The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 37

Aurora

As we leave the Metro Line 13 at the Saint-Denis - Université terminal station, it feels like I've landed in a different world. Clutching the package for Maxime's mother tightly to my chest, I look around as we cover the last hundred yards to her apartment, where Maxime grew up.

Thoughtlessly discarded trash litters the streets. In the flickering light of the lamppost, I can see metallic syringes and charred spoons. On the other side of the street, a group of teenagers loiter with beer cans and cigarettes outside a snack bar. They're harassing an elderly woman who leans on her walking stick with shaky arms, bravely trying to pass by them.

So this is Saint-Denis. This is where Maxime's roots lie.

Even though no one is trying to sell us drugs or rob us of our cash on our way to the plain apartment building with crumbling plaster, I feel uncomfortable. I wonder what it was like to live here.

I don't dare ask Maxime because I can already guess the answer. Besides, he's been so happy since he started dancing again, and I don't want to take that away from him by making him confront his likely difficult childhood.

I steal a glance at him briefly. He clenches his teeth together and nods toward the door with the number three. "Here it is," he says shortly.

Normally, you're supposed to say something nice when you see your partner's home for the first time, but there's no way to sugarcoat this. It's better to stay silent, and that's exactly what I do as I follow Maxime up the worn-out staircase. A wild mix of smells assaults my nose—unpleasant odors, sweet fragrance, and pungent onion notes. On the third floor, I hear a man yelling. Shortly after, the door with the number thirty-three shudders as if someone is crashing into it.

I quicken my pace and breathe a sigh of relief as Maxime stops in front of an apartment and presses the doorbell. I'm about to meet his mother. It's a big step, and even though Maxime assured me that she's a generous person, I'm still nervous, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

The door opens. A tall woman with chin-length dark brown hair streaked with thin gray strands appears. At first, she looks uncertain, almost fearful, but when she recognizes Maxime, her lips curl upward. Undeniably, Maxime inherited his attractive features from her.

"Bienvenue," she says with a radiant smile, waving us into the apartment. "You must be Aurora. It's lovely to meet you. I'm Lisette."

Having lived in Paris for six months now, my French has improved significantly, allowing me to greet her, wish her a happy holiday season, and say a few words about our gift as I hand it over.

"That wasn't necessary," she says, blushing slightly, as she accepts the package. "Come on in. The roast is ready."

There are only three steps between the hallway and the living room where she leads us. The furnishings remind me of the seventies, with yellowed curtains. I spot bed linen stacked behind the sofa, and it immediately becomes clear to me that this must be the only room in the apartment.

Maxime and his mother shared this tiny living space for years. Day and night.

I sneak a glance at him, but unlike before on the street, he appears completely at ease. As if he doesn't carry any painful memories because this situation has always been natural to him. Seeing that hurts me almost more than imagining his past life, which relentlessly flashes before my mind's eye.

I see worn-out shoes, faded T-shirts, pant legs ending above the ankles. Fast food, toothbrush bristles pointing in all directions, and a boy with longing eyes flipping through a toy catalog he retrieved from the trash.

My heart feels heavy, but at the same time, something else happens. Until now, I've only hoped that convincing Maxime to dance again was the right decision. But now, as I stand in the midst of the life from which he could escape solely through dancing, I know with every fiber of my being that it was the right thing to do.

"Take a seat." Maxime's mother pulls a chair back for me to sit down. The table is beautifully decorated; she spared no effort in preparing a festive meal for us. "We have red wine with the beef roast. You do like it, don't you?" she asks, speaking slowly for my sake.

"Oui, merci," I smile gratefully at her and take the intricately folded napkin to examine it more closely. Angel hair and holly branches spill out from the funnel-shaped opening, their spherical red fruits contrasting brightly against the dark green.

Maxime takes a seat next to me and reaches out his hand under the table. "That looks amazing, Maman," he says.

"I hope you both have an appetite," she replies, placing a tureen in the center of the table. The aroma makes my mouth water. I've been running along the Seine for five hours today. It took that long for this wonderful feeling of control to wash over me. When I got home, Maxime was already waiting for me. There was no time for dinner.

"And how," I blurt out, my rumbling stomach confirming it for everyone to hear.

With a bright laugh, Lisette takes my plate and serves me a double portion. It comes with fried potatoes, a colorful mix of vegetables, and gravy. She takes less than half for herself.

The food is of the finest quality, and as we sit together and get to know each other better, I can't help but wonder how long Maxime's mother must have saved up for this festive meal.

I learn that she works at the nearby supermarket and volunteers at the social center in her free time, proudly telling everyone about her successful son. Maxime's father is not mentioned at all, nor anything else that could remotely sound like problems. She acts as if everything is fine even though her apartment, her probably self-cut hair, and her faded clothing tell a different story.

The longer I listen to her, the clearer it becomes that she is one of those people who always sugarcoat everything. They ignore every shadow, sweep difficulties under the rug, and keep unspeakable things quiet.

It's crazy, but the world where her thoughts reside has something incredibly relaxing about it.

"Tell us about your family," Maxime's mother requests just as I'm spearing the last broccoli floret with my fork. "You have an estate in Tuscany, right?"

"Mm-hmm," I mumble, chewing, and smile at her sheepishly. I don't really like talking about my family; there's no place for sad stories at this table.

"And you even have three siblings," Lisette happily continues. "That's typical for Italy, isn't it? Family comes first. You must miss them."

At the mention of the topic, my stomach tightens. Not only because it reminds me that those times at home are long gone but also because it makes me think of my own loss.

Maxime and I could have started a family next year. By now, my belly would be noticeably rounded. Right at this moment, I would be sitting at Camilla's dining table, savoring her homemade panettone and talking with her about the crazy miracle growing inside me. Alessia's fingers would constantly reach for my belly, patting it while she sang traditional Christmas songs loudly.

I struggle to push these thoughts back where they can't weigh on me.

Thankfully, Maxime clears his throat. "We'll visit them soon," he says, addressing his mother.

"Oh, does that fit into your training schedule?" she asks her son as if she doesn't notice my mood and cuts a tiny piece from her roast.

I lower my gaze to my plate, suppressing the nausea that rises in me.

"Just for one night," Maxime says, and if I didn't know better, I'd believe him unconditionally.

Crazy how perfectly he can play along with his mother's sunshine weather.

Crazy, but good. Gratitude washes over me. He not only took this conversation away from me but also handles it exceptionally well.

For a moment, I dare to look up. Lisette reaches for her glass. "Amid all your commitments, don't forget to enjoy your happiness," she lovingly reminds us, taking such a small sip of her wine as if she couldn't allow herself more than one glass for the whole evening.

"No worries." Maxime wraps his arm around me, and I give him an affectionate smile. "We will."

"Oh, how beautiful you look together." Lisette's eyes glimmer with nostalgia. She sets down her cutlery and pushes the plate aside. "Your children will be adorable, I can already tell."

Her statement hits me like a rocket explosion. I flinch, and Maxime's grip on my shoulder tightens.

Confused, Lisette looks back and forth between us. "You do want children, don't you?"

"Um…" Maxime seems just as lost for words as I am, and right now, I'm not sure if it was right to keep Lisette in the dark about what happened.

If she knew, Maxime could have asked her not to bring up the subject, and she would have gladly avoided it.

"Of course, we do." Maxime turns his mouth upward. "At least three, right?" he then asks me.

I think so. Yes.

I haven't really thought about it before, but now I realize that the idea feels warmly comforting in my chest. One day, when I feel ready, I do want to try again.

"Maybe even four," I reply with a smirk, causing Maxime's eyes to shine brighter than ever before.

"That would be fantastic," he whispers, and that alone shows me how much my words mean to him.

"A big family, how wonderful," Lisette chimes in, raising her wineglass. "To both of you."

We follow suit, clinking our glasses together and taking sips. As the robust taste of the red wine spreads across my tongue, Maxime's mother gets up to clear the empty plates.

Maxime leans toward me. "Whenever you're ready," he whispers in my ear. He's full of anticipation, probably wanting to start right away.

I didn't realize how important having his own family was to him until now. Lost in thought, I gaze at the candle flame flickering beside me, imagining what it would be like to celebrate Christmas with my own family.

Three dark-haired angels bearing Maxime's features and gazing at me with their round eyes. With bright laughter, hair scented with strawberry shampoo, and tiny hands reaching for me.

The picture is so beautiful that tears suddenly fill my eyes. I turn to Maxime, looking at him conspiratorially.

"Maybe very soon," I say, and that alone is enough to make him smile blissfully.

He lovingly strokes my cheek. "I can't wait."

"Hopefully, you've saved some room for the B?che de No?l," Lisette calls from the mini kitchen, but neither Maxime nor I can react.

We have delved into our own world, where we silently make each other the greatest promise of all.