Corresponding Stars

Chapter Fifteen: Gift Giving (Genevieve's POV)

Two weeks later, I receive a surprisingly quick reply to my letter to Alexis. It reads:

Dear Genevieve,

I received your reply on my birthday, the third of October. Unfortunately, I couldn't start formulating a reply until today, the tenth, because my friends made the unwise decision to take me out to a pub, and I made an even unwiser decision to drink a lot at said pub, leading to me feeling sick for almost a week.

However, I am here now, so I shan't dwell on the past. I will be arriving in Paris on the first of November, and leaving on the eight. I can only spend one week, because I started university in September to become a smith, so I cannot miss more than a week of classes. But that's beside the point.

The wedding will be on the fifth, so any day besides the fifth is fine for me. It is all up to you, my friend. So make a decision by your next letter. Choose wisely.

I am very excited to be in your presence at some point.

From,

Alexis

P.S: Your letter was a very nice birthday present.

I smile at his postscript. Why didn't he tell me that his birthday was coming up? I would've bought him an even better present!

That's when I make a decision: I'm buying him a visitor's and belated birthday present. I know normally people bring the hostess a gift, not the other way around. But I think Alexis and I are friends, and friends give each other presents.

But what does one buy for a person whose face they've never seen? I know he likes to paint, but he probably has everything I could think to buy him. I would buy him something from the souvenir shop of the Louvre, but he'll probably go there on his visit anyway. So I decide to go for a walk by the boutiques in La Rive Droite.

Most of the stores I happen upon are clothing stores, and I am not buying Alexis a tie or jacket. I go into clothing stores, bakeries, even jewelry stores. Yet nothing I find seems to fit Alexis. (Or his letter persona at least.)

After walking around for what seemed like hours, I notice a little shop, barely bigger than the windows of the larger shops it's nestled between. As I walk in, a bell dings over my head.

A blonde man around my age peers at me over the tall pile of boxes he's carrying. His shirt is untucked and rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. As he bends down to rest the boxes near his feet, the muscles in his back and shoulders flex, the fabric of his shirt seemingly straining to accommodate his broad shoulders.

I blush, suddenly feeling stupid for admiring someone's looks so much.

"Peter Pierpont, son of the proprietors of Pierpont's, purveyors of the peculiar," the boy says. "Wow, I've always wanted to say that to someone. But I've always gotten that sentence garbled."

"What peculiar items do you sell, pray tell?" I ask.

"Depends. What are you looking for?" he replies.

"A gift for an artist friend," I say.

"Male or female?" he asks, his lichen green eyes suddenly seeming too focused on me.

"Why is that relevant?"

He opens up his mouth to reply, but a voice from one of the cramped aisles yells out, "Peter, stop trying to flirt, and help the girl out! Girls find helpful boys attractive."

Peter colors slightly. "Fine, Papa!"

He leads me to the front of the store,pulls something owl shaped off a hook behind the counter, and hands it to me. As I examine it, I realize it's an owl-shaped palette.

"This is perfect!" I say.

"Good enough to give me a hug, cherie?" he asks, a devilish grin on his face.

Before I can even think, my hand, as if of its own accord, snaps out and slaps him.

"Good enough for that," I say. And with that, I pay and walk out, leaving a stunned boy in my wake.