Coda 05 -Paris a to Z

but he seemed to have no idea what to say. And then his entire face seemed to open up—like whatever mask hed been wearing was suddenly gone, revealing something underneath that was bright and unabashedly pleased—and he laughed. His laugh was light and melodious and feminine, but one hundred percent genuine. “Dear lord, you really do have a sense of humor! All this time, I thought Jared was making it up!”
“Told you,” Jared said. His cheeks were still a bit red, and I could tell by the way he looked at Matt that he wished Matt was still whispering in his ear.
“Matts cool,” Angelo said to Cole, although he winked over at Matt as he said it. “You just piss him off more than anybody else on the planet, thats all.”
“Ive been assuming all this time you were cranky with everyone . Buttercup .”
“Nope,” Matt said. “Just you.” It was strange to sit there while they discussed it so matter-of-factly. It was made even more strange by the wolfish grin on Matts face.
Cole seemed to think about that for a minute. Then he stood up from the table. He walked around to where Matt sat. “Excuse me, sweets,” he said as he pushed Jared out of his chair, and pushed the chair out of the way. And then….
He sat down in Matts lap. Matt was obviously surprised, but he wasnt about to let Cole get the upper hand, so he stayed still. Cole put his arms around Matts neck and leaned in close to him. They were practically nose to nose, and I thought for sure that Cole was going to kiss him.
“Oh, buttercup,” he said, “dont you know I was rooting for you all along?”
Matt sat there, completely still, looking stunned as he thought about it, much as Cole had done a few moments before. And suddenly, he threw his head back and burst out laughing. Unlike Coles laugh, Matts was deep and loud, something that came from deep inside his chest and made everyone in the restaurant turn our way. It made Cole smile too. He leaned forward and whispered something in Matts ear, and kissed him on the cheek. Matt was still laughing. And then, in the blink of an eye, Cole was up again, patting Jared on the arm and putting his chair back, and calling to the waiter in French for something (I suspected it was more wine).
“Can you believe it?” Angelo asked me, quiet enough that only I heard. “Never thought Mattd be able to let it go and be Coles friend.”
“It is surprising.”
“Surprising? Its crazy! Its like theres somethin bout Paris that makes people want to forgive each other. And be in love. And get married!”
“Youre drunk.”
He laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “But you still have no sense of romanticism.”
He turned away from me then, to ask George a question. Everybody was talking again and laughing. But I was watching Matt and Jared. I saw Jared slide his hand across the table to grip Matts arm. I saw the look he gave him. It was relief and thankfulness. And love. And the look Matt gave him in return was like he was barely managing to keep from jumping Jared right there at the table. And I knew they sure as hell werent going to be fighting that night either.
Maybe Angelo was right. Maybe there was something .
I still suspected it was the wine.
    T HE next morning was Sunday. It was the day of the ceremony and the Super Bowl. There was a knock on our door again around eight. Angelo was in the shower, so I dragged myself out of bed to answer it. It was Jon, wearing his jogging clothes.
    “Matts a bit hung over,” he said. “You up for a run?”
    And that was how I found myself jogging with my ex along the banks of the Seine on the very morning of his wedding. It was simply too weird for words.
    The sky was clear, and the air was crisp and cold. The narrow brick trail was lined with trees on one side and the sparkling river on the other, occasionally passing under arched stone bridges. Majestic white buildings rose on the opposite bank. I wondered what they were. Angelo would have known. Jon might have, too, but I was reluctant to ask.
    Even jogging in a place so foreign, everything about it was familiar. The tempo of our feet slapping against the pavement, our breath visible in the frosty air, the line of his shoulders and his back as he jogged in front of me. He had ever been a step or two ahead.
    “Youre slower,” he said jokingly after the first mile.

    “I was always slow,” I reminded him. “You never did like to wait for me.”

    I regretted saying it immediately. Once again, it felt like we had