Finding Gene Kelly

by Torie Jean

Most of the time, people are too uncomfortable with negativity and pain for honest answers. Wanting to fix it, fix me, they offer positivity and solutions, which become toxic in their frequency. I’m an optimistic person in my own way, but there’s a danger in forceful optimism and not recognizing reality.

I exist in a state of perpetual pain, and I’ve had to accept that to survive—it’d be nice if others acknowledged and were okay with it. Otherwise, the guilt and anxiety of being “a downer” are put on me too.

The cold comfort of the bench chills me through my leggings as my attention rests on the columns and statues outside the cour d’appel. Madame du Barry, the maîtresse-en-titre of Louis XV, stayed imprisoned within these walls once. Red Skelton, Lucille Ball, and Gene Kelly all starred in a satire that revolved around her. It was one of Nana’s favorites—and a big reason why I adore this spot. I sense her presence strongest here. She’s why I’m in Paris.

Liam, seemingly absent of any grandparents, claimed Gene Kelly—and Nana—as his own, a declaration I found rather rude since I didn’t have much to share myself.

“Agreed, but not as cute as my Andrew, if you’re ever in Ohio,” the stuffed scarf supplies. “Andrew’s in jail, Beatrice. Stop trying to pawn him off on unsuspecting woman.” “He’ll be out in two more years on good behavior, and he’s a doctor.” “No, he’s not, Bea.” The gray-haired lady groans. “That’s why he’s in jail.”

lol this made me laugh

But if I learned anything with Michel, it’s that it’s not worth the time and effort to get emotionally intimate with someone when I know the physical intimacy is going to hurt like heck and ruin everything anyway.

Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back. “I never wanted my endo. I mean, who would? But I didn’t have a choice, and it has to come with me in whatever relationship I have. How can I justify that? And who the hell would want to take that on? It’s better for everyone if I keep my hopes low and not try.”

“Evie, seriously, you’re gorgeous, brilliant, funny—sure, sometimes I don’t get your jokes, but hey, you try! You love your people fiercely, and you’re one of the toughest, strongest women I’ve ever met—who has a shitty thing and handles it with so many of the adverbs I know you don’t like me using. But dammit, I’m going to because you are. You are strong and handle this with so much grace every day. I thought you didn’t want to get hurt—but this—nope, consider this me putting my foot down.”

“I’m so sorry. You didn’t sign up for this. You should leave,” I whisper under my breath. Liam laughs against my chest. “Like hell I will.” “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can, but I want to help you.”

“You can steal some of my body heat. If you think it would help.”

“Most people try to fix the mess, but you don’t.” “That’s because there isn’t a mess to fix. This is your life.”

“Because trust me, Peaches, if we had it my way, this would have been how we spent most of our time in college too.” But then I wouldn’t have Paris or Maria. The what-ifs and could-have-beens slice through, but I don’t want any of them, as lovely as they sound on the surface. I wouldn’t trade a single one for Maria. Huh. It’s entirely possible that the worst night of my life also gave me some of the best parts of my reality.

Because someday, I’ll have to deal with the fact that if he genuinely wants to be with me, he will have to sacrifice things that I mourn the loss of every day.

“I’m so sorry.” I sob into his chest. “You have every right to be frustrated I couldn’t finish.” “Hey—hey no, I’m sorry I got frustrated. But it wasn’t because we didn’t finish, Peaches. I need you to speak up when it hurts, okay?”

“No offense, Peaches, but we’re not doing anything in this bed because one of us feels guilty.”

Because Clare can’t relate. Not entirely, anyway. And honestly, I love that for her.

And I don’t know if any of that matters or if I even want children. But the thought that the choice might not be mine to make anyway? That’s the one that’s hard to cope with.

I had somehow wrapped my disease around my identity, and because I’ve always been at war with it, I could never see any of the good past it. It made sense when she explained how easy it is to confuse the two. Because I can’t see my disease, it manifests itself in the pain I feel in my body. But it’s not me. It’s a part of my lived experience, yes. But that’s different.

I’ve been trying to detach myself from the societal pressure that sexual intimacy is the be-all-to-end-all in a relationship. Because a relationship is a sum of its parts, not this one defining feature. Do I wish it was easy and amazing for me to have sex? Absolutely. Is that reality? Unfortunately, no. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of being in a loving relationship.

And I know that if the roles were reversed, it wouldn’t matter to me. I’d still want him, every second of every day, mess and all. Because he’d be more than a complication. And so am I.