Page 6 of The Crimson Lily

There she is, Béatrice, with her beautiful smile; frizzy, braided hair; and big dark-brown eyes.

I remember everything about her, but mainly the jokes she always made.

I remember she was originally from Martinique, grew up in Paris, and moved to New York for a master’s degree at Columbia.

We took a few classes and worked on a project together.

That’s when I really got to know her. I remember how smart and ambitious she was, but I’m confused by how clearly I remember her.

Béatrice was back in Paris for about two months, according to Facebook, since right after my accident.

Where did we go wrong? I check our message history.

It’s full of emojis and cute animal pictures, but no message, nothing right before the accident.

No fight. No heated conversation. So, tell me, Béatrice, why did you go back to Paris?

Why didn’t you come visit me at the hospital?

Why did you leave? I feel bad. Like when one feels bad for something they have no idea they’ve done.

I’m holding in tears when Maksim comes out of the bathroom, then I hide underneath the sheets. Acting like I’m sleeping is a better idea than anything else.

“I have some business to take care of here,” I hear his husky voice address me. He knows I’m not sleeping. “Be sure you’re ready for Friday.”

I have to sniffle multiple times before emerging from the sheets. Maksim wears jeans now with a plain white T-shirt. I thought black was his color, but man, his arms…?From the little I can see, they are bigger than the shirt allows them to be.

I clear my throat in an attempt to hush whatever thoughts can come out of examining his muscular arms.

“What’s on Friday?” I ask, still clearing my throat. Today is…?Tuesday.

He looks at me like he’s never seen me. I see a silver flicker in his eyes, like an ephemeral shimmer. I’m not sure what it means, but it makes the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end.

“There’s a reception at the Westin Vend?me,” he replies before I linger further on solving the mystery. “Your boss will be there.”

I have no idea what the Westin Vend?me is, but it sure sounds fancy. The mention of my boss does make me cringe a little. I don’t think I like the man that much. But wait, I’m confused now. Does Maksim want me at the reception? And what are we supposed to do there?

“Are we going there?” I ask, sniffling a little again. My voice is ragged. I’m really doing my best not to go into panic mode in front of this giant stranger.

“You’re asking stupid questions,” he remarks in a cold tone. “Get yourself together.”

Ouch. That last part makes me freeze. I think I might burst into tired tears now, but I’m interrupted by Maksim pacing toward me and handing me some kind of black card. I look at it and flip it over. It’s a credit card.

“Make sure you wear something nice,” he requests, his voice absolutely emotionless.

I raise my eyes to meet his. He stays for more than a second there, by the right side of the bed, staring with his silvery gaze.

I realize I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone.

I don’t know what overtakes me, but I lay my hand gently on his arm, some kind of motion to tell him not to go.

“Where are you going?” I ask. I really should stop with the questions. My voice has almost broken down entirely.

I know he’s not going to answer. As expected, he pulls his arm back, but our fingers still touch. I linger on that feeling while he turns around.

“That’s none of your business,” he declares.

His answer leaves me numb.

He makes his way out of the room with his black duffle bag.

When I hear the door close, I hide underneath the sheets again.

I’m still holding the credit card in my hand.

Maksim just handed me some cash to buy a nice dress for a fancy reception.

That all feels weird. I don’t think I’m really the type to be gold-digging around.

I’d buy my own dress. Maksim and his credit card can go fuck themselves.

I stare at my phone screen, which I’ve been staring at for about an hour. I have Facebook Messenger open to my conversation with Béatrice Leclerc. I’ve been scrolling up, reliving our chats, our digital laughs. Now, I just have to make contact. That’s the only thing I need to do.

Hey, Béatrice, I heard you were in Paris. Well, so am I! Let’s meet.

No. I can do better. That sounds dumb. I can definitely do better.

Hey, Béatrice, I don’t know what happened between us, but I’m in Paris now, so ? —

No! Good start, but no. You don’t tell someone you obviously had beef with that you’re back in town .

If Béatrice has completely erased me from her life, I need to give her a really good reason to come back to me.

Hang on…?she hasn’t completely erased me.

We’re still friends on Facebook. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to some, but in today’s society, it means something to most. However, there’s another theory, another explanation as to why she’s gone out of my life.

Did I erase her? Was I the one to break all contact? I have to find out.

Béatrice is smart, cunning. I can’t give her words with no meaning or information that wouldn’t add anything to what she already knows. Béatrice will see through a lie the minute I tell one. I have to give her something she’d believe, something that sounds too improbable to be made up.

It’s clear to me what I have to say, and it’s more than clear that I don’t really have any other options. I have to tell her the truth. I just hope, with all my heart, that she will answer.

Hi, Béatrice, I had an accident on June 15, and I lost my memory. I don’t know what happened between us. I was in the hospital for a week. I feel like shit. I haven’t remembered much in two months, but now, I remember you. I’m in Paris. Let’s meet…?please.

And she does answer. Five hours later, I wake up again to the sound of a Messenger notification.

I grab my phone then put it back immediately, afraid of what I’ll find.

Afraid of what her answer will be. Afraid she’ll say no.

There I am, trying to muster all the courage I have left to seize my freaking phone and unlock it.

My heart pounds in my chest like it’s about to burst. I open the messaging app and read:

Liliana…?I don’t know what to say. Can you meet me tomorrow at 2 p.m. at Columbus Café near Luxembourg?

I exclaim a sigh, if that’s even possible.

I’m going to see Béatrice again. Whatever happened between us, tomorrow she will shed some light on a whole lot of darkness around me.

I Google Luxembourg , and find several pictures of a park that looks familiar.

The feeling of numbness leaves me the minute I confirm our meeting.

I’m going to see my best friend again. I am relieved.