Our orders to go home came more swiftly than I had anticipated. Kenny, Christophe and myself had spent three days working together, trying to clear the streets of debris and fix up his building, while Bebe went back to helping out at the food bank.
It was hard work, but very satisfying, as other citizens of Rouen joined us, no long apathetic about the state of their city now that the Bosche were gone. We'd managed to clear the road directly in front of La Pelle, and were discussing buying new panes of glass for the windows out front when Craig appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
“We're leaving tomorrow at noon,” he said without preamble, “We're to meet an army convoy to the east of town, and they'll take us to the field where we'll meet the plane.”
I looked at Kenny, panicked, and he looked vaguely alarmed, but carried on a polite conversation with Craig, while I stood there, frozen. Christophe looked somewhat stunned as well, but didn't look in my direction.
“May I speak to you in private?” I asked Kenny, after Craig left. He shrugged, and Christophe watched us as we disappeared into the bar, heading up to the flat.
“I know it's not really any of my business,” I started, sitting on the sofa, “but what exactly are you planning to do about Bebe?”
“What do you mean?” Kenny said, looking confused.
“I mean, when we go home tomorrow... what then? Have you two talked about it?”
He stared at me sadly for a moment, and then sat next to me on the sofa.
“You're worried about leaving Christophe,” he stated.
“Well, frankly, yes. He... he won't come with me, and I can't stay here. But I... well...”
“You're madly in love with him?” Kenny asked.
“What! No, of course not. That's ridiculous,” I sputtered.
“Sure, ok,” Kenny said, but I knew that once again he had seen right through me.
“May I confide in you?” I asked, hesitating.
“Always,” he said, smiling at me.
“I joined the SOE because I was suicidal.”
“Well, who didn't?” he asked. I stared at him in disbelief until he held up his hands. “Ok, sorry. Continue confiding.”
“The thing is... I felt I had no reason to live. I was alone. When I came back from my tour of duty in Africa I had no career, no purpose, and no goals of any kind. I was drifting aimlessly, and I became crushed under the weight of that. And then I came here, thinking I would be killed, putting an end to all that. But working with the Resistance gave me the sense of purpose I needed. I'm intelligent. I'm capable. I just need to have something to which I can apply those abilities. But it's over now, and we're going home, and I'm so afraid things will just go back to the way they used to be.”
Kenny shrugged at me. “I think you could do whatever you wanted, Gregory.”
“But see, therein lies the problem. I don't want to do anything. I can't think of a single thing that I'd like to do with the rest of my life. And I'm afraid that I'll slip right back into that depression before I can figure it out. And... and without Christophe with me...”
“You don't seem like the type of person who needs to be in a relationship to be happy,” Kenny said, looking at me oddly.
“That isn't it at all!” I exclaimed, irritated that he was missing my point, “I don't need to be with someone to be happy. Being with him wouldn't solve my problems. I'd still be adrift, and without a goal, at least initially. But, don't you see? Being with him would make it so much easier to get through all that! I... I need him, Kenny, to make those things more bearable!”
He stared at me for a moment, clearly think about what I'd said.
“Have you told him any of this?” he asked.
“Don't be stupid, of course not. He doesn't feel the same way about me. I asked him to come to England with me, and he said no. End of story.”
He shook his head and ran his hands over his face, looking incredibly frustrated. “You're both impossible, you know that? Maybe you should actually try talking to him about this.”
“I can't, Kenny,” I said, “I told you, he doesn't feel that way about me. He wants to stay here. Obviously he doesn't need me.”
“Ok, this is going nowhere,” he muttered, getting up from the sofa, “Talk to him, before it's too late. That's all I have to say.”
I glared at him, but he simply gave me a shrug before turning away.
“You never told me what's going on with you and Bebe,” I said as he walked off. He paused, and turned back to me, a weird mix of jubilation and regret on his face.
“Well... um... we're getting married,” he said, the smile he was trying to fight overtaking his entire face, “She's going to join me in London, once I get settled back in.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised, “Well... I... congratulations, then.”
“Thanks,” he said, still grinning, “I didn't want to bring it up cause... well I didn't want to rub it in your face or anything. And I know you and Bebe don't always get along. But you'll be invited to the wedding, of course.”
I gave him a shaky smile, and he headed back downstairs, probably noticing how upset I was becoming. I was happy for him, I truly was. But it hurt to know that he would be spending the rest of his life with the person he loved, while I would probably continue on with my long-standing tradition of heartbreak.
The evening was one of the worst I had ever endured. Kenny left for Bebe's shortly after our discussion, and apparently Christophe had spent the rest of the afternoon scouring the city for something good to serve for my goodbye dinner. He was apologetic that all he'd been about to find was a rather pathetic looking chicken and some potatoes, but it hardly mattered. The meal could have come from the King's own kitchen, and it still would have tasted like sawdust to me.
Normally we would clean up before we went to bed, but Christophe insisted that we left the dishes where they were, practically dragging me into the bedroom, planting kisses across my face the whole way there.
“I hope you don't plan on sleeping tonight,” he breathed in my ear, after he pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me.
I said nothing, afraid that if I opened my mouth I would beg him to come with me when I left, but I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close to me.
We made love three times that night, slow, and gentle, and sweet. By the third time I was fighting back tears with every ounce of my strength. I was biting my tongue with every movement of his hips, trying not to say the things I'd been holding back. I need you, Christophe. I love you, Christophe. I can't live without you.
I was glad when he finally fell asleep as the rising sun began to tint the horizon, and I curled onto my side, sobbing as quietly as I could.
He awoke just early enough to have breakfast with me, and afterwards, as we waited for the car Craig was sending over, I swear Christophe must have kissed me a thousand times. Each one made me sadder, until he finally stopped, staring at me strangely.
“You've been very distant the last few days,” he said, studying my face.
“Yes, well, in a few hours I'll be even more distant,” I replied, not meeting his eyes.
He sighed, and stood up, walking into the bedroom. I heard him rummaging through a drawer, and then he reappeared again.
“I want to give you something,” he said, coming back toward me. He held a small, golden pocket watch in his hand. “My mother gave me this when I was very small. She told me it was my father's,” he said, staring at it, “I never knew him. I don't even know what happened to him, because my mother refused to tell me anything. Hell, maybe it wasn't really his pocket watch, I don't know. But when I was a child, I used to sleep with it in my hands, clutched to me. I would pretend the ticking sound was his heartbeat, and when I was sad, especially when I missed this unknown man, it would make me feel better.”
He held it out to me, and I pulled it from his hands, marvelling at the beautiful craftsmanship. It had delicate filigree work along the back, and two enamelled birds sitting together on a branch.
“I can't take this, Christophe,” I said, looking at at him.
“You can and you will. Because I know you're sad. And I know you'll miss me. And when that happens I want you to hold that, and think of me. Ok? Because I will be missing you, too.”
I was too choked up to respond, so I was glad when he pulled me into an embrace, burying his face in my hair. We jumped as we heard the horn of a car outside.
When we got downstairs, Craig informed us that Christophe would not be allowed to ride to the airfield with us. Apparently Kenny had wanted to bring Bebe along for the ride as well, and Craig had mercilessly shot that down, too.
“You're a major asshole, Craig, you know that?” Kenny asked, scowling at him.
“What the fuck do I care?” he responded, “I don't need you to like me. What I need is for the both of you to get into the fucking car, right now, or we're going to miss our plane.”
I looked at Christophe, distraught that this was to be it. He pulled me by the arm back into the bar, yelling at Craig that we'd be back in just a minute. I could hear Craig yelling obscenities in our direction as Christophe shut the door behind us, but when Christophe pressed his lips to mine, everything else was wiped from my mind. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he squeezed me against him until I could hardly breathe. When he pulled back, I tried to smile at him, but I could feel my lips quivering.
It was then that Craig wrenched the door open, snarling at me and pulling on my arm. He didn't seem to notice or care that Christophe and I had been embracing, and he cursed at me until we were back out on the street. I felt my heart tear in two as I got into the car.
“Write to me, ok?” Christophe called through the open window.
I nodded to him as the car pulled away, and that was the end of it.
London was much the same as when I'd left it. A little more war-torn, perhaps, but after being in Rouen for five months, it looked perfectly fine to me. As I had anticipated, Kenny and I were discharged from the SOE within a few weeks, and left to our own devices. He got a flat in the city, and I lived in my parents' enormous town home temporarily, where I thankfully still had Kyle to keep me company. He was in the process of immigrating to America, doing research and filing the necessary paperwork and such, but Stan had apparently not been discharged yet, and was still staying in some hospital in New Jersey where he was undergoing rehabilitation for his injured leg.
Kyle was ecstatic to see me when I arrived at my parents' home, running out to meet the car they'd hired for me and throwing himself into my arms.
“Thank God you're here!” he said, smiling.
Apparently my parents had been quite kind to him, but were “stifling” in their attempts to help him out. I knew the feeling, as that was how my parents had been my entire life. They tended to be rather controlling and overbearing, but their actions and advice were very rarely helpful in any real way.
“I won't be here much longer, though,” Kyle said to me, “Stan expects to be discharged before long, and then we're buying me a ticket on a ship, straight to New York.”
He looked excited at that thought, and I could hardly blame him. Europe must seem like nothing but a source of misery at this point, and getting to start over again with the man he loved must have been a dream come true for him.
Still, I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for myself. It seemed as though everyone's fairy tale had a happy ending except my own.
For the first few months, I slept a lot, keeping my curtains drawn to block out the sun. I didn't leave my childhood bedroom often, other than to come downstairs to eat with my parents and Kyle when I had an appetite, and I didn't socialise with anyone, unless Kyle came to join me in my room, or Kenny happened to be visiting. They both knew I was in a delicate mood, and tended to just spend time with me in silence, reading or napping while I brooded under the bedclothes, holding Christophe's pocket watch against my chest and imagining the ticking was his heart. This was comforting to me at times, but more often than not I'd just end up sobbing once I was left alone.
Though it may not have seemed like it, I did appreciate Kyle and Kenny's company a great deal, as well as the fact that neither was offended by my moods. I thought they might grow bored with me, as I was hardly a great conversationalist during these times, but neither ever showed signs of it, and when I brought it up they'd just say they liked spending time with me, even if we weren't doing anything special. Still, their friendship was never enough to ease my heartache. I felt so empty all the time, and lost interest in everything. I had never felt so awful in my entire life, even when Gary had left me. It was unbearable.
After a while of this, my father apparently became fed up with my sulking, and set me up with a job in a government office, as the coordinator of something or other. I won't bore you with the details, but it was a very prestigious job, and far more interesting than I had anticipated when it was initially offered to me. It was enough to get me out of bed each morning, and by the new year I was feeling well enough to move into my own flat, which was large and quite nice. I filled it with expensive antique furniture that Kenny made fun of every time he visited, claiming it was the type of thing a fussy old grandmother would have. It wasn't as though I had lace doilies around, though, so I never quite understood what he was getting at. I think perhaps he just liked taking cheap shots at me. I didn't see him very often, though, as he'd found a job at a rather nice pub, and was spending a great deal of his free time planning his upcoming nuptials.
Kyle lived with me at the flat for about a month, situated comfortably in my spare bedroom until Stan was finally discharged and the time came for them to be together once more. Kyle was all smiles as I took him to meet the ship, and though I would miss him, I was glad to see him off, knowing how happy he would be with his new life. We kept in touch after that, but as the weeks and months wore on, I grew quite despondent once more, spending most of my free time walled away in my bedroom. I went through the motions of work and socialising, keeping up the charade of a normal, happy young man, but I knew something was missing. And I knew exactly what it was.
“Why haven't you written to Christophe?” Bebe asked me at her wedding reception.
I had never been to a wedding in a Catholic church before, and the whole experience was delightfully new to me. Since Bebe's English was not very good (or non-existent, as far as I was concerned), the entire thing had been conducted in French, much to my amusement. None of the other guests seemed to have enjoyed it.
“How do you know I haven't?” I asked, offended by her nosiness. She rolled her eyes at me.
“Because after you left he never shut up about you. He was really upset that he never heard from you! Contrary to what you seem to think, he is my friend, and I hated seeing him so depressed. I've never seen him take so long to get over someone.”
“Oh,” I said. We sat in silence for a moment and I fiddled with my empty wine glass, wishing it was full. I didn't really want to discuss this with her, of all people, “Well, I suppose he's gotten over me by now, though.”
“Ugh, no,” she said, looking disgusted, though whether it was at me or Christophe, I wasn't sure, “Last time I saw him he was still moping around. He still hasn't reopened the bar, and he's so broke he's talking about selling the building and moving to the country to be a farmer or some ridiculous thing.”
I was surprised at that, since I had always felt he cared more for his damn bar than for me. Somehow I could picture Christophe as a farmer, but the thought was rather unappealing. All the farmers I had met in France had been withered and impoverished.
I glanced around the room, not sure what to say. For a moment I watched Kenny's younger sister dance with some soldier I didn't know. I'd been thoroughly disgusted by his parents, who had arrived at the church completely intoxicated, and his brother hadn't even bothered to show up, but his sister seemed like a sweet young lady. I could see why he was so protective of her.
“You should write to him,” Kenny said, breaking me out of my thoughts after I'd been silent for a moment, “What do you have to lose? Tell him how you feel.”
And so I did.
The full contents of the letter I sent to him are so sappy that I can't bear to repeat them to anyone. But my words were nothing but sincere. I told him about my job, and how I might enjoy it if the other aspects of my life didn't make me so miserable. I told him of the time I'd spent with Kyle, and how happy he'd been when the moment finally came for him to be reunited with Stan. I told him about Kenny and Bebe's wedding, although I knew if she was in contact with him she'd probably tell him herself, in more detail than he would ever want to know.
But what I wrote the most about was my feelings for him. How much I missed him. How nothing seemed worthwhile without him. How I wished at every moment of the day that he was with me. And that I loved him so much that I didn't think I would ever get over him. I felt both humiliated and relieved to finally be putting my feelings down on paper, and I mailed the letter the moment I was finished with it, because I knew if I didn't I would second-guess sharing all those things with him, and would end up never sending it.
He never wrote me back. As the weeks went on without my having heard from him, I grew even more despondent than before.
It was a blustery evening toward the end of April, and I was walking home from work, lost in my own thoughts. It had been a hellish day in the office, and I was very glad to be going home, where I anticipated having a large glass of brandy and a good, long sleep.
I noticed nothing odd as I approached the door of my flat, but the moment I stepped inside I could tell something was wrong. There was a large bag on the floor by the sofa, and there was a Debussy record playing on my Victrola. I heard humming coming from the kitchen, and that was when I noticed the faint smell of something cooking. I crept into the kitchen, wondering what the hell was going on.
Christophe was at the sink, with his back turned to me, and I dropped my keys in shock upon realizing just who it was in my flat, apparently washing my dishes. He jumped and looked over his shoulder, blinking at me owlishly.
“What-” I started, but was unable to get any further into my sentence, as a sob caught in my throat.
He dried his hands, and came toward me slowly, stopping just out of reach.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, chiding myself in my head for worrying about such a trivial matter when the love of my life was standing in my kitchen.
“I picked the lock. Are you not happy to see me?” he asked, looking uncertain.
“Happy?! I... Christophe!” I exclaimed, and threw myself into his arms, unable to put into words what I was feeling in that moment.
He held me tightly against him, stroking my hair and kissing me upon the cheek as I fought back tears, my heart pounding in my chest.
“I missed you so much,” I moaned, leaning up to kiss him. He kissed me back, and the intensity of it took my breath away.
-Yaahoooo-
He laced his hands into my hair, and he couldn't quite seem to decide if he wanted to caress it or pull it. Finally he gripped it hard, pulling my head back and moving his mouth to my throat, which he kissed and bit until my skin felt raw.
When things started to get heated between us I pulled away from him, taking his hand in mine and leading him toward my bedroom.
“What were you making, anyway?” I asked along the way, as he pushed me against the wall to suck on my earlobe.
“Oh, fried apple slices with cinnamon,” he said, grinning at me, “So I guess we'll have dessert when we are finished, no?”
I smiled back at him and stroked his arms, dazed at the thought of having him again.
We barely made it to my bed. By the time we got to my door we were both stark naked, unable to keep our hands off each other for even a moment. Finally Christophe made a frustrated sound and lifted me up, awkwardly dragging me to my bed as I wrapped my legs around his, refusing to remove my mouth from his skin. When we reached the bed he threw me upon it, climbing on top of me before I could even blink.
“Fuck, I missed the way you taste,” he said, nipping at my collarbones before burying his face against the hollow of my throat, “And the way you smell.”
“Like a woman?” I asked, amused.
“What?” he asked, looking confused as he lifted his head to look at me.
“The first day we met you said my hair smelled 'like a woman's',” I explained, smiling when he laughed.
“I only said that to piss you off.”
“Nice to know I made such a good first impression,” I said as his hands got busy below my waist.
“Mmmm, I wanted you from the first time I laid eyes on you,” he said, licking at my chest before moving lower.
I'm sure I had some clever reply in mind, but I only moaned and arched my back as his mouth found its quarry.
I had greatly missed laying against his chest when we'd finished making love, listening to his heartbeat. That was exactly what I was doing, not minding the pools of perspiration there that were being absorbed by my hair. I was glad that I could still make him sweat that much, and that sex between us lived up to my memories. With one hand still resting against my back, he reached over to my night stand, pulling his pocket watch off it with a grin.
“You still have this,” he said when I looked up at him.
“Of course I do. Did you think I would sell it?”
“I didn't know what you would do with it. I didn't hear from you for seven months... I thought maybe you were glad to be away from me.”
“I held it against me every night,” I said, leaning up to kiss him chastely on the lips, “I couldn't sleep without it.”
He stared at me for a moment, running his free hand down my spine.
“What you said in your letter...”
I felt my face flush as he trailed off. “Yes... well.”
“I feel the same way,” he blurted, saving me from having to say more, “I guess I thought you'd figured it out.”
“I hadn't!” I exclaimed, my heart racing, “I just thought... well, I knew you cared about me on some level, but I didn't think you loved me, Christophe. That's why I didn't write to you sooner. I couldn't bear that humiliation.”
He smiled at my words, and caressed my cheek. “We're both idiots, I guess,” he said, making me laugh.
We were quiet for a moment, and he stared at me with a serious look upon his face. It was the same look that had captivated me from the very beginning.
“I sold my bar,” he said.
“Bebe said you were thinking about it. I was rather surprised. I didn't think you'd give it up for anything.”
“Well,” he said, “It just didn't seem worth it any more. My life was bullshit without you. I was miserable.”
“What do you think you'll do now?” I asked nervously. A lot was depending on his answer.
“Try to find a job in London, I guess?”
“You're staying, then?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement. He stared at me blankly for a moment.
“Did you miss the part where I told you I was in love with you? I sold the bar because I hoped if I showed up here, we could be together again. Of course I'm staying. Unless you don't want me any more.”
“Of course I want you! I just... I don't know, I was afraid you didn't want that kind of commitment, or something,” I said.
He leaned back against the pillow, mulling over his next words.
“Do you believe in soul mates?” he asked, not meeting my eyes.
“I've never really given it much thought, to be honest.”
“Well, I always thought it was a bullshit concept,” he said, “The idea that some people are just meant to be together. Even when I realized I was in love with you-”
“Which was when, exactly?” I interrupted.
“Oh. Um. Very early on. Remember how I kept avoiding you?” I nodded. “Well, that was why. I was attracted to you from the start, but I was so angry when I realized how much I cared about you. But even then I didn't think, 'Oh, this is my soul mate.' But then you left, and I felt like a part of me was missing.”
“I felt that way as well. But... so, you think we're soul mates?” I asked, unsure what to think.
“Well, something like that. I mean maybe you don't have to put such a stupid term on it, but you said in your letter that you could barely function without me. I felt the same way. Bebe kept yelling at me for sulking, but I couldn't help it. I stayed behind because I thought rebuilding Rouen and taking care of my bar would be enough for me, but it wasn't. The more I did, the more I realized that those things weren't good enough if I didn't have you to share them with. I need to be with you. My life was so empty without you there.”
I grinned at him, but he just frowned back at me.
“And I will never say anything that sappy ever again,” he said, scowling at me.
And he never did, but I didn't need him to. I'd gotten my “bullshit happy fairy tale ending” as Christophe so eloquently put it. And we did, indeed, live happily ever after.
THE END