that lead into a courtyard where you can access the main doors for the actual building. It’s common practice to give visitors your building code since a lot of the doors facing the street don’t have buzzers. But knowing this doesn’t prevent my heart from racing or my fingers from hesitating. To steel my nerves, I picture the imaginary high five Julie would give me for not chickening out. I enter the four digits with shaky fingers and wait for the mechanical click that tells me I can push the door open.
I take a breath. I’m two flights of stairs away from meeting Alexandre’s parents. And I’ve only just met him. I’ve never faced a meet-the-parents-of-a-guy-I-like scenario. I already knew Zaid’s parents from before we hooked up. I don’t even know Alexandre’s parents’ names, and I guess they’ll expect la bise? Because a handshake would be weird. What is the protocol for meeting the parents of a cute French boy who you have not kissed—yet—and who could maybe help course-correct your entire life? That’s not in any guidebook or handbook for understanding French culture. I’d say my desire to puke is several orders of magnitude greater than any moment I had going to Zaid’s place. I should’ve limited myself to one pain au chocolat this morning.
As I climb the winding stairs, I distract myself in the way of a true nerd—remembering a lecture my dad gave me about Paris city planning. I love random historical facts because facts don’t betray you. Alexandre’s building is classic Haussmannian—grand in scale with an ornate stone fa?ade. Haussmann was an urban planner hired by Napoleon III to give Paris a serious makeover—redesigning the buildings for greater uniformity and creating the wide boulevards and leafy parks that transformed overcrowded, cholera-infested, dirty, nineteenth-century Paris into the City of Light we know today. All those facts are true. Also true? Thinking about Parisian city planning is absolutely not a distraction from the sparkling-eyed, wavy-haired boy who is waiting for me in his open doorway.
“?a va?” Alexandre asks and gently wraps his fingers around my upper arm as he bends down to kiss my cheeks. They warm instantly. I don’t think he understands the pulse-pounding power of his la bise.
“I’m good.” I step into his foyer, waiting for the rest of his family to greet me. Alexandre shuts the door. It’s just the two of us. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I clear my throat and whisper, “Um, how do I address your parents? Monsieur and Madame Dumas? Or—”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t I mention my parents are with my younger brother near Arles? Papa is meeting with my uncle—some, um, family business needed their attention.” Alexandre looks down and rubs the back of his neck.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Because here we are, alone. Not that it’s bad. It’s less pressure than trying to make a good impression on the parents, but also weird and anxiety inducing? I scratch an imaginary itch on my forehead. “Oh. You mean, your dad and uncle are mixing work with vacation? Doesn’t that violate French holiday regulations?”
Alexandre meets my gaze. “I’ll join them in Biarritz in a few weeks. But I also had some, uh, matters to attend to in Paris.”
“You’re working in August, too? Stuck in Paris with the strike, the sweltering heat, and the tourist onslaught? Bummer.” A proper holiday is sacred in France. We come to Paris in August every year because of my parents’ work schedules, but I am not a tourist. My dad would prefer visiting in June or September—his favorite months when the light is even more glorious and the actual Parisians haven’t escaped to the beaches of Brittany or C?te d’Azur or some charming countryside g?te.
A grin spreads across Alexandre’s face. “I was dreading my tasks, but August in Paris is turning out to be beautiful.”
I try to curb my smile without success. “Ahh, that’s why you invited me to your apartment, your empty, lacking parental supervision apartment?”
“I-I . . .” he stumbles. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t intending . . .”
I start laughing. It’s kind of fun to see someone else a little disarmed for once. Alexandre’s face relaxes into a smile.
He clears his throat and