Sweet Filthy Boy

“Hide my passport and I’m here for good.”

“You think I haven’t already thought of that? Don’t be surprised if you come home one day and it’s gone.” He leans in, kisses me before pulling back. “Okay, that’s creepy; it’s in the top of the dresser where it belongs.”

I laugh, swatting him away. “Go to work.”

He groans and rolls off me, lying on his back on the bed. “If I didn’t have a meeting today with a client I’ve been waiting months to talk to, I’d call and say I’m feeling sick.”

I prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. “It’s a big one?”

“Very big. What happens today could mean the difference between this case ending in the next six weeks, and dragging on for months and months.”

“Then you should get started.”

“I know,” he says on an exhale.

“And I’ll be here, waiting for you at seven.” I haven’t even finished the sentence and he’s turned to me, smiling again. “And you won’t be late.”

He sits up, takes my face in his hands before kissing me deeply, tongues and teeth, fingers that slip down my body to brush over my nipple.

Standing abruptly, he does the world’s most hilarious version of the robot beside the bed. He bleats out the words in an automaton voice: “I won’t be late.”

“Did you just do that so I’d think you’re adorable even if you’re late tonight?”

“I won’t be late!” But he robots again anyway, sandy hair falling over his forehead, and then moonwalks out of the room.

“Worst dancer ever!” I yell after him. But it’s a total lie. He has rhythm and an ease in his skin that can’t be taught. A true dancer is fun to watch, whether or not they’re dancing, and I could watch Ansel for hours.

He laughs, calling out, “Be good, Wife!” and then the door clicks behind him.

BUT OF COURSE he’s late.

At seven thirty Ansel bursts into the flat, and becomes a whirlwind of activity: tossing off his work clothes, pulling on jeans and a casual button-down shirt. He kisses me quickly as he sprints to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and then pulls my hand, guiding me out of the apartment and into the elevator.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, pressing me against the wall as he reaches to push the button for the ground floor.

“Hi.” I barely get the sound out before he’s kissing me, lips hungry and searching, sucking at my bottom lip, my jaw, my neck.

“Tell me you really, really want to meet my friends, or else I’m taking you back there to undress and f**k until you’re hoarse.”

I laugh, pushing him away slightly and kissing him one more time squarely on the lips before saying, “I want to meet your friends. You can undress me later.”

“Then tell me a story about Madame Allard, because that’s the only way I’m going to quickly lose this erection.”

MARIE AND CHRISTOPHE’S building is only a few blocks away from where we emerge from the métro and when it comes into view I stop and stare. Ansel’s apartment manages to be both small and airy. There’s nothing over-the-top or pretentious about any of it: it’s an older building, and as easygoing and comfortable as he is. This place . . . is not.

The façade is stone, and while it has an aged look about it—easily blending with the surrounding construction—it’s clearly been renovated, and at no small cost. The apartments on the bottom floor are each anchored by a set of wide steps, capped with red doors and gleaming brass knockers. The second and third floor apartments boast arched windows leading to individual balconies with ornate ironwork of tiny metal blossoms erupting from intricate molded vines.

Trees line the busy street, and beneath the welcome shadow they provide I take a moment to gather myself and prepare for a room of strangers and conversations I probably won’t understand. Ansel presses his palm to my lower back, whispering, “Ready?”

Weeks ago the very idea of doing this—without Lola or Harlow to carry the conversation if I lost Ansel in the crowd and went mute—would have made me shudder in horror. I don’t know what it will be like upstairs, but if the roaring laughter coming from the window is any indication, the party is already in full swing, even this early in the evening. I just hope everyone up there is as nice as Ansel promises me they will be. I catch a glimpse of our reflection and startle slightly. I look at myself every morning, but it’s different in the windows of this place somehow. My hair is longer, bangs swept to the side instead of cutting a straight line across my forehead. I’ve gained a little weight and feel less boyish, more like a woman. My skirt is from a small shop near Montmartre, my face is bare of all but the slightest hint of makeup, but still glowing. It’s fitting that I look different; I feel different. And beside me, Ansel towers above, his arm protectively curled around my waist, and I see in the reflection when he bends to catch my attention. “Hey.”

“I was looking at that cute couple.” I nod to the window.

After studying us for a long, quiet beat, he plants a sweet kiss on my lips. “Come on, Cerise.”

Marie answers the door with a happy yelp, and pulls us into the melee, kissing my cheeks before passing me off to Christophe’s open arms.

“It is Ansel’s Mia!” he yells in English to everyone, and a roomful of people turn and look at me with wide, curious eyes as Ansel hands the bottle of wine to Marie.