“Holly? Are you coming?” Meghan asked, grinning over her shoulder as she and Jess rose up on the escalator. “You don’t want to go somewhere else, do you?” she added, lowering her voice. The rest of the team had—also miraculously—remained unaware of Holly’s breakout, thanks to the combined efforts of Meghan and Jess.
“No,” Holly replied, laughing. “Not for a while, anyway.” She hurried to rejoin her friends, still enormously grateful that they weren’t mad at her. Meghan and Jess had both been so relieved that the scheme had come off without a hitch that neither of them bothered to harbor any ill will.
The team gathered around the circular baggage carousel, but since Holly and a few other girls only had carry-ons, Coach Graham urged them to go ahead and meet their families in the waiting area. Holly hugged Meghan and Jess fiercely, said good-bye to the rest of the team and Coach Graham—who was beaming as she chatted with her husband on her cell phone—and practically sprinted out of baggage claim and into the huge waiting area.
Squinting into the sea of faces, Holly searched for her mom’s square red-framed glasses and her dad’s dark bushy eyebrows. She’d called her parents from England last night, apologizing for being out of touch for a few days (without, of course, the slightest mention of Paris). Her parents had promised to be at Newark the next morning to pick her up, but now they were nowhere to be found. Holly felt a prickle of worry and was reaching into the pocket of her Kangol hoodie for her cell when she finally spotted a familiar face in the crowd.
Wavy, dark-blond hair, amber-brown eyes, chiseled features. Wow, Holly thought as she gazed at him. I’d forgotten how beautiful he is. He was scanning the crowd, his brow furrowed, a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand. Holly felt herself swell up with joy—and surprise. He must have arranged all this with her parents. In spite of everything, he had come to meet her.
“Tyler!” she called, her heart bursting. He looked her way, his face lighting up in a huge smile, and he lifted the bouquet in greeting. Holly could feel it then—across the crowded airport, almost like a piece of rope that connected them—the strength of what she and Tyler had.
Grinning uncontrollably, Holly broke into a mad dash and Tyler, not a shabby runner himself, also raced toward her. Before Holly knew it, they were together, Tyler taking her duffel from her, handing her the gorgeous bouquet, and wrapping one arm around her waist. Holly drew close to her boyfriend, inhaling his clean, soapy scent as it mingled with the heady perfume of the roses. But she and Tyler didn’t kiss—yet.
Tyler set down her duffel at his side, and then straightened up, his face etched with concern. “Holly,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “I’m so glad you’re finally back. This week was—um—was really hard.”
“Tell me about it.” Holly sighed, admiring her boyfriend’s golden-flecked eyes, and realizing how much she’d missed all the small details about him. “Tyler?” she added quietly, and he nodded at her attentively. “I’m sorry I never called,” Holly went on, choking up a little. “If you knew how many times I thought of you—”
“Me, too,” Tyler murmured, reaching up to tenderly cup Holly’s face in both his hands. “I did call you once, but I didn’t have the nerve to leave a message. I felt like there was all this stuff I needed to tell you in person…”
“But not now,” Holly whispered, touching one finger to Tyler’s upper lip. “We’ll talk about everything later. We have so much time.” And we do, Holly thought. There really was no rush for her and Tyler.
“That’s true,” Tyler agreed, his face breaking into a grin. “But sometimes you can’t wait anymore, you know?” And, with that, he leaned in and kissed her.
The kiss was warm and deep, both gentle and passionate, and so blissfully familiar that Holly thought she might pass out from happiness. It was a kiss that contained all the sweetness of her and Tyler’s past kisses, but held the tantalizing promise of something…more. Holly returned the kiss enthusiastically, twining her arms around Tyler’s neck and burying her hands in his soft, wavy hair. Holly thought of her last kiss and how different and exciting it had felt to kiss a French boy in France. But now, with Tyler’s lips on hers, Holly realized that a kiss in the middle of New Jersey, from the regular American boy she loved, could be just as thrilling.
They were pulling apart when Holly’s cell phone—as if feeling left out—chimed in with a loudring. “Parents,” she and Tyler said in unison, laughing as Holly removed her cell from her pocket. On the screen, however, Holly saw not the word HOME, but—as she had that fateful night in Wimbledon—a plus sign followed by a string of digits. A Paris number.
“I should take this,” she told Tyler apologetically, pressing TALK and bringing the phone to her ear. “Chérie?” she asked with a grin. Tyler raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised to hear Holly speak another language.
“Oh, my God, the cuteness!” Alexa laughed from the other side of the Atlantic, where it was one P.M., Paris time.
In Paris, Alexa was striding up the sweeping, sunlit Champs-Elysées, clutching her new pearl-studded mobile phone—a post-Xavier consolation gift she’d bought that morning, after she’d gone to breakfast with her cousins, who were being very supportive. From Alexa’s free hand swung a colorful array of glossy shopping bags; after all, she’d needed a lot of consolation.
“Hol, did you make it home safely?” Alexa asked breathlessly.
“I’m home all right.” Holly smiled at Tyler, who was watching her, intrigued. She reached down to take her boyfriend’s hand. “When does your flight leave?”
“Sometime this evening,” Alexa sighed, maneuvering around a street musician. “I’m hoping to God that Diego changed his ticket and won’t be on the plane.” She heard Holly giggle and realized her friend sounded…happy. Not at all like someone who’d been expelled. “So spill it,” Alexa urged. “Can you still graduate in June? Did you make up with Tyler? I’ve been dying over here!”
Holly bit her lip, hesitating. Yesterday, she hadn’t had a chance to check in with Alexa from England, and now—with Tyler right there, and her teammates milling about—was clearly not the moment to divulge. “Let’s put it this way,” Holly replied teasingly. “I think your shoes and your clutch are perfectly safe…”
“I knew it,” Alexa declared, gazing ahead at the grand Arc de Triomphe. “Am I not psychic?” She felt a wave of relief for her friend, but a twinge of melancholy for herself; her spring break hadn’t ended quite as, well, triumphantly.
“Are you doing any better?” Holly asked, hearing the note of sorrow in her friend’s voice. Holding hands, she and Tyler headed for the airport’s exit.
“Not really,” Alexa admitted, swallowing hard. Her heart was still brimming with raw pain and unchecked anger toward Xavier. Though yesterday, in the apartment, after tearing out and crumpling up his magazine photos, she’d been ready to rip his charcoal portrait of her to shreds—but had stopped herself. With uncharacteristic calm, she’d decided to keep the sketch—as a reminder that even she, Alexa St. Laurent, could get completely stupid over a boy.
Or she could always sell it on eBay.
“We’ll talk more when you’re back,” Holly was promising on the other end, but Alexa was distracted by someone bumping into her right shoulder—hard. Still holding the phone to her ear, she spun around, glaring at the wayward pedestrian.
Who happened to be a smolderingly hot guy.
“Pardon,” he told Alexa, his dark green eyes crinkling up in a smile as he pushed a hand through his mop of brown hair.
Ooh, Alexa thought, smiling back at him, and for the first time in two days, felt a spark of hope. But then she tossed her hair over one shoulder and kept right on walking, her espadrilles carrying her confidently forward. No thank you, monsieur. It was time for Alexa to really get her independence on. And if there was anything she had learned from Xavier, it was never to get tricked into falling in love so easily again.
At least, not for a while.
“Sorry—I’m stil
l here,” Alexa told Holly. “And definitely yes to the talking-when-I’m-back thing,” she added. “How about we go to the mall after school one day? We’ll pretend the Galleria food court is our little café on the place des Vosges.”
“I can’t wait,” Holly laughed, stepping out with Tyler into the New Jersey sunshine.
Neither can I, Alexa realized, surprising herself. This unexpected feeling had been building in her for a few days now, but right there, on the elegant Champs-Elysées, Alexa knew it for sure: She missed Oakridge. A lot. Paris might have been all shimmer and romance but, to Alexa, New Jersey would always be about friendship. Which, at the moment, felt so much more important than anything else.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Alexa heard Holly asking.
“Tomorrow,” Alexa echoed happily. Snapping shut her cell phone, she paused in the middle of the wide, bustling avenue and smiled with anticipation.
She was going home.
Acknowledgments
Boundless thanks to Jean Feiwel and Craig Walker, for their unflagging support, and to Maria Barbo, for her brilliant editorial guidance and joie de vivre. I am greatly indebted to Beth Dunfey, Shannon Penney, Steve Scott, Susan Jeffers Casel, Kristin Earhart, Lisa Sandell, and all my wonderful colleagues and friends at Scholastic. Un grand merci à mes amis français, most especially the Bouskela family, for their Parisian hospitality. I am equally grateful to my charming friends Stateside, particularly Nicole Weitzner, Jennifer Clark, Elizabeth Harty, Martha Kelehan, Emily Smith, and Jaynie Saunders Tiller, for putting up with me so gracefully. I also offer a bouquet of thanks to Nicolas Medina and Richard Parker for, respectively, the helpful information on the Eiffel Tower and Wimbledon. And, finally, all my thanks to my fabulous family: my lifesaving sister and brother-in-law, and my divinely patient parents.
About the Author
Aimee Friedman is the New York Times bestselling author of South Beach, the romantic comedy A Novel Idea, and the forthcoming graphic novel Breaking Up: A Fashion High Graphic Novel. Aimee was born and raised in New York City, where she still lives and works as a book editor. But she loves to travel as much as possible—especially to Paris.
Copyright
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Copyright © 2006 by Aimee Friedman
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E-ISBN: 978-0-545-23122-0
Aimee Friedman, French Kiss
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