Page 190 - Interior_SPRING SUMMER FALLING_2021

190 | FRANCESCA P E NN

have a chance. Hope swells in my heart for the first time that day. If I were the only
one making a fool out of myself in Florida, wouldn’t my mom or dad have said
something by now? I jump up. I need to watch the DVD again.
I turn on the television and take a calming breath. I know seeing him will cut
deep. I know looking at a time where we were great together will feel like I’d lost a

vital limb. I must try. Our scene comes on, and this time, I focus solely on him. He
rushes in with his bags in his hand. He helps me without asking. He joins me in an
impromptu musical although I’ve never heard him sing until that moment. Not
even in the car. He looks at me tenderly and caresses my face.
My brain produces snippets of our time together. He protected me the whole
weekend. He was a gentleman when I was too drunk to consent. He cooked for
me; never freaked out because of one of my mom’s crazy ideas. Kisses me just
because. Asked for me as a birthday gift. Insisted we continue our physical
relationship. As far as I knew, he never talked to or flirted with another girl…
My heart thuds harder with each memory. Henri made me host Fourth of July
so both of our families could be together. Accepted me in his bed even when I was
being distant the entire day. I feel like an idiot. I had a whole boyfriend and didn’t
realize it. I feel a sudden sadness for him. What I thought was me taking a break

from a friends-with-benefits type of situation to not freak him out with my
feelings, he’d taken as me breaking up with him. Ah, hell. Adult communication
at its finest.
I jump up with a renewed sense of hope. I have to go get my man. Mine! I
brush the tangles out of the rat’s nest on my head, throw it in a ponytail, and brush
my teeth for the second time. I wiggle into some skinny jeans, a baby tee, and some
sandals. He may not answer my calls, but I will find him. I must find a way to make
him listen to me. I Google how to say “I love you” in French. The letters mean
nothing. I YouTube the pronunciation. I crank up the volume. I put my phone on
the counter and begin to put on my earrings. I hit “Skip Ad,” and the
pronunciation loads.
An electric current hits my body when I hear it. The person repeats it. And I
feel like I’ve been shot. Like a vital organ has been cut out of me and laid bare. The
recording stops. I play it again just in case I’ve had some sort of hallucination. I
swipe at an errant tear. I’m not mistaken. This is the exact thing Henri says to me
at night, in bed, or just because it’s Tuesday. I’d asked him yesterday what it meant.