraid.
Should I run? Hide? Can I do this?

Saturday, July 21,
No-Clue-What-Time-It-Is-Since-We’re-Crossing-Time-Zones-Again P.M.

I’ve already had three glasses of airplane apple juice
and I desperately have to pee. But I don’t want to move.

Tommy’s sleeping with his head on my knee. The plane is relatively
empty, so we have a row to ourselves. Becca and Harold are in the seats in
front of us. They’ve already made plans to meet up over Labor Day weekend.
They’re going to try long distance.

I hope they make it.

Sorry I haven’t written . . . but I’ve been, well, too busy
to write.

When Tommy finally walked into the lobby, I thought my heart
would explode.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Waiting . . . for you.” I mumbled. “Can we talk outside?”

He looked confused, obviously, since we had barely spoken since
Bastille Day. But he shrugged, said good night to (a disappointed-looking)
Penny and motioned me to the door.

We walked down the beach and over to the water without
talking.

We both sat down on the rocks, our feet out in front of us.
The stars were out in full and their light was reflected in the water and
against the darkness of the rocks.

“I . . . I . . .” I was terrified. Frozen. I had no idea
what I was supposed to say.

He reached over and tapped my broken toe. “How is it?”

“It hurts,” I said. “But I’ll live.” And that’s when I
thought about what he had asked me about on Bastille Day. About why I was so
obsessed with having a fling. “You were right,” I said, staring ahead at the
lapping water. “I was afraid.” I feel his eyes on me and turn toward him. “I
wanted to have a fling to prove to myself that I could take risks. Which is
dumb. Since it’s relationships that scare the scrap out of me.”

“I know,” he said softly.

I looked at his strong chin, and his big eyes, and his tasty
lips. His broad shoulders . . . carrying a backpack around certainly agreed
him. Hey. Who knew? American boys could be pretty hot, too. I inched closer to
him. “I’m kind of a scaredy cat if you want to know the truth.”

His turn to inch closer to me. “Are you afraid now?”

My palms were sweaty and my heart was going haywire but felt
pretty confident it wasn’t from fear. “No,” I said. “Are you?”

He grinned. “Well, the last time I tried to kiss you, I
ended up on the pavement. And these rocks don’t exactly look like softer.”

I laughed. And then I thought, what the hell. And I went for
it. I closed the space between us in under a second and kissed him. Brave, huh?

And the kiss was perfect. It started gently. His lips were
soft and smooth. It was weird for the first few seconds—I kept thinking, omigod
I’m kissing Tommy!—but then I stopped thinking entirely and we were
kissing
and
his hands were on the back of my neck and mine were in his hair and on his back
and under his shirt and . . . well, it was good.

Until he suddenly pulled away.

I panicked. He had changed his mind. He didn’t really like
me! I wasn’t a good kisser. I had bit his tongue. “What’s wrong?” I forced
myself to say.

“A rock has buried itself into my elbow.” With a grin, he
plucked a pebble from his arm.

I laughed. With relief. “You scared me. I thought . . .”

“Thought what? That I was going to change my mind about
you?”

I shrugged, feeling small and scared. “Maybe.”

“I’ve liked you for ten years, Lindster. Do you really think
you’re getting rid of me that easily?” He peeled himself off the beach and
helped me up. “Are you okay to walk?”

I took his hand. “Definitely. I know a great lookout where
we can watch the sunrise.

We walked and kissed and talked. About relationships. About
my mom. About his parents’ divorce. About being afraid. About being brave.
About how happy Becca was going to be. About French cheese.