She turns her back to me again, her hands behind her head as she loops her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. The giant diamond ring on her left hand flashes in the sunlit room, flaming the war of emotions inside me.
“I’m ready,” she says quietly and grabs her clutch, holding it between her hands while she quietly waits for me.
“Then let’s go.” I brush by her and she spins to catch up. I don’t wait. I open the door to the hall and go out first, not holding it for her. Not caring if it swings back in her face. It doesn’t, of course, and only when we reach the lobby do I slow down and allow her to walk beside me.
I jut my bent arm in her direction, but she hesitates to slip her hand over my elbow.
“We have an image to uphold, in case you’ve forgotten,” I hiss. “The public doesn’t need to know what a conniving liar you are.”
She lifts her chin and takes my arm. We both paste on fake smiles as another couple comes toward us. After they pass, she gives my arm a little squeeze. “Can we please talk, Luka?”
“There’s nothing you could say to me that I’m interested in hearing. Now smile big.”
Another couple, more fake smiles. Finally, we’re outside and the sunlight warms my face. I feel a flash of relief until I remember the ugly reality of the situation. With no destination in mind, we take a left and begin to wander. Brooklyn’s grip tightens on my arm as she tilts her head back, taking in the sight of the sloped mansard roofs on the old buildings, the puffy white clouds, the sweet smells from a bakery that fill the air as we stroll down the sidewalk.
A woman stands outside the boulangerie, wearing a starched linen apron and holding a silver tray with various fruit and chocolate pastries cut into sample sizes. Her smile brightens when she sees us approach. Holding out the tray, she murmurs in French for us to try some.
Brooklyn moves to accept a treat, but I tell the woman, “Merci,mais non,” and subtly steer my wife away.
“Those are too good for you,” I whisper harshly when we’re out of range.
Her jaw drops. “But I’m starving!”
“Not my problem.”
She shoots me a glare, but I keep my gaze focused straight ahead.
“This is how it’s going to be, Luka? For real?” She’s walking faster now.
“Remember who started this. For clarity’s sake, it wasn’t me.”
There’s a crowd up ahead near a café, so we smile again and politely make our way through. Brooklyn slows her stride to assess what the people sitting at the sidewalk tables have on their plates as we pass. I pull her along, ignoring her irritated huff.
“We should eat if we’re going to be walking around the city all day,” she points out.
I scoff. “I’m not sitting down to share a meal with you. Besides, we had coffee and croissants this morning. You’re fine.”
“That was just a snack!” she protests.
“You can wait to eat in your own room back at the hotel.”
Brooklyn quickens her pace again, her jaw tightening. “You’re being a complete ass.”
I don’t know why she keeps setting herself up like this. “I wouldn’t have to be, if my wife wasn’t a liar.”
I have no patience, the irritation inside me building to a boiling point. This walk isn’t helping me blow off any steam. Brooklyn’s touch on my arm is bittersweet, and I just want to be done with this whole thing.
“I’m stopping for coffee,” she says, pulling away from me and marching toward a crêperie that has a street-facing window with a to-go counter.
Following her, I watch as she struggles with the menu, handwritten in French on a chalkboard. At one point she glances over at me with her brows knit together, as if I might use my proficiency in the language to help her out. I don’t. Finally, she goes up to the counter and stumbles through an order, paying with a credit card and returning with a café au lait in a gold paper cup and what looks like a ham, mushroom, and cheese crêpe wrapped in wax paper. From the looks of it, she ordered well—but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of telling her that.
We start back down the street, and with both hands occupied, she can’t take my arm again. I’m both disappointed and relieved.
As she nibbles on her food, we wander. The blend of Gothic, Renaissance, and Classical architecture is captivating, and we walk in silence for a while just soaking it all in. Until we both glance up to find laundry hanging out to dry between the peach-hued buildings and spy a fluttering, lacy white gown hanging haphazardly over the line, as if someone had simply tossed it out the window to land where it may.
Brooklyn pulls out her phone to capture the image, no doubt for her Insta followers. “I can almost see a story there,” she murmurs to herself as she swipes through various filters.
“I’m sensing a scorned lover,” I interject. “The groom probably had the good sense to call it off before he got screwed over.”