A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

Saturday, July 21, No-Clue-What-Time-It-Is-Since-We're-Crossing-Time-Zones

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 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.

We finally walked back into the hotel, holding hands, at six thirty the next morning. And held hands at breakfast. We held hands on the train to Monte Carlo. We held hands at the good-bye banquet dinner in Monte Carlo. We held hands on the train back to Nice. We held hands while saying goodbye to Pierre. We held hands during takeoff. Max and Kristin took pictures.

The lights in the plane just went out. I can’t believe the trip is over. It went by so fast. I’m going to miss everything. The cheese. The trains. I think I might even miss Joanna’s singing. But I’m also happy to be going home, fling in tow.

Hah. Fling. Who am I kidding? I may have gone looking for a fling but what I found is so much better. 

C’est la vie! 

THE END