“There is a dude waiting by the arch of the park, and he keeps swiping on his phone.” Emma’s voice echoed through the speakerphone. “Oh wait, negative—he has a takeout bag. Thank god. I swear he was swiping on Tinder.”
I stared at my ceiling, my feet resting on the wall in my high black socks. I was lying on the opposite side of my bed, hugging or, more likely, strangling my pillow, close to my chest. “Let’s just abort. I’m not going.”
“Keine Chance!” Emma only took her German voice when she was either angry or starving. “It’s only 6:45 p.m. Tell me what he looks like again?”
This mission was a failure from the start.
I had the good idea to talk about my late-night encounter with the mysterious stranger with Emma, who, since that mistake, kept pushing me to accept his date as if it were some sign of the universe. I was fine slumped in my bed, my computer open with a total of fifty words written in the space of three hours.
In the midst of negotiation with Emma, I had sent her and Rosie on a quest to find Ajax. I wouldn’t stand alone in front of the Louvre without an invitation, waiting for a man that might stand me up. Nothing guaranteed that Ajax would come, and if he did, my lack of trust in human beings wanted to know if he would wait for me or if I was just a spare wheel of no importance. It was an evil plan, but better to be evil than a fool.
“If a Greek warrior like the hot version of Hades had a grumpy twin, it’d be him.” I forced myself to stand, sauntering across my small apartment—which basically allowed me to take no more than five steps. “Only probably wearing a tux as dark as his eyes.”
“So he’s that hot?” The sound of Emma’s footsteps quickened as if passing through a bush or something. “Rosalind! Stop eating everything you—”
The phone’s microphone made an unbearably shrill noise, and a grimace formed on my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m getting closer to the Louvre. It’s pretty crowded here. That event is super fancy. Wait, I’m sending you a video!”
Great. I swallowed when I received Emma’s video notification on my phone. Unlocking it, I got a glimpse of the luxurious cars dropping off guests in elegant cocktail clothing. I would definitely ruin the vibe like an unwanted cloud ready to ruin the summer beach days.
I had a thing against artists: the story ending with Spectre and his Sad Girl, and beginning when I got fired from my temporary job for being a mediocre muse at Les Beaux Arts seven years ago, in comparison to the muse who agreed to pose naked with more cleavage than I could pretend to have with an extreme push-up bra. And let’s not forget my beloved ex, Augustus.
Augustus. I used to believe his name made him sound like a prince. He was the epitome of the good guy, the popular, extroverted one that carried charisma with a full grin. I thought we were in love in every pastel romantic dress I wore by his side, with each tender gesture I allowed myself to feel, and with each beat of my weak and naive heart. I was the girl hoping for a man who would finally give her all the love she was yearning for.
But in the end, that prince of hers had broken her heart the day her world crumbled apart. Augustus had always been in love with the other girl. She wasn’t the mean antagonist as you’d expect her to be. No, she was the one with shiny, silky hair she didn’t need to brush, the girl next door that everyone adored, except for the villain who grew a feeling of jealousy toward her. Violette, featured in the list of “top 10 names for beautiful girls.”
Violette and Augustus were the main characters, and I was the villain separating those young lovers from true love. And as a villain, no one will root for your happy ending. You’re simply imperfect, selfish, and unworthy. Left out of the tale.
“Aurore?” Emma asked with her soft voice, probably not for the first time. “Did you receive it?”
“Yes, thank you.” I cleared my throat, trying to deny the spike in my heart. “Emma, don’t bother yourself. I have to—”
“What better things do you have to do, huh? To stay locked away inside your dark tower until you decompose?”
I snapped my eyes at my closed curtains and at the gloominess of my bedroom slash apartment. “It’d be a contemporary version of Corpse Rapunzel, where—”
“I think I found him!” Emma’s shrill scream echoed in my ears, and I was convinced every neighborhood in Paris was now informed she was looking for someone. “Well, well, he’s quite handsome, and I’m not into dark-haired guys.”
I rose, alert, a whimper slipping free from my lips. “Are you sure?”
“Everyone is entering the pyramid except for him. He’s alone, wearing a black and burgundy suit, and looks kinda lost, I have to admit. Understandable—it’s 7:00 p.m., and you’re not here. He’s probably wondering where you are and if you’ll come.” The pun was intentional.
She snapped another video, which I jumped on my phone to see. That was him. Ajax, with his arms casually crossed on his chest, crushing the other guests with his imposing aura. A few female gazes turned toward him while his stare was lost in the opposite direction. He didn’t blend in at all with the festive, smiling people. Poker-faced and cold as stone, my aloof stranger was there, waiting. And I was so not ready, neither physically nor emotionally.
“I hope your silence means you’re getting dressed.” Emma’s voice turned sweet and caring. “Don’t let this man pay for the wrongs others did to you. It’s your time—don’t let something that can be beautiful vanish away because you’re scared. Look what happened to me and Léo.”
“I’m not scared, and perhaps I don’t want what you guys have,” I muttered. “Love is not meant to be for everyone, and don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.”
“You’re saying that, yet you’re the one who’s collecting modern princess dresses and never wearing them,” she snorted. “Probably because, for some reason, you’re waiting for the right moment. I don’t know why you changed drastically. You’re romantic, and whether your sarcastic self wants to admit it or not, you still believe in love. Even if he’s not the one, don’t miss an opportunity. This is not the same story and not the same ending.”
I cast my gaze toward the object that took up the most space in my microscopic apartment: my closet. It was filled with ball gowns I’d never have the opportunity to wear, reminding me constantly of all the money I spent ridiculously. Therapy would say it was a sickness, but for me, it was my childhood hopes and dreams. It was as if I had locked the happiest part of me in that closet, and she wanted to escape, screaming for me to release her, but she couldn’t be trusted.
Because that’s the thing about being the antihero or the second character of the tale: the acknowledgment of being misunderstood is easier to admit on paper than in real life. We tend to hide our troubling parts from society to be accepted.
“Sweetie, it’s 7:05 p.m.” Emma’s voice was almost imperceptible.
I was daring myself to go. Perhaps I could get inspired? I’ve been on dates, and even though the outcomes were disastrous with men who turned out to be in relationships, others who had a Don Juan complex, and those immature ones looking for their mothers, a flicker of hope was still there: that it could turn into something epic for a day. I knew the end of the story, but the beginning… Maybe Ajax could display a powerful beginning I could shamelessly represent in my fairy-tale story?
“What would I even wear?” Lately, my closet had been filled with purple and black since I didn’t want to add the other colors back to my life.
“You’re the one who’s always helping me with this. I bet you already know,” she quipped back with a laugh. “But please, no more black. Be friendly. Open. Don’t scare him away! Let’s go, Rosalind. Our mission here is done.”
“I’m going,” I firmly decided. “This could be revenge against my old, weak self. I’m stronger than that—I’ll grab inspiration by the balls, and tomorrow, I’ll have a chapter written.”
“Yes! I’m so happy you’ve made the right choice,” she said. “Even though I was expecting a more romantic answer. It sounds like you’re going to war.”
“Perhaps I am,” I joked—not entirely. “I need to hurry. Thank you again, Emma!”
“Keep us updated! Lo—”
I hung up and rushed to my closet, opening it in one swift move. Going to war. I grabbed a mix of crimson and black to give me enough courage—for instance, while facing adversity, you should always wear red, and this way, Emma wouldn’t complain. I wasn’t all black, and she had said nothing against my leather biker boots with ankles that made me look like a gladiator in high heels—not that I knew how to walk with that.
I sprinted to the bathroom.
It was 7:10 p.m.
I was not dressed. Not wearing makeup. My hair was tied up with my clip in something that looked like a bun.
I was dead set on going, but the question was would he wait for me until then?
