Die for Me

Page 4

“Come over here. Just look at the colors.”
Long pause. “What colors?”
“Exactly. It’s just as I told you. He goes from the bright, bold palette of something like Les Demoiselles d’Avignon to this gray and brown monotone jigsaw puzzle in a mere four years. What a show-off! Pablo always had to be the best at everything he put his hand to, and as I was saying to Gaspard the other day, what really ticks me off is . . .”
I turned, curious to see the origin of this fountain of knowledge, and froze. Standing just fifteen feet away from me was Vincent’s curly-haired friend.
Now that I saw him straight on, I was struck by how attractive he was. There was something rugged about him—unkempt, scruffy hair, bristly razor stubble, and large rough hands that gesticulated passionately toward the painting. By the condition of his clothes, which were smudged with paint, I guessed he might be an artist.
That came to me in a split second. Because after that, all I could see was the person standing with him. The raven-haired boy. The boy who had taken up permanent residence in the dark corners of my mind since the first moment I saw him. Vincent.
Why do you have to fall for the most improbable, inaccessible boy in Paris? He was too beautiful—and too aloof—to ever really notice me. I tore my gaze away, leaned forward, and rested my forehead in my hands. It didn’t do any good. Vincent’s image was burned indelibly into my mind.
I realized that whatever it was about him that made him seem a bit cold, almost dangerous, actually heightened my interest instead of scaring me off. What was wrong with me? I had never gone for bad boys before—that was Georgia’s specialty! My stomach tightened as I wondered if I had the courage to go up and talk to him.
But I didn’t have the chance to put myself to the test. When I raised my head, they were gone. I walked quickly to the entrance of the next room and peered in. It was empty. And then I just about jumped out of my skin as a low voice from behind me said, “Hi, Kate.”
Vincent loomed over me, his face a good six inches above mine. My hand flew to my chest in alarm. “Thanks for the heart attack!” I gasped.
“So is this a habit of yours, leaving your bag behind in order to strike up a conversation?” He grinned and nodded at the bench where I had been sitting. Lying beneath it was my book bag. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just walk up to a guy and say hello?”
The slight trace of mockery in his voice evaporated my nervousness. It was replaced by a fiery indignation that surprised us both. “Fine! Hello,” I growled, my throat tight with fury. Marching over to the bench, I picked up my bag and stalked out of the room.
“Wait!” he called, jogging over to me and matching my pace. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant . . .”
I came to a stop and stared at him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he said, exhaling deeply. “I’ve never been known for my sparkling conversation.”
“Then why even make the effort?” I challenged.
“Because. You’re—I don’t know—amusing.”
“Amusing?” I pronounced each syllable slowly and shot him my You’re a complete weirdo look. My clenched fists rose automatically to rest on my hips. “So, Vincent, did you come over with the express purpose of offending me, or is there something else you want?”
Vincent put his palm to his forehead. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Can we . . . can we just start over from scratch?”
“Start what over from scratch?” I asked doubtfully.
He hesitated for a second and then held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Vincent.”
I felt my eyes narrow as I weighed his sincerity. I gripped his hand in mine, shaking it a bit rougher than I meant to. “I’m Kate.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Vincent said, bemused. There was a four-second silence, during which I continued to glare at him. “So. Do you come here often?” he murmured, unsure.
I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He smiled, obviously relieved.
“Um, yes, actually. I’ve kind of got a thing for museums, not just for Picasso.”
“A ‘thing’?”
Vincent’s English was so good that it was easy to forget it wasn’t his first language. “It means I like museums. A lot,” I explained.
“Okay. Got it. You like museums but not Picasso in particular. So . . . you just come here when you want to meditate?”
I smiled at him, mentally giving him points for trying so hard. “Where’d your friend go?” I asked.
“He took off. Jules doesn’t really like to meet new people.”
“Charming.”
“So, are you British? American?” he said, changing the subject.
“American,” I responded.
“And the girl I’ve seen you around the neighborhood with would be your . . .”
“Sister,” I said slowly. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Two cute girls move to the area—what am I supposed to do?”
A wave of delight rippled through my body at his words. So he thought I was cute. But he also thought Georgia was cute, I reminded myself. The wave disappeared.
“Hey, the museum café has an espresso machine. Want to get some coffee while you tell me what other things you’ve got a ‘thing’ for?” He touched me on the arm. The wave was officially back.
We sat at a tiny table in front of steaming cappuccinos. “So, now that I’ve revealed my name and nationality to a complete stranger, what else do you want to know?” I asked, stirring the foam into my coffee.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . shoe size, favorite film, athletic prowess, most embarrassing moment, hit me.”
I laughed. “Um, shoe size ten, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever, and way too many embarrassing moments to list before the museum closes.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get?” he teased.
I felt my defensiveness melting away at this surprisingly charming and decidedly not-dangerous side of him. With Vincent’s encouragement I told him about my old life in Brooklyn, with Georgia and my parents. Of our summers in Paris, of my friends back home, with whom I had, by now, lost all contact. Of my boundless love for art, and my despair at discovering I possessed absolutely no talent for creating it.
He prodded me for more information, and I filled in the blanks for him on bands, food, film, books, and everything else under the sun. And unlike most boys my age I had known back home, he seemed genuinely interested in every detail.
What I didn’t tell him was that my parents were dead. I referred to them in the present tense and said that my sister and I had moved in with our grandparents to study in France. It wasn’t a total lie. But I didn’t feel like telling him the whole truth. I didn’t want his pity. I wanted to seem like just any other normal girl who hadn’t spent the last seven months isolating herself in an inner world of grief.
His rapid-fire questions made it impossible for me to ask him anything in return. So when we finally left I reproached him for it. “Okay, now I feel completely exposed—you know pretty much everything about me and I know nothing about you.”
“Aha, that is part of my nefarious plan.” He smiled, as the museum guard locked the doors behind us. “How else could I expect you to say yes to meeting up again if I laid everything out on the table the first time we talked?”
“This isn’t the first time we talked,” I corrected him, trying to coolly ignore the fact that he seemed to be asking me out.
“Okay, the first time we talked without my unintentionally insulting you,” he revised.
We walked across the museum’s garden toward the reflecting pools, where screaming children were celebrating the fact that it was still hot and sunny at six p.m. by splashing around ecstatically in the water.
Vincent walked slightly hunched over with his hands in his pockets. For the first time I sensed in him a tiny hint of vulnerability. I took advantage of it. “I don’t even know how old you are.”
“Nineteen,” he said.
“What do you do?”
“Student.”
“Really? Because your friend said something about your being in the police force.” I couldn’t help the trace of sarcasm in my voice.
“What?” he exclaimed, coming to a complete stop.
“My sister and I saw you rescue that girl.”
Vincent stared at me blankly.
“The girl who jumped off the Carrousel Bridge during that gang fight. Your friend escorted us away and told us it was a police procedure.”
“Oh, he did?” Vincent muttered, his expression assuming the hardened look it’d had the first time I met him. He thrust his hands back into his pockets and continued walking. We were getting closer to the Métro stop. I slowed my pace to buy a little more time.
“So what are you guys, undercover cops?” I didn’t believe it for a second, but tried to sound sincere. His sudden change in mood had intrigued me.
“Something like that.”
“What, kind of like a SWAT team?”
He didn’t respond.
“That was really brave, by the way,” I insisted. “Your diving into the river. What did the girl have to do with the gang fighting under the bridge, anyhow?” I asked, digging further.
“Um, I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Vincent said, studying the concrete a few inches in front of his feet.
“Oh yeah. Of course,” I said lightly. “You just look really young to be a cop.” I couldn’t stop a facetious smile from spreading across my lips.
“I told you . . . I’m a student,” he said, giving me an uncertain grin. He could tell I didn’t buy it.
“Yeah. Okay. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything,” I said dramatically.
Vincent laughed, his good mood returning. “So . . . Kate, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Um . . . no plans,” I said, silently cursing my reddening cheeks.
“Do you want to do something?” he asked, with a smile so charming that my heart forgot to beat.
I nodded, since I couldn’t speak.
Taking my silence as hesitation, he added quickly, “Not like a formal date or anything. Just hanging out. We can . . . take a walk. Wander around the Marais.”
I nodded again, and then managed to get out, “That would be great.”
“Okay, how about Saturday afternoon? Daylight. In public. A perfectly safe thing to do with a guy you barely know.” He held up his hands as if showing he wasn’t hiding anything.
I laughed. “Don’t worry. Even if you are on a SWAT team, I’m not afraid of you.” As soon as it was out of my mouth I realized that I was afraid. Just a little bit. I wondered once more if that was his pull on me. Maybe my parents’ deaths had left me with a lack of self-preservation and it was the hint of danger that I was going for. Or maybe I was attracted to the vague aura of untouchable aloofness that he exuded. Maybe all he was to me was a challenge. Whatever the reason, it was effective. I really liked this guy. And I wanted to see him again. Night, day, I didn’t care. I’d be there.
He lifted an eyebrow and chuckled. “Not afraid of me. How . . . amusing.” I couldn’t help myself from laughing along.
Nodding the other direction down the boulevard, he said, “Jules is probably waiting for me. See you Saturday. Meet you outside the rue du Bac Métro station at three?”
“Saturday, three o’clock,” I confirmed as he turned and walked away. I don’t think it would be exaggerating much to say that my feet didn’t touch the ground the whole way home.
Chapter Six
VINCENT WAS WAITING FOR ME BY THE MÉTRO entrance. My heart caught in my throat as I wondered (not for the first time) why this too-gorgeous-to-be-true guy had any interest whatsoever in plain old . . . okay, maybe slightly pretty, but by no means beautiful on his level . . . me. My insecurity crumbled when I saw his face light up as I approached.
“You came,” he said as he leaned in to give me the bises, those double-cheeked air-kisses that Europeans are famous for. Though I shivered when his skin touched mine, my cheeks were warm for a good five minutes afterward.
“Of course,” I said, drawing on every drop of my “cool and confident” reserve, since, to tell the truth, I was feeling a bit nervous. “So, where are we off to?”
We began walking down the steps to the subway tracks. “Have you been to the Village Saint-Paul?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Perfect,” he said, seeming pleased with himself but giving no further explanation.
We barely talked on the train, but it wasn’t for lack of conversation. I don’t know if it is just a cultural thing, or because the trains themselves are so quiet, but as soon as people step into the car from the platform they shut up.
Vincent and I stood facing each other, holding on to the central steel pole for balance, and checked out the other passengers, who were busy checking us out. Have I mentioned that checking people out is the French national pastime?
As we turned a corner and the train jerked to one side, he put an arm around my shoulders to steady me.
“We haven’t even gotten there and you’re already making a move?” I laughed.
“Of course not. I’m a gentleman through and through,” he responded in a quiet voice. “I would throw my coat over a puddle for you any day.”
“I’m no damsel in distress,” I retorted as the train pulled to a stop.