The Oracle Rebounds (6 page)

Yours in solidarity,

The Oracle of Dating

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

“Kayla.”

“Jared?” It’s surreal to hear his voice.

“I need to know what’s going on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The party. Your blog. What happened to you?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“Not nothing. Tom said you were with some guy at the party last night. Said you went upstairs. Said you were drunk. Now you’re writing about predators trying to have sex with you!”

“Who says the blog’s about me?”

“C’mon, Kayla. You always write about what you know. It either happened to you or one of your friends.”

“Well, okay, it is about me, but the guy backed off.”

“But he tried to take advantage of you, did he? What’s this guy’s name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want to kill him.”

I’m shocked. I’ve never heard Jared talk that way before. “He didn’t rape me, Jared. Thanks for caring, I guess. It’s weird though. You’re calling to find out if I got raped, but you never even called to see how I was doing after we broke up.”

There’s a long pause. “I hate that I hurt you.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I—I have to go.” He wants me to tell him that it’s okay, but I can’t. It would be too big a lie.

Later that night, I reach for one of the books my mom bought me.

It’s a small yellow hardcover called
The Prophet,
by Khalil Gibran. It’s a story told in poetic language about a prophet who comes to a village to share his wisdom.

Does it make sense that a book can be a comfort? That these words written almost a hundred years ago could be a balm to my soul? I don’t know if it makes sense, but it’s true. The book is short, and I meditate on every passage before moving on to the next one.

Life. Love. Death. Acceptance. As I’m reading, a new serenity comes. I realize that I did the best I could in my relationship with Jared. I loved him, and I showed him the truest part of myself. There is no use focusing on the things I might have done wrong. I’m human and bound to make mistakes. We didn’t break up because of something I did, or something I wasn’t.

Jared and I were together for almost six months. How much worse would it have been if we’d been together for two years, or five? What if we’d married and had kids?

Gradually I’m gaining perspective. This isn’t the end of the world.

One thing is sure—having my heart broken gives me insight into breakups that I didn’t have before. Maybe it’ll make me a more compassionate person.

Maybe it’ll help me do a better job as the Oracle of Dating.

15 Days into Rebound Equation

“So…”

“So, what?”

“How’d it go with Sandeep today?” I give Viv a friendly nudge.

Everyone turns to stare at her.
Glamour Girl
starts in ten minutes—just enough time for a recap of Viv’s afternoon coffee date with Sandeep, the cute Indian guy from the party.

“He’s amazing.” Viv’s big brown eyes take on a dreamy expression. “We’re on the same wavelength about so many things.”

“Like what?”

“We’re both serious about school. He’s got a sense of family loyalty that I really respect. And we’ve got the same quirky sense of humor. But it’s complicated.”

“He
is
Indian, right?” Ryan asks. “Then why’s it complicated?”

She twists her hands in her lap. “He has a girlfriend.”

We all gape at her.

She rushes on, “But he’s not happy with her. She’s really needy. She hardly has any friends—her life totally revolves around him. So he feels responsible for her.”

“Is he going to break up with her?” I ask.

“He wants to, but it’s…”

“Let me guess—complicated?” Ryan offers.

“It is. Her sister’s wedding is coming up in a month and he doesn’t feel he should dump her before then.”

We all look at each other, deciding what to think of this.

“It could be a valid reason,” Sharese says. “You don’t want to shake somebody up before a big family event.”

“I think a month is plenty of time for someone to recover from the shock of being dumped.” Ryan glances my way. “What do you think?”

Great, I’m the resident dumpee. “Depends on the girl. A month would be fine for me.”

“I hate to say it, honey, but the guy’s playing you.” Amy looks up from the nail she’s filing. “Guys don’t do anything they don’t want to do. If he’s staying with her, it’s because it’s working for him.”

Viv is exasperated. “What about compassion? It’s like with my uncle. He’s stayed with my aunt forever even though she has bad mood swings and treats him horribly. He’s worried that she might hurt herself if he leaves.”

Amy shrugs. “Your uncle’s a saint then. Give him a medal. Sandeep is a teenage guy. They don’t operate that way.”

“What are you saying? That we guys just think with our crotches?” Ryan asks, getting all huffy and puffy.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“You’re bang on, baby.” He laughs, and the rest of us laugh—except Viv.

“Sandeep’s not like that! I know it sounds bad, but if you
talked to him, you’d see what type of guy he is. It’s just that his girlfriend is really fragile and dependent so he has to be careful.”

“I hate to say it, but there are some red flags here.” She knows what I’m saying isn’t just a random observation; it’s coming from the Oracle of Dating. “Guys who cheat always say they’re in unhappy relationships and plan to break up with the girl. They often paint her as pathetic, someone they’re staying with out of pity.”

“Good point,” Sharese says. “And here’s another thing I just thought of. Won’t he end up in the wedding pictures? He’s not doing her any favors if she’s going to see him in the pictures forever.”

“He probably hasn’t thought of that.” Viv lifts the remote control. “Show’s coming on.” She turns up the volume, cutting off the discussion.

Ouch. I can see she’s disappointed by our reaction to Sandeep, and maybe even angry that we’re not giving him the benefit of the doubt. But I have to question a guy who’s going to flirt with a girl at a party and go for coffee with her the next day while he still has a girlfriend. If he’s in a messy situation, he should wait until he gets out of it before dragging some body else in. My instincts say Viv shouldn’t trust this guy.

For her sake, I hope I’m wrong.

Now this won’t be so bad at all.

He is on the doorstep, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a carry-on over the other. He hasn’t had the chance to ring the doorbell yet, but I saw the taxi pull up.

“Hi, Benoit. I’m Kayla.”

“Allo.”

Boy, is he ever tall! He must be six-three at least. He has a thick mop of brown hair and classic, aristocratic features like you see in old movies. His eyes are gray and heavy-lidded. I’ve read about gray eyes in romance novels but I’ve never seen them before.

I wish I’d primped for this! How could it not have occurred to me that this guy would be cute? I am way too casual in a loose tee and jeans. My hair is kind of scraggly and I’m not wearing any makeup.

Just as I reach out to shake his hand, he leans forward to kiss my cheek. We laugh awkwardly. “Sorry, I am not used to greeting this way,” he says, shaking my hand. “In France, we kiss both cheeks.”

“Oh, right, I’ve seen people do that.” I can’t believe I just blew my chance to be kissed on both cheeks by a sexy French guy!

I lead him upstairs to Tracey’s old bedroom, which is freshly dusted and vacuumed. Too bad the same daffodil wallpaper has been up for more than a decade.

He looks around, and sits down on the bed.

“My parents will be home for dinner in about an hour, in case you were wondering.”

He smiles. “I was not wondering.”

“Do you want a snack in the meantime? Or maybe a nap or something?”

“I will—” he gestures with his hands “—my stuff.”

“Unpack?”

“Yes. I will unpack then I will join you.”

I open some dresser drawers to show him they’re empty. “I’ll make some tea. Do you like tea?”

“I prefer wine.” He winks. “But tea will do, Kayla.”

Oh, my God, he’s flirting with me! Yay!

I hurry downstairs and put the kettle on. Then I go to the fridge, take out the double-cream brie specially bought for the occasion, then cut some triangles and put them on a plate with water crackers.

Benoit comes down twenty minutes later, having changed his shirt, combed his hair and put on cologne. I want to pinch myself that such a cute guy has landed in my kitchen. Or is this too good to be true—an April Fool’s joke one day early?

He sees the spread on the table. “Ah, you didn’t have to.”

“French people like cheese, right?”

“Certainly, we do. We like crisps and junk food, too.”

“Crisps?”

“Yes. My English teacher was British. Crisps, you call them chips.” He sits down while I pour the tea.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Only milk, thank you.”

I sit down across from him. “So are you excited to be in New York?”

“Yes, especially in Brooklyn.” I love the way he says
Brookleen
. His accent is totally a dorable, especially how he pronounces
th
like
z.
“It is a strange and scary place in movies, with guns and gangs and such things. But from the taxi it looks like…a normal place.”

“You haven’t seen all of it yet, trust me.”

“You will show me, I hope.”

“I’ll show you whatever you want, although I know the exchange organizers have a lot of things planned for you.” Mom had to reassure me that Benoit wouldn’t be my problem 24/7, but now being his tour guide doesn’t seem so unappealing.

“Pff! I do not have to go everywhere with them. I did not come here to be with French peoples.”

I grin. “You’re a rebel, are you? Won’t your parents get mad if they find out that you strayed from the group?”

“Americans have parents like police or something? In France, I have my own car. I drink when I feel like it. Go to clubs. I do whatever I want.”

“Don’t tell my mom and stepdad that. They’ll be afraid you’ll corrupt me.”

“Corrupt you? I am in America—you are supposed to corrupt me.” He smiles, sipping his tea. “Where are you taking me tonight?”

“Tonight? Aren’t you supposed to be tired?”

“I will take a coffee after dinner, then I will be fine. I have—what you call it? Adrenaline. I would never sleep.”

“Okay, then after dinner we’ll go somewhere.” My mind whirls. Hmm, what could I show him that doesn’t require advance tickets or planning? There’s always Times Square. Out of the blue I picture Jared and me walking there on our second date, and I’m not so keen anymore. “How about we go to a funky café in the Village and take a look at some of the shops? Have you heard of the Village?”

“Yes. East or West or Green-witch?”

“You’ve been reading up on New York, have you?”

“I have the Frommer’s guide.”

I hear a car door slam. “That’s probably my stepdad. Mom promised she’d be home by five-thirty. So we’ll have dinner and be out of here by seven. How does that sound?”

He grins. “You are the boss.”

Dinner is Mom’s meat lasagna, pre-prepared yesterday, crusty baguette and asparagus. For a Wednesday night, it’s a real feast and Benoit looks like he’s enjoying it. He chats with Mom and Erland, and they seem to like him, though they ask
him way too many questions. Apparently he’s taken English classes since the first grade. He says that American and British movies are big in France and watching them in English is a matter of principle for young people. Subtitles and dubbing are for the older generation.

When I announce that I’m taking him out after dinner, Mom frowns. “Benoit is probably very tired. Maybe tomorrow you can show him around.”

“I slept the whole flight,” Benoit says. “I would be happy if Kayla could show me some of your city. There is much to see.”

“If you’re sure. Try not to be too late.” Looks like Mom is falling under Benoit’s spell.

After dinner, Benoit goes up to get ready. Mom gives me a nudge. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

I know better than to walk into that trap. If I admit that he’s cute, she’ll tease me constantly. “He’s okay, if you like the French look.”

Then I go upstairs, change my outfit, brush my hair, my teeth, roll on extra deodorant, put on makeup and grab my purse all in ten minutes flat. I find Benoit waiting at the bottom of the stairs. We’re out of the house before Mom and Erland have a chance to see that I made an effort to look good.

We chat the whole way to the subway station, and I walk him through the steps of buying a metro card at the machine. While we’re waiting on the underground platform, we look at the big subway map. I show him where we are and where we’re going.

“It looks as big as Paris,” he says.

“Have you spent much time there—in Paris, I mean?”

“Not much. I come from Aix-en-Provence in the south.
It takes five hours to drive to Paris. I don’t like it there. The people are snobs.”

I’ve heard that applies to the French in general, but I don’t say so. Obviously it isn’t true. Benoit is the only French person I’ve ever met and he’s friendly. Statistically, that’s a good sign.

We ride the train to West Fourth Street. I thought the Village would be a good place to take him, since it’s a snap shot of funky New York style. When we emerge from the station, the streets are busy with people shopping, strolling and socializing. It’s one of those unseasonably warm April evenings that makes you want to be anywhere but indoors.

“A lot of students live in this neighborhood, since NYU is just a few blocks away. I don’t know how they can afford it. It’s become super expensive around here. See that big shiny building? Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen used to live there.”

“I see it, but who are they?”

I grin up at him. “That’s refreshing!”

He looks puzzled. “What?”

“Here in America, we have an obsession with celebrities. Have you heard of Brangelina or TomKat?”

“No, I have not. But I saw Johnny Depp in Toulouse.”

“Wow!”

We stroll around the Village browsing shops. Benoit is especially interested in a shop called Earth’s Treasure, which has imports from Thailand and India. We admire a bunch of stuff: wooden chests, sculptures, notebooks with homemade paper and smocks like the Dalai Lama would wear.

Benoit stops and inhales deeply. “I love the smell of incense, don’t you?”

“Uh, sure, yeah.” I don’t mention that incense reminds me of the bathroom. Mom says it’s better than air freshener.

I take him into a store called Frew Frew. He looks around with one eyebrow raised. He glances at a price tag for some frumpy old jeans. “One hundred and fifty dollars for this?”

“You’re paying for the designer label. Funny, isn’t it? If I were to see somebody in those jeans, I’d have thought they got them at the Salvation Army.”

Maybe I spoke a little too loudly, because a pierced and tattooed salesgirl in fishnets looks me up and down as if to say I’m no hotshot myself.

Later we stop at a café. It’s crowded with people straining to read books or work on laptops despite the low lighting. I order a decaf soy latte. Benoit gets a café Americano.

It’s incredible how I barely know this guy yet we get along so well. Benoit is full of questions, and I’m not talking about “what do you do for fun?” He asks questions about how Americans view the president, the economy, the environment and all that. He sounds more like a sociologist than a high school student. He’s smart and sexy rolled up into one gorgeous European package.

At one point the conversation lapses, and I can’t for the life of me think of what to say next. I think we’ve talked about everything humanly possible.

“Un ange passe,”
he says.

“What does that mean?”

“In France, when the conversation goes quiet, we say an angel passes.”

“That’s beautiful.”

He looks at me. “That is not the only thing that is beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I can feel myself blushing. “You’re pretty good with words.”

“What can I say? Words, they are part of
séduction,
are they not?”

“Did you say seduction?”

“Mais, oui.”

Oh, my God! Benoit is not a virgin for sure. Sensuality drips from everything he does—even the way he holds his coffee cup! Is he going to sneak into my room tonight and introduce me to the erotic arts?

His eyes glitter with amusement. “You think I mean sex, don’t you?”

“Uh…”

“In France,
la séduction
means many things. Mainly, it is to bring someone closer to you. To charm them.”

“And you want to charm me?”

“I don’t know if it is even possible to charm a…Brookleen girl. But I will try.”