Forbidden French

I wait for him every day.

It’s a habit I’m not proud of. At first I assumed it would be easy to ignore his comings and goings. I received the flowers and set them up in my room then went on with life as if there were nothing at all different except my new hours at Morgan’s and the modest social life I’ve started to carve out for myself. I’ve tried little things. I took myself out to dinner the other night, alone with my Kindle. It was utterly thrilling and I felt like everyone in the restaurant was watching me the entire time, but in truth, no one cared. In fact, the waiter gave me a glass of wine on the house and asked me about the book I was reading but largely left me alone. I can’t recommend it enough.

That said, there is no ignoring Emmett, no matter how much I wish I were immune to him. The flowers are unbearably beautiful and over the top, and I change the water and trim the stems. When a rose starts to wilt, I press it between the pages of an old art history textbook, hoping it’ll dry nicely.

My grandmother, Margaret, and I don’t discuss Emmett’s gifts.

Margaret turns a vase, eyeing the flowers, but she doesn’t give me any advice about them. She doesn’t tell me I’m making a mistake by stringing him along, doesn’t say I better be careful not to allow his interest to lapse.

I’m not used to the freedom, and I almost bring him up to them countless times.

What would you do in my shoes? seems like a question that’s perpetually on my lips, but I don’t ask it.

I don’t really want to know what they would do.

The night after I return The Midnight Library to him, I happen to see his Range Rover slow to a stop at the curb outside my grandmother’s house. He’s come back just like he said he would this morning. I hurry over to my bedroom window and peel back the heavy drape so I have a perfect view of him lit by streetlights as he slides out of the back seat of his car, holding a second book.

My heart races like mad. I catalogue every detail as quickly as I can. His navy suit and crisp tie, his dark hair and knitted brows—he’s so handsome it hurts.

A large part of me wants to race down the stairs, run across the foyer, and leap into his arms, but I hold my ground and wait to hear Jacobs’ footsteps out in the hall.

He knocks on my door, and I go to answer it calmly.

“Mr. Emmett Mercier is here to see you,” he tells me, no hint of judgment in his voice. “He’s also sent me with this.”

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

I can’t help but smile. He’s starting to get cheeky.

“Should I send him off?” Jacobs asks.

The first day Emmett arrived, it was all too easy to turn him away. My answer to Jacobs was swift and stern, no room for second-guessing. Now, though, I waver.

“Ms. Lainey?” he asks again.

“Yes,” I say, weakly. “I think so.”

He responds with a simple nod then closes my door once again. I rush back to the window and wait for Emmett to walk back out to his car. It’s impossible not to question myself. What the hell am I doing? What kind of punishment does he deserve, if any?

It’s painful to watch him leave the house, his head tipped down, his shoulders crestfallen and dejected. When your heart beats for someone else, they can inflict incredible damage. It’s hard to extrapolate right from wrong when every step Emmett takes feels like a wounding blow.

I can’t get into Crime and Punishment no matter how hard I try. I carry the book with me around the house and to work the next day. I read it on my lunch break, but the words carry no meaning. I only daydream about Emmett and what time he plans to stop by later. I imagine a scenario where he grows so desperate he ignores Jacobs and stomps up the stairs to get to me, a caveman on a mission. It’s utterly ridiculous and silly, and yet, a thrill runs through me.

I trick myself into thinking my infatuation with him is over when in reality it’s only been refocused on this new game of cat and mouse. If I don’t go down to see him when he visits, I feel as though I’m winning. Never mind that he’s all I think about, the heaviest thought in my head day in and day out.

One month in, the flowers are mostly wilted and gone.

The gifted books are stacked beside my bed.

Every day, I fear it’s the last day he’ll come, and every day his black Range Rover pulls up in front of my grandmother’s house then a few minutes later, Jacobs knocks on my door.

I have no idea what my grandmother thinks about all of this. She hasn’t mentioned a single word to me about Emmett. No compliments about the flowers, no offhand remarks about his visits. Lately, it’s been nothing but discussions about the spring ballet season.

This evening is the opening night of Swan Lake followed by a black tie gala to raise funds to aid the Boston School of Ballet. All the invited guests have been asked to dress in black and white in honor of the theme.

My grandmother and I spent hours combing through racks of dresses at Neimans and Saks, and we eventually fell in love with a white princess gown. Its base is a simple fitted bodice with a full skirt, but intricate beadwork covers the sheer neckline and long sleeves, sprinkling down like raindrops onto the skirt. My grandmother’s borrowed pearl choker sits nicely at the nape of my neck, and my long hair is pulled into an up-do to better show off the details of the dress.

We have a private box at the ballet we share with Diana and Victoria. I sit on the far side beside my grandmother, looking down onto the crowd below. I’ve already read through the program once, sipped an entire glass of champagne, and done my fair share of people watching. I love the ballet. The pageantry of opening nights never disappoints, so much fashion and beauty on display. No one has missed the mark on the theme, the crowd a sea of black and white gowns, pearls and diamonds adorning every ear and wrist. I find my favorite outfits from among them, already hoping I’ll get to take a closer look at the gala later. The men are impeccably dressed as well, all in tuxedos, some even in tailcoats.

A group of boisterous women fills the box to our right, smiling and waving at us as they take their seats. It turns out my grandmother knows them, which isn’t surprising. Some days it feels like she knows half this town.

A waiter comes around to ask if we need anything. Diana and Victoria opt for a second round of champagne, but I hold off for now and go back to observing. My grandmother is pointing out a story in the program highlighting one of the dancers, tilting toward me to show me the picture, when there’s movement in the box to my left. I’ve been wondering who would fill it and when. The ballet is due to start any minute.

I look over in time to catch sight of the first two men walking in, and I know right away who will follow after them. It might be well over a decade since we were all at St. John’s together, but even today, Heath and Harrison are never far from their fearless leader. And ah, right on cue, there he is, walking in just behind his brother, the last man to fill the box.

It’s not a shock to me that Emmett wears a tuxedo so well. The fitted jacket clearly has a designer touch, and his black bowtie is so spot-on I wonder if he stood in front of a mirror for thirty minutes trying to get it just right, or if he’s just that good at tying them.

Alexander notices me first, and his wide smile and big wave don’t quell the swarm of butterflies filling my stomach.

I press my hand against my belly and try to find my bearings, but when Emmett’s cool gaze meets mine, I might as well be laid bare for him, every nerve ending exposed and humming.

“Well don’t they make a fine group,” my grandmother notes.

Yes, they could be a Ralph Lauren ad. Oh wait—Ralph Lauren couldn’t afford them.

Emmett veers off from the rest and heads toward the edge of his balcony, closer to us. He drops his hands on the railing and nods first toward my grandmother.

“Mrs. Davenport, you look enchanting this evening.”

“I was just going to say the same to you. Who designed your tuxedo? It looks custom.”

“Tom Ford.”

She hums in appreciation. “Nicely done.”

“Lainey,” he says, turning his dark gaze on me. I’m pinned in place, paralyzed by the weight of his attention. He tips his head, a coy expression playing on his lips. “Have you been enjoying my gifts?”

I flush with warmth and hope beyond hope that the low theater lighting helps conceal my reaction to him. I’d hate for him to see the effect he has on me, still. It negates everything I’ve tried to do these last few weeks.

“Some more than others,” I say, batting his question away with a simple shrug.

His mouth curls with amusement and then he steps back to claim the seat behind him, the one closest to me. From balcony to balcony, we’re only a few feet apart.

I wonder how he managed to snag the box right beside ours. Was it a coincidence or a carefully laid plan? My grandmother has held this same box for the last two decades, and everyone who frequents the ballet knows that.

Once he’s said hello and settled into his seat, Emmett doesn’t ask me any more questions. In fact, he doesn’t look in my direction. A waiter comes around to collect their drink orders just before the lighting dims further and the orchestra begins to play.

I feel a jolt of excitement when the curtain slowly starts to lift to reveal the opening scene of Swan Lake.

This is my favorite ballet, and I’ve seen it performed in London, New York, and San Francisco, but never in Boston. My favorite part is in act II, when the four shortest girls in the corps de ballet dance together holding crisscrossed hands and moving their feet and heads in perfect sync. They’re meant to be four little swans, sticking close together, curious about exploring their new world. It’s a moment of levity in an otherwise dramatic work.

Soon after, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“From the gentleman,” the waiter says, nodding toward Emmett’s box.

I thank the waiter and take it, feeling Emmett’s eyes on me as I lift the glass of champagne to my lips. It’s decadent, both the taste and the feeling of him watching me while I sip it.

The orchestra’s sweeping score makes the moment feel all the more intense, Tchaikovsky’s haunting “Flight of the Swans” like a signifier of fate. It takes everything I have not to look over at him. I know what I’ll find, and it’s already been hard enough to sit in this box and try to focus on a ballet filled with passion, longing, and doomed lovers without comparing it to my own life.

I hate the ending. I know to expect the same every time. The sorcerer’s curse prevails long enough to fate Odette to an eternity as half-swan, half-woman. Devastated, she drowns herself in the lake. Heartbroken over her death, her lover does the same. Their mutual sacrifice breaks the sorcerer’s spell once and for all, and Odette and her lover are finally reunited in the afterlife. I should feel like that’s enough, but I want a real happy ending.

I always tear up as the corps ballerinas dance together in the final scene, mourning the loss of their queen, Odette. It’s beautiful, from start to finish. I stand and clap loudly as the dancers take their bows, forgetting for just a moment that Emmett is so close.

His gaze is on me as he claps too, and if he thinks it’s foolish of me to get so into a ballet, he doesn’t show it. When I dare to look at him, there’s sympathy in his warm gaze, as if he completely understands what I’m feeling.

Surely we aren’t as doomed as they are…

“Come along, dear,” my grandmother says, reaching for my arm so she can link it with hers. “I’d like to take a moment to freshen up before we make our way to the gala. You know how that ending always gets me. My makeup is probably smeared every which way.”

I let her lean some of her weight on my arm as we curve around the balcony chairs. There’s already an attendant waiting with a friendly smile near the door, ready to escort us to a private bathroom and lounge.

Emmett stands on the edge of his balcony, watching me walk away. My legs feel like lead weights. Every step away from him is excruciating. There’s a reason I haven’t allowed myself to go down to see him when he visits my grandmother’s house day after day. I’ve refrained for my own survival. Keeping him at a distance was the only way to preserve my strength and resist temptation, and tonight, I’ve just had that theory thoroughly proven. The last few hours were an exercise in futility. I don’t think I took in a proper breath the entire performance. The ballet loomed large, but Emmett loomed larger in my periphery. Even now, I want to pause and look back. My body is poised to whip around so I can speak to him just once more. My voice would be filled with unbridled hope: Tell me you’re going to the gala. Oh, please come.

But I don’t look back.