i was romanced by a young guy in France (pt 2)
things got awkward and intense
For those who need a catch up, you can read the first part here:
The next morning, my ambivalence is on full display when I see Dieter. He’s quiet when we meet up outside of the kitchen, not meeting my gaze. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night. Me? I’m cool, man. An easy – dare I say, smug? –smile spreads across my face when he nods hello.
“Hey!” I say, a little too bro-y, practically headbutting him.
I’m so cool I even have a cool person laugh that’s just as obnoxious as it literally sounds – a combination of Seth Rogen’s chuckle and Barney Rubble’s giggle. I don’t know where on earth it comes from, but suddenly it’s a thing I’m doing. And I’m still doing it when he motions to follow him to the barn area, into the cinema room where he slept the night before.
Surveying the room, the strewn blankets and pillow, I ask, “So did you sleep here alone last night?” Cool Guy Laugh, Cool Guy Laugh.
“Yes, of course,” he says seriously, then pulls out a small envelope from his pocket. “I wrote this for you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t read this in front of you,” I say with a wink. Cool Guy Laugh, Cool Guy Laugh. “So do you want my number or something?” Cool Guy Laugh, Cool Guy Laugh.
Who is this person? I’m not entirely thrilled with my appalling shock jock impression at the moment, but I don’t think I can help it. The familiar feeling of panic and anxiety has returned and amazingly enough the Cool Guy Laugh is the only thing that diffuses it.
“Yes, of course,” says Dieter. “I’m a little shy.”
I boldly take his phone and type my number into his contacts. “Don’t be a stranger,” I say. Cool Guy Laugh, Cool Guy Laugh. (Seriously, who is this?!)
Concerned that I might be keeping the bus to the train station waiting, and that this stupid laugh might become permanent if I stay any longer, I turn to leave but Dieter stops me. “A goodbye kiss?” he asks softly.
I glance out the open door to ensure no one’s boarding the bus yet – or can surprise us in our secret spot – and when the coast is clear, I shrug and say, “Yeah, okay. Sure.” Geez, this Cool Guy is a real jerk.
I lean into Dieter’s face and our lips meet. At first the kiss is delicate and inviting before it quickly turns heated and hungry. I break it off (again!) before there’s any chance of it becoming anything more – even though I think I want more, which is precisely why I need to leave right now.
“I don't know where we stand,” Dieter says to me.
“I don’t know, either,” I say. “I live in Vancouver and I’m leaving tomorrow.” It all sounds rather dramatic and cold but I figure we both know it’s also true.
Minutes later I’m on the bus, alongside my new friends, about to disengage from this memorable, magical time in this memorable, magical castle. Dieter is outside with the other staff members, ready to see us off but I can’t bear to look out the window. I feel tears prickling at my eyes. The bus engine starts, and I shove my sunglasses onto my face to hide my flushed face. I turn to the window and barely look at Dieter before I toss out one final pathetic wave, and quickly turn away. I’m crying now. It’s official: Cool Guy has finally left the building. Thank god. But I’m sad, and I don’t want to be sad for something I barely held. That just makes me even sadder.
About 90 minutes later, as I’m finishing up my coffee at the train station’s cafe (and procrastinating reading Dieter’s letter), I hear someone say, “Dieter’s here.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s here?
Apparently one of the retreat’s writing mentors left his bag at the castle and Dieter volunteered to drive the bag 90 minutes from the castle to the train station. They mention he’s now looking for someone else.
“Something about having cookies for her.”
Immediately I scan the crowd looking for a tall, lanky, long-haired German man wearing suspenders and glasses – a description, which just a week ago, I normally wouldn’t have looked twice at, but now, which sends my heart pitter pattering with anticipation. A different type of nervousness surges through me now – it’s anxiety’s more optimistic sister, excitement. Yes, I am excited to see Dieter again – that is if we’re able to meet up. I don’t see him and my train is due in 10 minutes. I need to leave for my platform now. I follow my companions out of the hub of the train station, still looking for Dieter in every hurried male traveler I pass.
Still nothing. I make my way up the stairs towards the tracks and as I finally lug my heavy bag up the final step, that’s when I see him. He’s at my platform, and he’s indeed holding a box of cookies – the French chocolate biscuits I love. Our eyes meet, and he grins. I go over to him, still stunned that he’s here.
He relays the story of the missing bag to me. “I took it as a sign,” he says. “To see you once more and say goodbye to you again.” He hands me the box of cookies. “I know they’re not exactly the same ones you like, but I hope they are good enough.”
I smile. “Thank you.” There’s so much more to say and yet I don’t know what to say because I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’m usually the Dieter in this scenario. I'm the one who’s booked flights across the country to reconnect or who’s hopped on the next bus, eager to make things right again with a lover. Now that I’m on the receiving end, I feel like I’m having an outer body experience. I can’t believe this is happening to me. That someone would do this for me.
So clearly this is the moment in the movie when the heroine (moi) allows herself to be finally ravished by her young suitor (oh la la).
But I don’t. Instead I interrupt our cinematically romantic scene with the question: “How’s your dad doing?” (At least I didn’t add the Cool Guy Laugh.)
It’s not a totally inept question. Dieter had mentioned something about his dad’s health earlier, but, yes, okay, I know I’m putting up resistance to fully relishing this moment and I don’t really know why except that maybe it’s because I’m leaving the continent in 24 hours and I don’t want to make this moment more than what it is. Whatever it is.
Luckily, Dieter doesn’t have much time to respond or say much else because the train is approaching and it’s time for me to leave him for real this time. We hug goodbye again and then I’m off again, sunglasses on, tears pricking my eyes, as he watches me board. There are too many people swarming around me so I can’t throw out one last wave, which is fine because I think if I do I’ll collapse into a puddle of tears and I don’t want him to see that (knowing him he’d probably dive right in and throw me a life preserver). So I let myself get lost in the sea of impatient French travelers, thankful that I can’t see how long he will wait on the platform as the train moves out of view.
Soon I find my seat, which turns out to be the wrong seat. Then I discover it’s not just a wrong seat, I’m on the wrong carriage. It’s fitting since I’m feeling pretty out of sorts right now, like I’m headed in the wrong direction, turning away from something that I should be running towards.
I drag my heavy suitcase to the next compartment, finally slump down in the correct seat across from a perturbed French woman in dark glasses, and that’s when I finally read Dieter’s letter.
The note is short but sweet and earnest, a.k.a. very Dieter. He opens with how tired he is feeling, so “please excuse” his English as he puts his thoughts together. There’s no need for an apology, however, because his tired English thoughts are perfect. He tells me how much he enjoyed “every second” with me and all the “fun” we had together; he tells me that he will never forget me or our kiss, and then he says he would like to stay in touch and hopefully see me again.
He signs it: xo Dieter, along with his phone number.
Two things strike me about Dieter’s letter. The first being how he somehow finagled a pen and paper at one o’clock in the morning to write to me. Did he have to ask someone? Who was awake at that time? Or did he find them on his own? I’m very curious to know how long he hunted for a working pen in the dead of night in a castle?!
The second thing is, of course, the letter itself and Dieter’s brave and urgent need to express his feelings to me (which also encompasses his desperate search for a pen and paper in a chateau at an ungodly hour). There’s something about his handwritten note that is both very high school and Shakespearean – it’s fervent and sure, simple and vulnerable – all the things I have struggled with since the day we met.
I fold the letter and return it to my pocket. I don’t want to listen to music or read a book. I can’t. So I just stare out the window as tiny French villages and rolling lavender hills pass by, my thoughts racing as fast as they do, all the while basically asking myself the biggest question of all: “What the hell is wrong with me?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Thanks for being here!
Love, Brie xoxo
