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Hi, or I should probably say bonjour as I’m currently in Paris. I know I’m here, I heard her say it several times. First she told me when we left, and back then I honestly thought she was just joking, but then I heard it from the speakers at the airport and then she said it again on the bus after the plane journey, when she told him on the phone.
Jeremiah, I’m in Paris.
That was when it became real for me and I realized she had been serious the entire time.
And before I could even process what was happening, she said something else to him that, I think, broke me a little.
I don’t want to hurt you, Jere… but I think I’m gonna stay.
What did she mean, she was staying? It for sure meant that I was staying as well. But I wasn’t sure I even wanted that. And he wasn’t with us. So did this mean, I wouldn’t see him anymore? For how long? Would he come too? When?
All that happened a few months ago. And we’re still here. And he has still not come, and damn, I miss him like crazy. But what can I do? I’m just a little one. I depend on them—or rather, on her now, since he’s not here with us.
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It’s been months and I still haven’t set an actual foot on the ground of this city. I’m inside this shabby apartment she shares with those bizarre French people I’m scared of. I’m hiding in her room day and night, when all I want is get out of here and run free.
Free, just like back when we were at Finch college together. During the day, I would wander around campus while they sat in class, and then at night, the three of us would all cuddle up together, either in her dorm or in his room at the frat house. I was living the best life. I was king.
And now I’m… a secret stranger… yes, practically a clandestine lodger, after being a stowaway, because she brought me along in this bag, and no one at the airport even noticed I was there. I had no idea you could get through security like that, but she pulled it off. Somehow. Thank goodness. Just imagine if they had taken me away from her!
I’m not a traveller, but I heard them talk about adventures worthwhile, backpacking through Europe. They wanted me to come along and had researched everything to make it possible. It was a set thing.
So she and I made it to Paris, and I’m still impressed. I’m so proud of her—my mom. That she came here all on her own. I’m glad she took me with her, because I don’t know what I would have done if she had left without me. I would have been depressed for sure.
By the way, I find myself wondering every day how he—my dad—is coping now that she’s gone. Now that I’m not there anymore either. Does he even know where I am? That I’m with her? Is he sad? Maybe depressed? Just like I almost am. Does he miss us? Me? Her?
Why did my parents have to make this complicated? When everything was just perfectly fine.
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I don’t know what’s going on, but today it feels like something is in the air. I think she hasn’t sensed it, but I sure do. I’ve been restless the whole day, and when she finally comes home I snuggle myself against her calves.
She works at a movie theater all day, most days. Then at night, she reads books on sports psychology and stares at her laptop screen until past midnight. 2am pizza is her favorite dinner.
Right now, it’s psych book o’clock, she’s lying on her stomach on her bed, feet in the air, kicking them up and down every once in a while. I’m curled up beside her. It’s warm and cozy, but something is missing.
Always missing—someone.
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I’m dreaming of the Finch college campus park. I’ve been strolling around all morning, until I spot them. They’re there on their favorite bench beneath that big protective tree. She’s sitting on one side, holding a poetry book in her hand. He is sprawled across the bench on his back, his head resting in her lap, a foot propped up on the opposite armrest.
Then she hands him the book and begins to stroke his upper arms—she loves those, trust me, I’ve witnessed it every day, ever since they adopted me during their second year on campus together. She was a sophomore, he was a junior.
He reads to her:
“Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! — On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête …
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête …”
“I love it when you read French to me. You have the cutest accent.”
“I don’t even know what I’m reading, Bells.”
“Let me translate then.”
“Oui Madame!”
A huge grin on his face.
She lets out a laugh, and then she gives him the English version:
“June night! Seventeen!—You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head…
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive…”
He nods, visibly deep in thought.
“Okay, but what does this last part of the poem mean? ‘On n’est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.’”
“It means, ‘No one is serious at seventeen.’”
He nods again. But then he suddenly sits up, turns toward her and takes her hand in his—interlaces their fingers.
“I meant it, Bells.”
“You meant what?”
“I was serious. At seventeen. When I kissed you.”
She smiles at him. And then she kisses him softly and deliberately.
“Me too. Very serious. And I’m still as serious today.”
“Likewise.”
Then he kisses her back.
“Let’s get out of here!?”
That’s when I make my entrance. I walk toward them and jump onto the bench, right between them—or on top of both of them, since they’re always connected. Inseparable. Always as close together as catly—I mean, humanly—possible. Like two puzzle pieces that can’t be pulled apart. They belong together. And I belong with them. I like it. I feel safe with them. I feel at home.
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Felt.
Because now I only get one half of my home.
I miss him.
And I know she does too. She cries at night—tiny sobs. I guess she doesn’t want anyone to hear. Doesn’t want anyone to know. But I hear her.
I know.
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Suddenly, I hear the doorbell. Usually my instinct has me hiding immediately, but not this time. There is an urge inside me to get to that apartment door now. I jump up and sprint toward the door of her room. She gets up, follows me and opens it. I keep by her side when she steps into the hallway. The apartment is empty—what a relief!
The doorbell sounds again. She walks over and turns the key to unlock the door.
In the meantime, I’ve decided to stay back, keeping a safe distance, just in case. I returned into her room and took cover behind the ajar door. I peek around it because I’m far too curious and excited. I want to see who it is.
“Jeremiah?!” She calls out, a mix of surprise and shock written all over her face.
I freeze.
“Hi, Belly.”
I hear his deep, soothing voice, but I can’t bring myself to look. My heart skips a beat. So I stay where I am and listen to their conversation instead.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to barge into your new home like that, without any warning. I didn’t mean to disregard your boundaries. I know you wanted time and space to get to know yourself without me. It’s just that… I miss… I want Macaron.”
“What? Jere, you can eat macarons in Boston. They sell them in the US, you know. No need to follow me to Paris.”
“Bells, that’s not why I’m here, and you know it. Don’t try to fool me, I know you took him. He is here with you, isn’t he? I want him back! And I know I can eat macarons at home. I could literally make them myself… if I wanted to… but all I want is—”
He looks so determined and devastated at the same time.
“You!”
She finishes his sentence. They always did that—completing each other’s sentences, guessing what the other was about to say. They call it ESP or something like that. Idiots! If you ask me, they are simply soulmates. You know, like bonded cats. They see each other and know how to read one another. They’re made for each other. What they have is unique—an invisible string which ties them together. It’s unbreakable. How could they not see?
Anyways… Back to the here and now. I have to blink several times to make sure this is real. And it is! He is really here. And now they’re hugging. She pulls him inside the apartment and closes the door behind them.
That’s my cue. I slowly make my way out of her room and into the hallway. They’re in each other’s arms—holding each other tight—and I want to join them. Since they haven’t noticed me yet, I approach silently, nudge their legs with my head, start circling them, and nuzzle up against them.
“Come on inside.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m not gonna stay though.”
He sets his weekender bag down on the floor.
“I don’t want to intrude into your world. I just would like to spend a moment with—”
“Meow!”
This time it’s me who finishes his sentence, and then I purr as he picks me up and starts stroking me.
“If that’s okay…
“Macaron, I’ve missed you, buddy!”
I snuggle closer to him to let him know that I feel the same.
“Sure.” She finally acquiesces when she sees us together.
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He spends the night with us, and we all sleep cuddled up together in her single-size bed. Like the family we are… or used to be. It’s a tight squeeze, but snug too, and in a way, it reminds me of Finch times.
Except things are much calmer and quieter tonight. This time, they don’t make love, like they used to almost every night back then—I remember how passionate they were, sometimes fierce, sometimes tender.
Tonight, they’re simply holding each other, and I’m curled up at their feet, just like I usually do… or used to do. It feels so good to finally be able to do this again.
I’m happy and reassured. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had since arriving here.
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In the morning, they talk over coffee and croissants.
“I meant it, Jere.”
“Meant what, exactly?”
“When I said on our wedding day, ‘I choose you. I choose us.’ I was serious. I meant it. And I still do. Jere, you’re the one I truly love. And I hate myself for not proving that to you. For not showing you enough what you mean to me, and how much I love you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
“And please know, that I don’t care about him. He doesn’t matter. Not anymore. And when I said I would always love him a little, I meant the kind of love you feel for your first pet, or the first car you drove. He was my first love, but he could never be what you are to me. First loves might be important, but they’re not as important as lasts. And I want you to be my last… if you want that too.”
“Bells, it’s okay. It’s not all on you. I’ve made mistakes too. How about we put that behind us and leave the past in the past!? And yes, I want to be your last. So much. Because you’re the love of my life.”
He lets go of his coffee cup and takes both her hands in his. He caresses her knuckles with his thumbs.
“I got us the apartment, the one you liked so much.”
“Really?”
Both their faces light up in bright smiles.
“Yeah. I’m moving in next week. And it’s yours too, when—if… ever… you come back.”
“Jere, I uh…”
“You don’t need to decide right now. I know you’re not finished here and you’re probably enrolled in college and want to graduate and everything. Just know, I’ll be there… waiting… for you.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that. And I will be coming back. After my psych program at the Sorbonne university, and graduation. Soon.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
“I know.”
“I applied to culinary school in Boston. I got in. Starting next semester.”
“Wow, Jere, that’s amazing. You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
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After breakfast, they go sightseeing in the city for a bit. I don’t go along because Paris still feels slightly intimidating to me. Besides, I want to give them some alone time.
After a while they come back, and we all go outside together. Not far, just to sit at the Seine river bank for an evening picnic. Baguette, cheese and wine for them. And my favorite fresh cat food for me. I love my parents, they always spoil me.
“Escargots and frites next time then. Okay?”
“Okay. Does this mean you will come visit again?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes. Yes, absolutely!”
“Okay. I will.”
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When we return to the apartment, they go straight to bed. I curl up on my blanket at the foot of the bed.
This time, they make love. Twice. First, passionately and wildly, full of desire for one another. Then, very slowly and gently, with lots of kissing and whispered sweet nothings, until they fall asleep in each other’s arms.
They are so cute.
And I’m blissed out.
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The next morning they have to say goodbye. He has his flight back to Boston. She and I are staying in Paris. But he doesn’t leave without handing her two golden keys, both attached to a golden seashell shaped keyring.
“These are yours. The summer house and… our apartment. Can’t wait for you to join me there. With Macaron, obviously.”
“I can’t wait either.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
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It’s always been their story. Bells’ and Jere’s. Nobody else’s.
Just maybe a tiny little bit mine too.
By the way, I’m Macaron, a former feral cat from Finch college campus, now Jelly cat in Paris and soon in Boston with my BellyJere.
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