Free Paris Red: A Novel by Maureen Gibbon Page A

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    “Why would you say that?” Nise asks. “She and I are sisters.”
    “Oh, I see that,” he says. “I see that clearly.”
    “Sisters, not lovers.”
    When she says that I think it must be what is really wrong. It is not the sharing that bothers her, at least not the taking turns. It is the idea of the three of us together. The same fantasy that Moulin had. With his silly poses and the string of fake pearls, Moulin wanted Nise and me to play at being lovers. But we were not lovers. Not even the night she had her hands in my hair, when I wanted her to touch me. When I wanted to touch her.
    I could echo her words about being sisters right now, I could echo her impatience—but I do not. Because I would sleep with him and with her. With my frangine. I would share him, but I would share her, too.
    And at that moment, in his studio, I know things are changing. I know each one of us is deciding something.
    What I do not know is that his words are a kind of slow poison, and that they have already started to do their damage.

    It begins that night after he walks us home, when he says goodnight to us.
    We have spent the day kissing, so when he says goodnight he kisses each of us quickly. We do not linger and he does not pull either of us into a doorway—none of that. He tells us he is going to walk over to La Maube to see if he can get a carriage, and we part.
    Nise and I are almost to the door of our building when I tell her, “I can’t. I don’t want to go in. I want to go to him.”
    We look at each other for just a second but then I turn away. I look away from Nise, back down Maître-Albert to see if I can still see him. I do not see her face when she says, “Go then.”
    I do not see her face—all I hear are the two words. I do not take time to see the feeling in her face.
    I run down the street, looking ahead, but I cannot see around the corner, and he must be moving quickly, much more quickly than he did when he had one of us on each arm.
    For a second before I catch up to him, he is just a man, a stranger on the street, and then I am standing beside him, touching him on the arm.
    “Trine,” he says.
    He is surprised to see me, I can tell that, but I can tell from his voice he is also pleased. And in that moment I realize that I have been counting on his pleasure. That I would not have known what to do if he were not pleased.
    But because he said my name and because he is glad to see me, I can say the next thing.
    “That wasn’t a real kiss,” I say. “I don’t want to say goodnight without a real kiss.”
    He looks at me then, and I do not read the expression on his face as much as I feel it. It is not the pleasant expression he sometimes puts on when he is with the two of us—it is something raw. But I do not get to look at his face for long because he pulls me toward him, and then he is wrapping about me.
    The kiss is real. Not an exploration of my mouth, not a game on a divan. A man’s kiss, as if we were going to lie down together. And when the kiss is done, when we both pull back to look at each other, he still keeps his arms around me.
    “Is that better?”
    When I nod yes, he says, “You should go back. Denise will be worried about you.”
    “She knows where I am.”
    “Still, she’ll worry.”
    He walks me back almost to the dogleg of the street. When I look to the entrance of our building, I think I might see Nise standing there, but of course she is not there. Of course she has gone inside.
    He kisses me again, lightly, but this time I accept it. I accept it and walk up to 17 and go inside.
    When I get to our room, Nise is there in her oldest chemise, the one she sleeps in. Scrubbing her face.
    “I watched for you for a while. Until you turned the corner,” she says. “So you caught up to him?”
    “He was on La Maube.”
    “Did you kiss him?”
    “Yes,” I say.
    “I hoped you kissed him for me, too.”
    I nod then but do not say anything. There is nothing to say. Nise could