Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“What do you do about the OCD?” He asks in a kind tone that says he isn’t afraid. “It sounds like you’re treating it? If that’s the right word.”
“I see a therapist who specializes in it. She’s helped me learn some skills. Some things that I can focus on instead. Things that I can say to myself when I have the thoughts so I know that they aren’t who I really am or what I want. I tell myself I’m the reader of my thoughts, not the writer. And that helps. They’re part of my brain but not part of a true desire. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods passionately, reassuringly as he steps closer to me. “That must be hard for you. Even if you know where these fears come from, they’re still real.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice pitching up. “They are. But I can’t avoid them all the time. I have to face them. That’s why the other day, I went out to the balcony too. And I stayed there for a bit. My therapist encouraged me to have exposure around some of these things instead of avoiding them.”
“I sensed that was important to you. I’m sorry I plowed ahead.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “It was kind. But I had to do it too, you know?”
He nods. “I do. I get that. I’m glad you felt comfortable joining me there.”
“I did. I feel better telling you too. So you…get it,” I say.
All at once, I feel lighter. I wasn’t looking for this understanding from him but now that I have it, I don’t want to let it go.
His soulful green eyes meet mine, holding my gaze with his own vulnerability. “If there’s anything I can do…if there’s anything that you think would help me understand it and you, would you let me know?”
I could cry. Those aren’t the words of a man who just wants to fuck me. Those are the words of a man who cares about me. Just like I care about him. I feel safe with him. I feel like myself with him.
“Honestly, you did that just now. And the other day, too, on the balcony. Just that kind of quiet encouragement helps. But mostly, thank you for listening.” But that’s not all. I’m so glad he asked. I didn’t know I’d want that till it happened. But I feel seen, and understood.
Finn holds my face gently. “That can’t have been easy. Thank you for letting me in.”
I close my eyes, taking his comfort, needing it. That was hard, but it feels so good. This wasn’t on the Paris list—telling my father’s best friend the truth about my mental health. But I’ve done it and somehow it makes me feel even better about all of the sex that we’ve had.
When I let go, I take his hand, and we walk until it’s time for work.
We make plans again for dinner that evening. As the twilight darkens the sky, we duck into a bistro with a back patio, hemmed in by tall hedges. “No one can find us here,” I say.
“Where?” he deadpans.
“Exactly.”
“It’s just us,” he says as we settle in at a small green table in the corner.
It sure feels that way all through drinks and dinner. After the server clears our plates, Finn’s phone rings with a FaceTime call from his son.
“Mind if I answer?”
“Not at all,” I say, glad he’s not thinking twice about talking to Zach around me.
Finn chats with him at the table, then adds, “Jules is here. Got any burning Captain Dude questions?”
My heart skips a beat that Finn’s so easily bringing me into the conversation.
“No, but I want to tell her something else,” Zach says, then Finn adjusts the screen so I can see his kid.
Zach’s hair is a wild mess. He’s unkempt and probably unwashed, but he’s lit up with excitement as he tells us about making a dam with David, then asks me if I’ve ever made one, then says he and David are going to try the Diet Coke and Mentos experiment at home. “Can you come over and join us?”
For a few delirious seconds, I feel like I can say yes.
Like saying yes would be part of the just us deal his dad and I made an hour ago.
But I can’t. That’s the rose-colored glasses of Paris making me feel like anything’s possible. Instead I say, “Thanks for the invite.”
I won’t be able to accept, but I’m lucky to have received it.
The next day, Finn and I meet as soon as the workday ends, heading to a brasserie on Île de la Cité, a little island in the middle of the river. It feels like an escape within an escape, like we’re tunneling farther into this make-believe dream of us.
As we eat at a sidewalk table, Finn tells me about his family, how he was raised, all the things he wished for as a kid. They grew up with little, and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to afford college. “I put all my focus into soccer and went on a scholarship,” he tells me over wine, then he shrugs. “But I wasn’t so good that I could make a living at that. So, the business degree helped.”