Each step I took off the plane and through the airport, my senses bombarded with the smell of cigarettes and strong cologne and the sound of rapid-fire French, the more my legs felt like they were made of melting snow. Each step was a step closer to our meeting. Each step meant more sweat trickling down the back of my sore neck.
I felt like I was minutes away from being committed by the time Max and I cleared the overly suspicious French customs and stood waiting for our bags at baggage claim. I had to admit, I was really glad that Max was there with me for that. To them, we were traveling together, and in his perfect French, he had all the right answers for the customs officials. I could only smile and nod and repeat my name. I knew they all spoke English, but it seemed to anger them to do so.
The funny thing was—and I know I was thinking of too many romantic movies—but I really had expected Sage to be there, running toward me, ready for an embrace. Or at least, you know, be there. But he wasn’t. There wasn’t even anyone with a sign that said “Emerson” or “Creem” or even “Elvis-Wannabe from Sex City.” As Max and I trundled our suitcases out of baggage claim, we were met by no one.
“Well, this is a nice welcome,” I muttered as I watched people happily greeting one another. Max only nodded and stuck another cigarette in his mouth. I sighed and glanced over at the washrooms. They were called W.C.s here, I was right.
I excused myself and quickly tried to pretty myself up in the washroom in case Sage was still on his way or stuck in traffic or something. I not-so-subtly watched the French travelers lean over the sinks and dot lipstick on their lips and cheeks and smooth flyaways with mists of Evian water. I had so much to learn and fancied I might even go back to Ellensburg with a new sense of chic style.
And I was going back, despite Eric’s fears. If my first few moments in Europe were any indicator of what was to come, I was definitely going back.
When I came out of the washroom, groomed but still pretty darn lackluster after two long flights, I nearly stopped in my tracks. Jacob was here and talking to Max with a grim look on his face, my suitcase in his meaty hand. He was waving his other hand in the air, his gold rings glinting, and Max was silent, chewing on his lip and listening attentively.
“Hey,” I said, my voice cracking a little, as I continued walking toward them, hoping I wasn’t interrupting something important. Jacob shut up and his head whipped my way. A broad smile cracked across his face, his golden eyes vivid and dancing.
“Dawn, love,” he said in that irrepressible Cockney accent of his, throwing his arms open and bringing me into a tight embrace, my face smooshed up against his scratchy orange-and-brown wool suit, which smelled like coffee and mothballs. His fashion sense hadn’t changed, and that brought me the tiniest bit of ironic comfort.
I finally untangled myself from his vice-like hug and let him look me over with a discerning eye. “You look great, love. Tired as fuck but still great. I trust Max has been a gentleman with you.” Jacob’s scrutiny turned to Max, who seemed to pale a bit under his gaze.
“Max has been fine,” I told him. I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad you’re here; I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” I was really beginning to think Sage had forgotten about me, but from the apologetic smile stretched across Jacob’s face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.
“Yes, well, traffic you know, love,” he said, leading us toward the doors. “Bit of a crazy thing with all these frogs around us.” I quickly glanced around me, expecting to see dirty looks from the Frenchmen, but no one paid us any attention at all. “I was just here yesterday at the same time, but it seems you can’t predict the traffic in the city.”
“Just yesterday?”
We stepped out of the airport and into the light drizzle, which was falling steadily from the overcast sky. “Yes, I had to pick up Sage and Tricky. He’s back at the hotel, you know. He wanted to come and pick you up himself, but, uh, he’s recovering from jet lag.”
Funny how I could almost believe that—but as plausible as it was, as I would surely be hit with a debilitating chunk of jet lag later, I knew in my heart that wasn’t quite the case for Sage. He either didn’t want to see me or he was recovering from something other than jet lag.
As we scurried toward the nearest cab, I noticed Max’s eyes on me. We were about to climb into the backseat of a funny-looking car whose driver Jacob was trying to haggle with, when he stopped and said, “I’m here to take photographs, you’re here to write, and that’s the truth. Now get in.”
I had lovesick written across over my forehead, didn’t I?
We both scooted into the back of the cab, sliding over greasy old grey leather, while Jacob finally got in the passenger seat. He shot us both a gleaming smile and raised his orange brows. “Not sure how much this cabbie is going to charge us, but I figure if it’s too much, we can always get the suitcases and run, right-o?”
I spent the first half of the drive trying to figure out if Max and Jacob and everyone else knew something about Sage that I didn’t, and the second half being utterly swept away by the passing landscape. I was in France. I was in Paris. I was in a city that couldn’t be more foreign to me. I watched beautiful old houses zoom past us, their elegant roofs and flower-lined windowsills, the funny little cars parked on the streets out front, the fashionable women strolling past with their cat-eye glasses and their tiny dogs on sparkly leashes. The thing about Paris is that it really did look like all the movies I’d seen—Paris in the Springtime, Charade, Funny Face. Really, anything with Audrey Hepburn.
I was enthralled, no doubt brought on by the time difference and sleep deprivation and present company and crazy circumstances, but it was a good kind of trip—better than the mushrooms Mel would make me eat when we were bored and hanging out in the hayloft. Suddenly, as Mr. Plant might say, I was a traveler of both time and space.
I was here.
And there. There, as the cab drove alongside the taupe stone buildings and pulled up to the narrow, gargoyle-fronted hotel where we were staying, there was Sage Knightly, standing outside.
There was Sage, leaning against an ancient-looking stone sculpture that I was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be leaning against, sipping from a paper cup. There he was, the man whose music made my blood pump and whose words made my heart ache. There he was, the man I’d made love to, the man I’d loved, the man who had become so much more than I even let myself realize.