The train whistled past trees, meadows, and tiny faraway buildings that all blended into streaks of green and white from Christine's window. She had almost missed the train (she had initially gotten onto the wrong platform, nearly boarding a train that had been going in the opposite direction of Perros), but she managed to correct her error because she had asked a conductor if she was on the right train.
On a Monday in mid-afternoon, the train was only filled up about one-quarter full, just as Christine had anticipated. She easily found herself a window seat, and for the first few minutes, she leaned her face on the windowpane, letting her hot cheek cool as she caught her breath.
Once the train lurched to life, and after the conductor passed through the car checking tickets, she rummaged around her trusty backpack for her noise-cancelling headphones to muffle out the train's rather loud ambient noises.
Christine chose something saved on her phone to calm her down. She needed it, and for reasons twofold: Both to temporarily calm herself from the frazzle of boarding the wrong train, and the underlying anxiety she had had all morning at the anticipation of seeing Meg and her mother. She talked to Sorelli, but not to Meg directly, which might have contributed to her anxiety even more. Did Meg even want to see her? She figured that Meg would much rather see Sorelli, her significant other, of course, but her girlfriend couldn't afford to miss any more rehearsals-the season premiere was only weeks away now. It's rather a miracle that Meg managed to get an entire week off, but then again, with her mother's status in the company paired with Meg being one of the top dancers in the corps, Christine supposed it wasn't totally an act of God.
She tapped the play button on the last album she'd downloaded to her phone, which was the entire orchestration of the Swan Lake ballet. It comforted her, for she loved how the music washed in and out of her ears like an ocean wave. Some bits were lush, a steady and calm soundscape of beautiful melodies, and other suites crashed about her like the cold spray of salt and sea.
A pas de deux abruptly silenced-what happened? Shit, maybe she forgot to charge her headphones. She grabbed her phone which has been thrown down on the seat next to her.
"FaceTime - Video Call from ANSWER ITS SEHUN"
Christine had changed all of the band members' numbers to the same all-caps message so she wasn't confused whenever Sehun would scramble his calls coming from another phone number. She tapped her phone to accept.
"Hey, I'm not turning my video on, you might as well be staring at a potato because the signal is so bad on the train. What's up?"
"Glad I caught you," Sehun's voice crackled from what had to be half a world away. "Do you need to hop off soon, though?"
"No, no, I just got on. Actually, I have umm-another hour or so before my stop. I'm headed to the countryside to visit Meg."
"Visit? Oh, that's right, her mom. That's really nice of you to visit her."
"Yeah, I-honestly, I hope she just isn't mad. I was debating with Sorelli on whether to actually tell her I'm heading over now."
Christine spent the next few minutes going over her correspondence with Sorelli. "So, yeah, I don't know. This could either be a cute, happy reunion or just-so bad. And awkward."
Sehun thought for a second. "Okay, well-if the roles were reversed, would you want her to surprise you?"
Christine groaned softly. "Oh, God. I'd probably think she was a lunatic."
"No, don't be so hard on yourself. I'm sure Meg would be surprised in a good way."
"Ugh, I don't know. Maybe? But I should probably tell her, right? She's probably so stressed as it is. What if I make it worse?"
"No, you're overthinking it, Christine. Just-look, bring her and her mom some food, pick something up on the way to their place if you can."
"Yeah, that might be a good idea, actually. Thanks. What about you, what's new in Seoul?"
"Uhhh," Sehun paused and laughed in spite of himself. "I actually don't know, because-because I'm not there right now. That's what I was calling about."
Her heart jumped. "Wait. Wait, what?"
"Three guesses where."
"No." Christine groaned, almost slamming her head into the tray table she had opened in front of her. She let her black hair pool and form a curtain around her face. "No, you can't be, because then that would mean-"
"Yeah, I landed in Paris about 8 hours ago. So now, you're kind of going in the opposite direction from me, I think."
"You're already here?" Another groan let out, this time true frustration and despair seemed to eke out of Christine. "Sehun, could you have worse timing? You couldn't have said something literally any sooner?"
"Me?" He laughed even louder, teasing Christine. "Hang on, let's think about this for a minute. You're the one who's being the runaway girlfriend who I'm going to have to chase after now!"
Christine groaned into the small tray table. Her voice muffled a bit. "No, you can't. I mean, that'd be adorable and I'd love you to chase after me, but I'm sure you're busy." Another little groan. "Just my luck. Besides, you're never here more than a couple of days. Your managers never give you a second to breathe."
She could hear the shrug in Sehun's voice. "You never know-things could get canceled."
Christine thought for a moment. Fat chance. But instead she forced out a defeated "Maybe."
"Tell you what, make sure your location tracker on your phone is active so I can keep track of you. Maybe geo tag yourself in a location on your Instagram story?"
"I don't want to waste my data, but I'll try and geotag in a post when I can."
"Yeah, good idea. Okay, just post something later today once you've properly visited with Meg and she knows you're there. I swear, I'll do everything I can to see you."
Something suddenly occurred to Christine. "Wait. Maybe I can turn around?"
"NO," Sehun said firmly. "I mean, that would be wonderful, but only because I'm a selfish piece of shit. No, you have to be there for Meg, okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I owe her big time."
Xxx
Christine was acting weird. Was she acting weird? I mean, how did he even know?
No, he was sure of it.
When he came back with her breakfast, he could see it in the look on her face. It wasn't-sad. No, not sad. Shock, disbelief maybe. She didn't want to look him directly in the eye. What did she find out?
Why?
Erik couldn't concentrate. The song he was trying to pick out on the keyboard was starting to curve and sway. The harder he tried to pin down the melody, the stranger it seemed to sound. Scowling, he pushed his office chair away from the desk, and got up to walk towards the couch. He made to sit down on it, but he hesitated: all he could picture was Christine's figure, bundled up in his favorite black microfiber fleece blanket that was still impossibly soft even after all these years of wear and tear.
Slowly, he lowered himself down onto the couch. Before he knew it, he found himself horizontal, and his head landed exactly where Christine's had been-the same direction, the same orientation she had fell asleep in.
He took the black blanket that had been carefully folded up and stacked on top of the sectional's headrest. Erik had left it crumpled up for almost a whole day after Christine finally took her leave that morning he got back from the café. Anything out of place would have normally driven Erik up the wall-but it was different with her.
He didn't want to erase the fact that she was here. Really here, here in his apartment. If he put away the blanket back in its proper place, then-it was like it never happened.
He ached a little at the very thought of it.
Christine had mentioned needing to pack for her trip to Perros, and even though she had offered to clean up as she gathered her things to leave, she seemed almost desperate to leave. Did she? Maybe it was all in his head.
He sighed, and dragged the blanket, lazily spreading it out. Was this all in his head? How convenient it was, to smell that lingering smell she left even after using the blanket only for a few hours. Was it a perfume she wore, shampoo-? Or did she just exist with that aroma about her, walking through the world smelling like that? It was woodsy and fresh, not overpowering in the least, but-oh, did it linger. Underneath was a whisper of a warm vanilla, or maybe it was amber? A blend of many things, perhaps even her laundry softener….
Erik stuck his hand out from underneath the blanket, reaching towards the ottoman, and feeling around from his phone. He wanted to check to see if Christine had texted. Posted on social media. Yes, Erik thought, he hadn't checked his phone in nearly three minutes now, surely there's been a litany of updates-
Opening up the Instagram app, he saw that Christine had a story update. Instead of joy and hope, he suddenly felt sick. He hesitated, then opened it up to see.
Of course, to no one's surprise- besides Erik's stomach, for some reason-she has taken a photo with a description saying she'd made it safely to Perros. The photo was a quick snapshot of a warm-looking drink with plenty of milk foam, probably a latte. She geo-tagged the café: LE CAFÉ DU PORT, PERROS-GUIREC. Erik tapped the location's name, pinpointing it on the map and scrolling hungrily through the top tagged photos. From what he scrolled past, it looked like an idyllic, quaint corner café that overlooked the marina in Perros.
He looked up the directions on a maps app, and cringed at the roundabout train ride Christine had to take to get there. It was more than double the travel time compared to just renting car and driving straight there.
Immediately, he thought to call up Isak and ask to borrow his car. But just as quickly as the thought came he waved it away. No, because Isak would know for sure something was up-Isak was already starting to, anyway. Erik didn't want to lead him straight there. Erik had never been to the countryside, never tried to venture out of his geographic comfort zone. Even if it clients requested him to travel and meet up with them, he'd always correspond remotely. Hell, he hardly ever left Paris, period.
All of these thoughts flickered to the forefront of his mind for a moment, but were quickly drowned out by the desire to go and see her. Make sure Christine was okay. He could rent a car and be there this evening, he thought, and maybe he could-
He could what? He thought, scolding himself silently. But he didn't feel terrible for long-it was hard to feel, hell, concentrate on anything other than Christine as the warm scent of the fleece blanket enveloped him.
He could-He could just go. He didn't have to tell her. Christine couldn't mind those kind of surprises all that much, since she was on her way to surprise her best friend herself. Would she?
And then what?
Xxx
The phone rang three times before Meg picked up.
"Christine?"
"Hey, you got a sec?"
"Uh-yeah, actually. What's going on?" Christine could hear the worry in her friend's voice. It was already unusual for Christine to make a phone call, furthermore, it had been some time since they'd spoken at all-texting or otherwise.
"Nothing, I mean-all good," Christine was hasty to reassure her. "I just wanted to check in on your Mom-how's she doing? You're still in Perros, right?"
"Oh." Her disbelief echoed down the line. "She's fine, thanks for asking. She got out of surgery a couple days ago, but they she's already been home since yesterday afternoon. But yeah, I'm still here to make sure she's adjusting. Had to go and pick up the biggest fucking stack of pills for her at the pharmacy, and I don't want her exerting herself too much so I'm covering most of the chores."
"Damn, for how much longer?"
"She seems like she's coming along well, and the company's not doing any staging rehearsals for another week or so. So, I'm not in a hurry to leave. Besides, I already learned my parts; Mom even made sure to critique me from the damned hospital bed."
"Hey, if Madame Giry didn't adequately shit on your terrible turnout, then she wouldn't be back to her normal self," Christine and Meg shared a sheepish laugh together.
"Have you had dinner yet?" Christine bit her index finger, glancing down at the huge takeaway bag she toted from the café. If Meg were to say 'yes', that would be an awful lot of food to go to waste.
Thankfully, it was still a bit too early for them to have made any plans for dinner. "Hey, if you give me about 20 minutes, I have some piping hot lentil and tomato soups for you guys. I think some sandwiches, too."
"You mean, like, Ubereats? Dude, we don't even have that in Perros."
"Uhmm, as of 2 hours ago, you have your own personal deliveryman-er, woman. I hope Café du Port's okay, because that was literally the only place in walking distance from my hotel." Christine heaved the bag of food, spotting a taxi that rounded the corner. It looked like it was dropping off someone, so she hoped to catch them just in time."Gotta go, text me the address!"
Xxx
"Meg, why didn't you say you had a guest coming?"
"Maman, for the thousandth time, I didn't know Christine was coming!"
"You should have known! She had to make hotel accommodations - do you realize how unwelcoming that makes us look?"
Christine tried her hardest to get a word in between the volleying of rapid fire French. "Please, I'm sorry for the imposition, I just-"
"No, don't be silly, Christine." Madame Giry cut her off, waving in the direction of all the food Christine had hauled in from the nearby café. "Really, this is all too kind-we just wish we could return the favor."
Even only a few days out of the hospital, and still convalescing in her bedroom with several pillows propping her upright, Madame Giry was just as poised and perfectly groomed as Christine had always remembered her. Her complexion did look a bit sallow-that will happen staying in a hospital bed for weeks, with little to no sunshine or fresh air-but her grey-black hair was still tied back in a perfect chignon, not a single hair out of place. And of course, even as she politely thanked Christine for her trouble, she still had a disapproving frown etched onto her face.
"No, it's no trouble at all, Madame. I was happy to help out-Meg and yourself need a break, anyway."
Meg threw her a look, giving her a tired smile as she mouthed "merci." Meg, on the other hand, was not so put-together. When she wasn't in the ballet studio, Meg loved trying new hairstyles, new fashion trends, new makeup styles-but, Christine guessed, caring for her mother nearly around the clock made those things fall to the wayside. Her hair was in a messy bun, pieces of brassy blond hair falling out onto her neck and the stretched collar of her sweater. She looked exhausted, too, like she hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. All the more reason Christine felt validated in coming to help out-her conversation with Sehun on the train, voicing her concerns about being unwelcome, seemed utterly silly now.
"Hey, which reminds me- can I help with picking up groceries?" She eased herself into a chair as she watched Meg put away some laundry in Madame Giry's chest of drawers.
"I actually just went for groceries." Meg made a face. "But don't worry about it, the food you brought was such a nice change from the thousand variations of chicken stew I've been making."
"Meg, really, it's a wonder that Sorelli hasn't gotten tired of your cooking."
"Mom, we don't really cook in Paris-"
"Well, that's irresponsible." Even though she was nearly six feet away, Christine could practically hear Meg gulp, steeling herself for a lecture from her mother. "You need to look after your health and money, and perhaps learning a few new dishes couldn't hurt," Madame Giry sniffed. "Ah-maybe I was too easy on you."
Christine shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "Meg works hard, and with us living together I think she eats out a little less-well, a little."
"You're right," Madame sighed, leaning her head back into the pillow a bit. "You girls do work hard, you can't always be cooking every night."
When Madame Giry looked away, Meg made a face at Christine. Christine held back a giggle. Mothers did have a funny way of listening to everyone except their own children, after all.
"Christine, what about you? How has work been?"
"Er." Christine didn't know if she meant the Opera box office, the producing, or the dj'ing. Another beat went by, so Christine chose to keep it light. "It's keeping busy for now, but I hope they'll keep me on once the tourist season has properly died down."
She only have a "hmph" in reply. Seemed that Mme Giry didn't buy her surface-level response. "But your, ah, music? You're keeping with it still, yes?"
"Yes, Madame, of course."
"Good, good." Her gaze grew distant, losing focus on Christine, as if a memory has just come to her. "Let me tell you girls something." This time, Meg wasn't the only one who steeled herself for a potential lecture.
Mme Giry sat up a little in her bed. "When I was younger, quite a bit younger than Meg now-I was a struggling artist. I wanted so badly to be in the ballet. It was so expensive, all the costumes and lessons-but we were so poor.
"I remember thinking at one point, this is surely a lost cause. I begged your grandmere to take me to a ballet studio one night, and after cajoling one of the directors, I was given a job as a maid. Would you believe it? I cleaned and polished floors, kept house, did laundry-all this backbreaking work, and for one lesson a week, two if I worked overtime. I saved up every penny I had, I was diligent with both my cleaning job and my ballet practice.
"It was back-breaking work-to work yourself to the bone during the day, only to turn around and give what little I had in my soul to my art. I practiced for hours every night. It was a miracle my body didn't give out. But I won't waste my time telling you the rest-you know where I ended up, I made a name for myself and my hard work paid off, it's true.
"I'm not rambling, I promise, I have a point. When you think you have nothing else left to give-give just a bit more. Most of the world will never tap into extra bit of effort, and your technique will be all the better for it. Eventually, that discipline will surely give way to something beautiful and effortless-your true artistry. That's all I can ask of you two." She turned her gaze toward Christine. "I'm sure your mother would agree, no?"
Christine laughed a little. "Well, I can't say she'd put it nearly as eloquently as you, Madame, but yes, I'm sure she'd agree."
Meg shifted a bit in her place. When she spoke, her voice was low and unsteady at first. "Maman-what if I wanted to try something else? I don't want to quit the ballet, I love it, I do-but sometimes I feel like there's a part of me I haven't unlocked yet. I don't even know how to unlock it."
Her mother was silent for a few moments. She drew herself up to her full height, looking regal and severe despite her slightly wrinkled nightgown and the four pillows propping her up. "Meg, my dear-"
"Maman," Meg interrupted her mother, grabbing her hand. "I've been lucky, I know I have. You've set me up for success in ballet, and I will always be grateful. Even though it wasn't my wild passion I had to chase down like you did as a girl, I still love it. But-I don't know, perhaps it's because I didn't have to chase it as hard-maybe there's something I have to go out and chase on my own."
"First of all, you had to chase it plenty, give yourself a bit of credit, dear.
"But, of course, ma chere-" her mother took a tendril of her daughter's hair, stroking it between two fingers lovingly- "Of course you must find your own path. It will not be easy, believe me-you'll have to work just as much as you are at the ballet, perhaps even harder." Meg nodded furiously in agreement-Christine knew Meg had had the same thought after many nights over tea chatting about what the future held for her. Relief washed over Christine on her friend's behalf.
"Of course, Maman-"
She put an elegant, bony hand up to stop her. "No more of this, you don't need to waste your breath pleading your case."
Without any preamble, Meg suddenly collapsed in tears, burying her head on her mother's bed. Mme Giry and Christine exchanged a look, and Christine didn't know what to do other than smile and shrug. Meg had been worrying about this for so long, preparing for the worst and readying herself to stand her ground-but all of that had been wholly unnecessary.
"I-I'm sorry, Maman, it's just-thank you. Thank you," was all Meg could sputter out in between heaving sobs. "You mean so much to m-me, and I just want to-to make you proud."
"Don't be ridiculous-you've already made me proud, ma chere."
Christine couldn't help but wipe away a tear as she made a stupid excuse to go reheat some soup.
Xx
Christine leaned back in her chair just behind the bar's countertop, a cold pint of beer in her hand. She had already downed several gulps and she hadn't had it for more than two minutes since the barkeep had served it.
It had been a long day. Looking back, she was grateful that Meg had declined her offer to join her at the café-turned-pub by her hotel. Meg had felt obligated to treat her to dinner and drinks, least of all because there was virtually no room for Christine to crash at her mom's place. Christine could tell that between her unannounced visit and the emotional conversation with her mother, the day had worn Meg out, so she insisted she get some rest. Besides, Meg had promised to get some chores done early in the morning as before the occupational therapist was scheduled to visit the house.
Christine realized once the beer had been placed in her hand how badly she'd needed a drink and some time for herself to unwind. She took another sip, savoring the light citrusy flavor of the Belgian beer she'd chosen.
"Long day? It's only a Monday, you have the whole week ahead of you."
She looked over the bar to see a bartender wiping some glasses down. He was a forty-something, with wiry black-and-grey hair, more grey than black. His face was weathered and wind-beaten-not something a bartender should have, more like someone in the navy or a fisherman. But his dark eyes were kind-if not a bit judgey.
Well, that could just be the Frenchman in him.
"Just haven't really had a second to breathe, I guess," she said into her beer mug.
"Well, we'll do an acoustic open mic here in about thirty minutes-if we have all of our usuals tonight, that is, no weirdos-you should be in for a nice evening." He gave a small smile before turning to fill a glass of beer for a local who had just come in and greeted him by name. Okay, so he was actually being nice and not judgey, she thought to her relief.
She took another sip of her beer, watching him serve and chat with his patron, but not fully absorbing the conversation. The words "open mic" were too busy pinging around in her head.
"Hey, uh-about the open mic. Does anyone have a guitar they could lend me for a quick song?"
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Uhhh." he thought for a moment. "Hang on."
He walked over to the other end of the bar, asking something in French that Christine couldn't quite make out. He started gesturing over towards her, and the local-a younger, nerdier-looking guy in a polo shirt and steel-framed glasses with closely cropped brown hair-gave her a onceover.
The shaggy-haired bartender glanced over at Christine. "Er, that guy's brother over there? He perfoms with his guitar most weeks, so if he shows up, it should be fine. You know how to tune it and all that, yeah?"
Christine took another sip of her beer-well, more of a swig. Putting down the glass, she said: "Let me answer that question with another question-with all due respect, would you be asking that question if I were a man?"
Xx
The brother with the guitar had, in fact, come to the open mic-about 5 minutes before the show was to begin. Christine had promised him one drink up front, and one right after she finished, in exchange for borrowing his Taylor acoustic for one song. Once alcohol had come into the mix, he hardly batted an eye.
After about 4 or 5 covers, the Taylor owner got up to play. He sang a pretty solid cover of an Arctic Monkeys song. The heavy French accent aside, it wasn't bad. Maybe a bit bland, but definitely not bad. Hey, she can judge, Parisians judged her near-perfect French constantly, right?
"Nice job." She smiled, getting up off the bar to hand him the second glass of boulevardier in exchange for the guitar. "I'll take care of her, I promise."
He immediately took a swig of his whiskey cocktail before he even finished letting go of the guitar. Despite inwardly rolling her eyes, she laughed and thanked him as he cheered her in return.
She clambered up onto a stool in the far corner of the bar, surrounding tables of two and three people. The spotlight was dim, but the bar was so dark it still blinded her a bit.
"Good evening," she said into the mic. "I'm from the US, and though I was born in New York, my mom's side is originally from the southern part of the country, so-here's a taste of southern country. Hope you like it." As she spoke, she strummed the first few chords to make sure she remembered the progression. It took a couple tries, but it was almost like riding a bike. The past few weeks, she had been picking out the chords on a guitar in Erik's studio-it was almost muscle memory now.
In contrast with the Frenchman's accent-maybe even because of it-she decided to lay on the southern twang thick, much thicker than she usually did. It was somewhat freeing being able to take on this personality-she thought of her mom living in Texas, living in Tennessee before meeting her father and settling in New York.
Then, when the chorus hit, she thought of what Madame Giry had said to her and Meg. It reassured her that, even when it felt like she was going nowhere-she was always going somewhere. Even one step is still a step forward.
The song finished, and she heard a few "brava"s from the audience. "Thanks, y'all," she drawled in English. It was fun pretending to be someone else, even for three minutes-she smiled at her own private joke as she handed back the acoustic guitar to the owner who had suddenly quite forgot about his boulevardier.
"Holy shit," he swore under his breath as he stared at Christine.
"Did I look like I was gonna be that bad? Damn," she joked in reply. A new air of energy and confidence buzzed around her. She turned to the bartender, pointing to the guitar owner. "Hey, give me another one of those," she said, pointing at the boulevardier.
"Er-It's just that someone else already bought you a drink."