The Basics: Paris is the city of love. French is the language of love. Euros are the currency of love.
You probably don’t want to go with your best friend if she just broke up with her boyfriend.
“Where do we get off?” Leela asks. After an almost-three-hour train ride, we’re now on the subway. Excuse me. Le Métro.
“Next stop,” I say. “Cluny – La Sorbonne.”
Leela is watching a couple make out on the seat beside her. “And you’re sure your friend Kat doesn’t mind us staying with her?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I can’t wait for you guys to meet.”
It’s incredibly strange to me that Kat and Leela have never met. When Leela came home for school breaks, Kat was always back in NYC.
My friendships with them couldn’t be more different. Growing up, Leela and I lived in a friendship bubble. We had other friends, but they were always secondary. Backups. No one had ever competed.
Kat brought me out into the world. She talks to everyone. She loves everyone.
As soon as we get off the train, we’re in a park that Kat said had Wi-Fi. Travel Europe says it’s called the Cluny Medieval Gardens. We walk through the metal gate and see a beautiful passageway blanketed in flowers and trees, leading to a castlelike museum. People are sitting on benches eating baguette sandwiches.
I message her. Here!
Paris! We’re in Paris! The Paris! The sun is shining and the air is hot and smells like sweat and croissants and perfume. Swarming around us are men, women, children, teenagers, and tourists on the move.
I look down at my phone for the three dots. There are none.
I check to make sure that my Wi-Fi is working. It seems to be.
“She’s not answering?” Leela asks.
“No.”
“Do you know her address?”
“No. She said she would meet us here.”
“It’s hot,” Leela says.
It is hot. Really hot. My bra is sticking to my skin. My T-shirt is sticking to my bra.
Yet on the other side of the gate, the men and women are still wearing scarves. Scarves! In this heat! Tied around their necks. Thin, gauzy scarves, but still. They’re also wearing big sunglasses and dresses and tight suits and sandals and heels.
Inside the garden it smells sweet, like flowers. I spot rose bushes closer to the museum.
Coming to meet you! she writes back. Gime 5!
Leela looks over my shoulder at the message. “She uses a lot of emojis.”
“She does.”
Leela leans on her upright duffel bag. “And she spelled gimme wrong.”
“Is there a right way to spell gimme? It’s not really a word.”
Leela shrugs. “It’s in the dictionary.”
I have a moment of dread. Is Leela going to be difficult the whole trip? Is she going to be a bitch to Kat?
I try to calm myself down. Even if she is a bitch to Kat, Kat won’t be a bitch to her. Kat makes friends with everyone. Everyone likes Kat.
It’s going to be fine.
“Aren’t your shoulders killing you?” Leela asks. “How long is she going to be?”
“I’ll just take off my pack,” I say.
“The ground has bird poop on it,” she says. “Put it on my bag. At least I have wheels.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say.
“I smell,” Leela says. “I need a shower. Why is she home now anyway? It’s two o’clock. Shouldn’t she be at work? What does she do again?”
“She interns at a gallery. She doesn’t work on Thursdays,” I say.
Just then we hear a screeching, “SYDNEY!”
The next thing I know, Kat’s arms are wrapped around me. Her thin brown hair is wet and in a bun on top of her head, and smells sweet, like lavender shampoo.
“You’re here! You’re here!” She screams, not caring that people turn to look at us. “I can’t believe you’re here! This is spectacular! I’m so excited! I love you!”
“Yay! Hi! I missed you!” I say. My body relaxes. It’s Kat! She makes everything fun. Everyone in her orbit gets sucked in. That’s just the way it is. She’s like a big black hole, except she’s made of light. She’s a sun.
She hugs me again, tighter.
Then she pulls back and throws her arms around Leela. “Hi! You must be Leela! I am so excited to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”
“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” Leela says. She sounds like she’s talking to a kid she doesn’t want to babysit.
“You look just like your pictures,” Kat says. “I’ve been following your trip online. How was Bruges? Did you go to Chez Vincent? They have the best fries. Like, amazing.”
“No,” Leela says. “We didn’t make it there.”
“Did you go to the Tara in Amsterdam? I love that place.”
“No,” I say.
“I wasn’t a fan of Amsterdam,” Leela says.
“Oh,” Kat says, nodding. “That’s too bad. It’s definitely not for everyone.”
“No,” Leela says tightly, “it’s not.”
“But we are so excited for Paris,” I say quickly. I don’t want Kat to think the edge in Leela’s voice has anything to do with her. I want them to love each other.
“Okay, follow me, guys—my apartment is just two blocks that way. Do you need help with your bags?”
“No,” Leela says for the both of us. “We’re fine.”
I watch her studying Kat.
Kat is five foot three, thin, and flat-chested. Clothes always look good on her. Right now she’s wearing an orange sundress, diamond studs I know are real, and gold sandals. She manages to look totally comfortable, rich, and trendy all at once.
“I can’t wait to show you Paris!” Kat says. “You’re going to love it. Have you been here before, Leela?”
“No,” she says.
“Fun! First timers!” She links her arms through both of ours.
“Have you been here before?” Leela asks Kat.
“Yup. Twice. When I was a kid. My mom loves Paris. It’s her favorite European city. So I guess you want to do all the tourist stuff? Eiffel Tower? Champs-Élysées? Louvre?”
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”
“And how long do I get you for? A week?”
“No,” Leela says. “We’re only here for a few days. Then we’re going to Barcelona. Right, Syd?”
“That’s the current plan. We fly out of Rome,” I say.
Kat squeezes my hand. “I was just in Rome a few weeks ago for the weekend. I ate pasta three times a day and gained a hundred pounds.”
That’s unlikely considering Kat only weighs about a hundred pounds total.
“But it was so worth it,” Kat continues. “You’re not going to believe how good the food is. Here too. I am going to take you for macarons. They are the best things you will ever eat. Should we go now?”
My shoulders are about to collapse. “Can we stop at your place first? I wouldn’t mind a shower. And to put our stuff down.”
“Oh! Of course! Definitely. We’ll do that first. And then we’ll get macarons. I need to find a great place for dinner—something you’ll love. What are you in the mood for? Something really French?”
“I wouldn’t mind pizza, actually,” Leela says.
“Pizza. Let me think.”
“I can look in my guidebook,” I offer.
“Sure,” says Kat. “Let’s play tourists!”
“We are tourists,” Leela says.
Okay, then.
We follow Kat down the road and then turn left on a street called the Quai de Montebello. It’s a big street, filled with buses and cars and motorcycles and people walking. To the right are shops and restaurants and to the left are artists painting on easels and postcard stands. Behind them is the Seine and behind the river is the Notre Dame Cathedral.
“It’s majestic,” I say. The cathedral looks like it should be in a fairy tale.
“We’ll go by later,” Kat says.
We turn onto a street called Rue de Bièvre.
“Almost there,” Kat says.
This street is narrow, yet there are restaurants and small shops lining the ground floors and apartments on top. They all have adorable little Juliet balconies. I love Juliet balconies. When I grow up I will live in a house with a Juliet balcony. No. With two Juliet balconies.
“Here we are!” she cries. “Home sweet home!”
She types in a code and when it buzzes, pushes the door open.
The stairs are thin and creaky and wooden. “Let me take the bottom of your suitcase,” she says to Leela. “We’ll carry it together.”
“It’s okay,” Leela says, but Kat helps her anyway.
“It’s the first floor. Which in France really means the second floor.”
I’m almost surprised that this is where she lives. The building looks decrepit. Knowing Kat, I expected her to be in something grander.
“Here we are!” she says, putting my bag down in front of a door. It’s the only one on this floor. She takes out a giant brass key from her pocket and turns the lock. “Welcome!”
The apartment we walk into is not decrepit at all.
It’s gorgeous.
A beautiful crystal chandelier hangs in the entranceway. There’s a small kitchen on the left, and then we step into a living room with sky-high beamed ceilings. Three open windows look over the cobbled street. They all have Juliet balconies. Yay! The linen curtains are pulled back and sway in the breeze.
“The two bedrooms are over there,” she says, pointing to her right. “And this couch turns into a bed so one of you can sleep here. It gets kind of bright in here in the morning, though, I should warn you.”
Leela’s eyes are as big as mine are.
This place is amazing.
“Sorry there’s no air-conditioning,” Kat adds. “It was, like, impossible to find a rental with air in this area. I don’t know what’s wrong with Parisians. But at least there are fans. And bidets! Have you ever used a bidet?”
“No,” we both say.
“You have to, it’s hysterical. Let me show you the bathroom. There’s only one, so we all have to share. Sorry, that’s gonna suck. But two baths were hard to find, too.”
We follow her to the bathroom, and she throws the door open. “See! That thing that looks like a short water fountain? It’s a bidet! I totally wanna get one in my bathroom at home. I swear, it’s changed my life.”
The bathroom is entirely white marble. There’s a chandelier in here too. The bathtub is small and deep, but more of a shower. There’s a handheld spray and a square rain shower attached to the ceiling and a glass door.
Hair products line the counter.
Leela doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are the size of saucers. She looks impressed. Is she impressed? How could she not be impressed? This place is amazing. And free.
“Hey, Kat,” I say, “what’s the deal with the double flushers? They’re all over Europe.”
“The big one’s for poop,” she says. “They have different water pressure.”
“Aha,” I say. “Mystery solved.”
“They’re becoming a thing in America, too. Let me show you the extra bedroom,” Kat says, and motions us to follow her down the hall. Black-and-white photographs line the walls.
“Whose place is this anyway?” I ask.
“No idea. My mom found it on Onefinestay. It’s like Airbnb but all the places are checked out beforehand and cleaned regularly so you don’t end up in some dump. When Avery checked us in—she’s the Onefinestay woman, she’s American, just graduated from Duke—she brought me this adorable basket of chocolates. It was the sweetest thing. Want?”
“Want what?” Leela asks.
“One of the chocolates,” she says.
“You still have them?”
“Yes! Somewhere. Are you hungry?”
“I am kind of hungry,” I say. “But the shower is the priority.”
“No problem. You guys shower and change and then we’ll go out.”
“For dinner?” I ask.
“They eat at like nine here, but we’ll have a coffee and a snack and meet Alain later.”
“Your boyfriend?” Leela wonders. She’s running her hand against the velvety white duvet cover.
“What? No! He’s my boss. I have a boyfriend back home.”
“Gavin,” I say. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“He really is,” she says dreamily. “We’ve been FaceTiming when he can get a signal. He’s a counselor at a camp called Blue Springs this summer and their Wi-Fi sucks.”
“How long have you been together?” Leela asks.
“Ten months. I met him in the dorm cafeteria like a week before I met Syd. Hey, Syd, did you find a place you want to go for dinner? Oh, you know what? I know where we should go. Chez Michelle. Pizza. You’re going to love it. But go shower first. I can’t wait to show you Paris.”
“This is Saint Germain,” Kat tells us. “It’s pretty much the center of everything. There are, like, a million cafés and bookstores and museums and everything.” She sips from her teeny tiny Parisian coffee cup.
We’re all crunched together at an outdoor café. The tables are metal and small and round, as are the chairs. It’s packed. Everyone is drinking coffee and smoking and watching the passersby.
I take a sip of coffee and try not to finish it all in one gulp. The cup reminds me of the tea set I had when I was six.
“It’s so bitter,” Leela says, taking a sip.
“You need to add sugar,” Kat says.
“Is this the sugar?” she asks, picking up a long white tube.
“Yup.”
Leela dumps the sugar in, mixes, takes a sip, and makes a face.
“What?” I ask.
“Now it’s too sweet,” she says.
The person at the table behind us blows a puff of smoke over our table.
Leela makes another face.
It’s her fifth in the last hour.
Kat either doesn’t notice or is pretending she doesn’t notice. I remind myself that Leela’s being difficult because she’s sad and jealous. She is a good friend. She’s always been a good friend.
“Everyone here smokes,” Kat says. “Everyone. I bet their cigarette cartons don’t have warnings about emphysema and death on them.”
“So do you like it here?” I ask.
Kat nods. “I love it.”
“You’re not nervous?” Leela asks. “About”—she lowers her voice—“terrorists?”
“I’m from New York,” Kat says. “I feel just as safe here as I do there.”
“So not safe at all?” Leela asks.
Kat shrugs. “What are you going to do? You gotta live your life, you know? And anyway, I want to support Paris.”
“Good points,” I say. “So can we go walk around now? I want to see stuff! Paris!”
“Let’s do it,” Kat says. “Let’s go shopping in the Marais. L’addition, s’il vous plaît,” she says to the waiter. She pretends to sign in the air, the international gesture for ‘bring me the check.’
He grunts and comes back a few minutes later.
“Let’s go!”
We spend the next two hours walking. We weave our way through the cobblestoned streets and look at the old houses with shutters outside. Leela steers us to a makeup store called Mademoiselle bio, and we stop at a vintage boutique and buy almost matching clutches for only fifteen euros each. I get red, Leela gets black, and Kat gets bright blue. On the way home, I steer us to Shakespeare and Company, the famous English bookstore, to browse the books. I buy one called Girls on Fire, which is kind of how I feel in an excited, sparking, nervous way.
Then we go into a patisserie and taste a real macaron. Mine is pink and tastes like sugar and almonds and raspberries that dissolve in my mouth. We pass by a tourist shop and look at Eiffel Tower key chains. There are snow globes, too. I wish Jackson were here to help me choose.
I pick an Eiffel Tower one.
“Let’s stop at the apartment and freshen up before dinner,” Kat says.
“Is that a euphemism for using the bidet?” I ask.
Kat laughs. “If you’d like. I was going to wash my face and put on heels. But you can wash whatever you’d like to wash.”
“I’m a bit afraid of bidets,” I say.
“Oh, now you have to use it,” Leela says. “It’s a must. I don’t think we can leave Paris without you using the bidet.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say. “Let’s go use the bidet.”
Tip: A bidet is not a water fountain.
I can’t actually figure out the bidet. I turn it on, and the water sprays out in an arc but I can’t tell how to sit on it. Or are you supposed to squat? I end up soaking the bottom of my dress and having to change.
“Is your dodo refreshed?” Leela asks on her way into the bathroom. She’s known me long enough to know as a kid I referred to my vagina as my dodo. Because saying the word vagina made me laugh. Also vulva. And I’m not sure I totally know which is which.
“Very refreshed,” I say. “My dress is also very refreshed. Kat, did you say you’re wearing heels?”
“Yes!” she calls out from her room.
“Does that mean that we’re not walking?”
“I was going to call an Uber!”
“You guys have Uber here?” I ask.
“Of course we have Uber here. It’s Paris! Uber is everywhere!” She pops into the hallway. “Omigod, I bought the cutest navy tube dress that would look amazing on you, Syd. You have to wear it tonight.”
“I’ll try it,” I say.
She dives back into her room, grabs it, and hands it to me. Ooh. It’s clean. And non-wrinkled. It has lived on a hanger. How I miss hangers. And clean-smelling clothes. And clothes that require dry cleaning.
I go into my room and slip it on over my head. It does look good. It makes me look French. Glam.
Something scrapes my neck and I realize it still has a tag. “Kat!” I go back into the hallway. “You’ve never even worn this! Are you sure you want me to wear it?”
“Totally sure,” she says, studying me. “You look gorgeous in it. Just put on a pair of heels and you’re ready.”
“I don’t have heels,” I say. “I’m backpacking.”
“No worries, I have,” she says. “Yellow sandals would look perfect. You’re a six, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She comes back a second later with a pair of shiny yellow high-heeled sandals. “Do they fit?”
“A little big, but they’ll be fine for tonight. Thank you!”
“I’m getting dressed. Back in a sec, gorgeous.”
I step into the living room.
Leela is sitting on the couch. Staring sadly out the window.
“Hey,” I say.
Startled, she looks me over. “You look . . . different.”
“Good different?”
“I guess. You’re like her Barbie,” she says, crossing her arms. “You never let me help you get you ready.”
“You never want to dress me,” I say, sitting on the couch that is going to be her pullout bed.
“I can do your makeup,” she says.
“Okay,” I say, wanting her to cheer up. “Pick out a lipstick.”
She studies my face, rummages through her bag, and pulls out one of her new purchases. “This will look good. Try it.”
I apply it in the mirror. “What do you think?”
“Um . . . too dark for you. Let me see if I have something else. . . .” She rummages through her duffel bag. “Everything’s such a mess I can’t find anything. . . .”
I remove it with a tissue. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need lipstick! I have my lip gloss.”
“I want you to wear one,” she insists. “I just need to find something that goes with your coloring. Something a little pinker . . .”
“Are you guys ready?” Kat asks, stepping into the living room. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder white minidress and green stilettos.
“Are those the same shoes the, um, dancer was wearing in Amsterdam?” Leela asks.
“Was she wearing Christian Louboutin?” Kat asks.
“Probably not,” I say.
“Can I get the Uber?” Kat asks. “On y va?”
“Go for it,” I say.
“I’m buying you a good lipstick color tomorrow,” Leela tells me as we grab our new clutches.
“Okay,” I say. If buying me a lipstick is going to make her happy, then I’m all for it.
Tip: Make sure to try escargots.
Escargots are snails. SNAILS.
Chez Michelle is in some hipster area called Canal Saint-Martin. There are a ton of students sitting by the canal drinking beer and smoking. Our table is outside, on a slant, overlooking the water. We order le pizza margherita and vin rosé.
“You drink rosé?” I ask Leela.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s practically white.”
The crowd is buzzing, the breeze is blowing, and I am feeling great. I’m in Paris! Drinking wine!
I have already had a glass and a half. I am a little bit drunk.
Leela is laughing a bit more with a glass of wine in her, and she’s telling the story of Matt and the sex club and making it sound kind of hilarious. She is sitting across from me and next to Kat. I think Kat could sense Leela’s tenseness and organized the seating arrangement like that on purpose.
“What a jerk,” Kat says, nodding. She is working hard to get Leela to warm up to her.
“Such a jerk,” Leela repeats. “I’m lucky it’s over.”
“You so are,” Kat says. “But here comes a new man. A great one. I hope he hits it off with one of you! Alain!” she hollers. “We’re here!”
“I am not looking to deal with another guy’s issues,” Leela says to me. “You can have him.”
I am not sure I am ready to meet a new man either, when I just almost slept with someone two nights ago.
But, hello. This man is gorgeous. Leela and I turn to see Kat waving at a tall, light-skinned, blond-haired, broad-shouldered Adonis. He’s wearing a shiny slim-fitting gray suit and a shiny gray shirt, no tie. He looks like he’s about twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.
“Alain!” she calls. “Come join us. Meet my friends Sydney and Leela.”
“Bonjour, mes chéries,” he says. Since the chair next to me is empty, he takes it. Excellent.
“Bonjour!” I say. I’m feeling flirty. Also tipsy.
“This is where you chose to come for dinner?” he asks. “You come all the way to Paris to have pizza?”
“The pizza here is amazing,” Kat says.
“Perhaps. I order you the escargots,” he says. “It’s delicious. Do you like escargots?”
“I’ve never had escargots,” I admit. “But I am willing to try. I’m willing to try almost anything.”
“Are you?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
I feel myself blush.
Kat laughs and raises both her eyebrows at me. She pulls out her phone and texts something. She gives me a look and motions to my purse.
She obviously just texted me, not realizing that I’m not on Wi-Fi. I shake my head.
She passes me her phone so I can see what she wrote.
Alain totally likes you! He keeps staring at you!
“Peut-on avoir les escargots, s’il vous plaît?” Alain asks the waiter.
“So,” he says, turning to me. “Did your parents conceive you in Sydney?”
“They did not,” I say with a laugh. “I’m named after a dead uncle.”
“Uh, that is less romantic.”
“It is,” I agree. “Although I’ve heard he was a bit of a ladies’ man.”
Leela snorts and takes another sip of wine.
“I was in Sydney a few years ago, and it was fantastique,” Alain says.
“Do you travel a lot?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “When I can.”
“Alain works at his parents’ gallery, too,” Kat says. “I report to him.”
A few minutes later, the plate of escargots arrives. It looks completely disgusting. But! I will try it! Because I’m adventurous like that!
“Am I supposed to squeeze lemon on it?” I ask him.
“I’d need a bucket of lemon to eat that,” Leela says, nose wrinkling.
“Oh, stop,” Kat says. “I tried it last time I was here. We’ll do it on the count of three. ’Kay?”
“’Kay,” I say.
Alain stabs his fork into one of the snails and lifts it to my lips. “Un. Deux. Trois,” he says.
I hold his gaze and bite it off his fork.
I chew. And try not to gag.
“That is not good,” I say.
Kat spits it into her napkin. “Yeah, I don’t think I liked it last time either.”
Leela laughs.
“You sure you don’t want to try?” I ask her. “Didn’t we make it look fantastic?”
“I’m sure,” she says with a small smile.
We spend the next two hours continuing to eat and drink. When we ask for the check, Alain insists on paying.
“We should have ordered the champagne,” Leela says under her breath.
Yeah, if I’d known, I would have made a push for the champagne too. It can’t get more French than that.
After dinner, the four of us walk along the water.
Somehow, Leela and Kat are up ahead, and Alain and I are behind.
“How long are you in Paris?” he asks. He pronounces it Par-ee.
“Only a few more days,” I say. “Are you traveling this summer?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m going to visit my grandparents in Linz in two days. My mother is French but my father is Austrian. And then I go to Tuscany,” he says.
“To collect more art?”
“No, for vacances. Uh . . . vacation,” he says. “My family has a house near Castiglione della Pescaia. Tuscany is beautiful in the summer.” He pronounces beautiful as beaut-ee-ful.
“I’m sure it is.”
“I will be in America in October. I have meetings with Sotheby’s in New York.”
“You certainly are busy,” I say.
“Not too busy to take you for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Sorry?” I say, startled.
“I would like very much to take you for dinner tomorrow. Unless you have other plans?”
The hot French guy is asking me out? Is it already time for me to have another kissing adventure? What do they call snogging in France?
Oh. French kissing. Obviously.
I look over at Leela, who’s walking silently next to Kat.
I’m not sure she will love the idea of me leaving her. Actually, I’m pretty sure she’d hate it. And also, I’m not sure I’m ready to kiss someone new so quickly when I was just making out with Jackson two nights ago. “I’m sorry—I don’t think I can leave my friends. But thank you. That would have been fun.”
He puts his hand over his heart. “Do you have a boyfriend like Kat?”
“No, it’s not that.” Jackson is definitely not a boyfriend. I lower my voice. “My friend Leela just broke up with her boyfriend, and I don’t want to abandon her in the city of amour.”
“You are a good friend,” he says solemnly. “Where are you going next?”
“We haven’t finalized it yet,” I say. “Probably Barcelona. We fly out of Rome.”
“Oh! Well then you must come see me in Tuscany,” he says.
“Leela and I are traveling together.”
“You both must come. Plus Kat. I have many rooms. It is a beautiful property.” He says beaut-ee-ful again.
“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe we will.”
A free and beaut-ee-ful place to stay in Tuscany is not a bad invitation.
We stop in front of the apartment. “Enchanté,” he says, kissing me on both cheeks. He smells like aftershave.
I wonder if I should have said yes to the date.
“Good-bye,” I say, and follow my friends inside the building.
“Omigod,” Kat cries. “He’s, like, in love with you. I knew you guys would hit it off. Did he ask you out for tomorrow?”
“He did,” I say.
Leela’s face clouds over.
“But I said no,” I add quickly.
Kat frowns. “What? Why?”
I trail behind her on the stairs, extra careful in my heels. “Because we have plans for tomorrow. We’re going to the Eiffel Tower! And the Arc de Triomphe! And we still haven’t had fondue!”
“But that was your chance to have a fabulous fling on your European adventure!” Kat cries.
“I already had a fling on my European adventure,” I say.
“She had two flings, actually,” Leela says. “Don’t forget Charlie.”
“Charlie hardly counts,” I say, giggling. “I kissed him and ran away.”
“More details, please. And who was the second fling? Does he count? I love it!”
“Leela’s ex-boyfriend’s friend,” I say. “And he counts.”
“Oooooooh.” Kat swoons. “Was he hot?”
“Very,” I say.
“Are you going to see him again?” she asks.
“I doubt it,” I say.
Kat makes a sad face. “Tragic.”
“He’s a man whore anyway,” Leela says, with a wave of her hand. “She can do better.”
“Then she should have hooked up with Alain!”
I laugh. “I’m not going to make out with a different guy in every city.”
“Why not?” Kat asks. “Please let me live vicariously through you. Alain is amazing. And you look spectacular in that dress. You’re keeping it.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“Thank you,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
Kat yawns. “I’m wiped. I can’t believe they asked me to be at work tomorrow at nine. I wish I could play hooky with you. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“We’ve navigated three other countries,” Leela says, putting her arm through mine. “I think we’ll figure it out.”
Tip: Make your reservation to see the Eiffel Tower at least two months in advance.
Otherwise you’ll be MOL! (Merde Out of Luck.)
The sun streaming through the windows wakes me up at eight the next morning. Leela is still sleeping. Her stuff is all over the living room, so I start tidying up. Kat won’t care, but if you stay in someone’s living room, you should probably not make it a total pigsty, right?
“Morning,” Leela says. “What are you doing?”
“Folding your clothes,” I say.
“I love you,” she says. “Thanks.”
Leela is very messy but not the kind of messy person who enjoys being messy. She loves things clean. She just doesn’t seem to know how to clean. Whenever I was at her house, her mother was always tidying up for her. “I don’t know how you find anything,” I say.
“I don’t,” she says. “And everything I brought is dirty. We have to do laundry tonight.”
We say good-bye to Kat and then put on our Toms, shorts, T-shirts, and sunglasses. It’s a walking day. A hot walking day. And we have a lot to see. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. Notre Dame.
We’re saving the Louvre for tomorrow.
We walk across town to the seventh arrondissement where the Eiffel Tower is. It’s a ridiculously long walk, but at least we get to see the city.
Surrounding the tower is the Champ de Mars, which is a grass meadow. Tons of people are sitting around on picnic blankets or playing ball. “Amazing,” I say, looking up. “It’s so tall!” I check my book for details. “It’s over a thousand feet. Did you know it was built to be an entranceway to the World’s Fair?”
“I did not,” Leela says. “I guess that’s why it looks like an entranceway.”
“The lookout is the highest in Europe! This is so exciting!”
“But look at those lines,” she says, taking off her sunglasses. “How long is it going to take to get up there?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I have a bad feeling about this. I make my way toward the front of the line, and get the attention of one of the security guards. “Bonjour,” I say. “Excusez-moi? How long is the line?” My French is pretty bad.
“Quatre heurs et demis,” he says, barely looking at me.
“Four and half hours,” Leela translates.
Shoot. “Are you kidding me?”
“Non,” he responds. “Peut-être cinq heurs.”
“I really want to take a picture from the top,” Leela says.
“Oh, look, there’s a restaurant,” I say. “Maybe we can make reservations to eat? Then we’ll get up. We can come back tomorrow if there’s nothing today.”
“Good idea,” she says.
I lead us to the restaurant awning. “Bonjour! Leela, I’m guessing your French has gotten even better since you moved to Montreal? Can you ask if we can get a table in the next two days at the restaurant? Any time.”
She translates for me.
The woman laughs and responds.
“They’re booked until November,” Leela translates.
“Crap,” I say.
“Merde,” Leela says. “I really, really want to see it.”
“So let’s wait,” I say.
“Seriously?” she asks. “You want to wait four and a half hours?”
No, I do not want to wait four and a half hours. But I want her to be happy. “If you want to see it, we’ll stay.”
“I’m not waiting four and a half hours.”
“Maybe it won’t actually take that long. Why don’t we join the line and see if it moves?”
We join the back of the line. We wait twenty minutes. It doesn’t move.
Leela sighs. “I wish we had made a reservation.”
My back tenses. As head planner, I can’t help but feel guilty.
Leela hops from foot to foot. “This doesn’t seem worth it. Let’s get out of here.”
“No,” I insist. “If you want to go inside, let’s stay.”
“Forget it.”
“No! You want to go inside!”
“No, I want to get out of here. Come on.”
She starts walking in the other direction and I follow.
As we walk through the park, we pass a middle-aged couple fondling each other on the grass. A second later, we pass two teenage boys kissing.
“Is it my imagination or are people making out everywhere?” Leela asks.
“I see it too,” I say. “It is the city of love.”
“What does that even mean? What’s so romantic about this place? Waiting in line for four and a half hours to climb a metal structure?”
“You’re right. Nothing is romantic about Paris. I hate Paris,” I say.
She laughs. “Everywhere I look people are kissing. I kind of want to punch them in the face. And then take a nap.”
“We can go home if you’re tired,” I offer. I still feel bad that she didn’t get to see the Eiffel Tower.
“Never mind. I just hate romance. Let’s keep going. Where to next? Why haven’t we had any cheese yet?” She claps her hands. “Oh! Oh! Can we go to that famous street?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“You know. Where all the designer stores are.”
I look it up in the book. Oh! “Champs-Élysées. And hey, it seems to lead right to the Arc de Triomphe. And that has a view.”
“Perfect,” she says.
“So we’ll walk down the street and it will be amazing and we’ll feel glamorous and we’ll buy scarves—”
“It’s way too hot for scarves.”
I wave her comment away. “And then we’ll climb up the Arc and you can take glorious pictures that we can post everywhere looking windblown and fabulous.”
“I do not look fabulous,” she argues. “I’m all sweaty.”
“Sweaty, windblown, and fabulous,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The Champs-Élysées is even more glamorous than we imagined.
It’s also packed with tourists. Tourists carrying Louis Vuitton bags and wearing high heels. One woman in a full leopard pantsuit and gold stilettos almost knocks us over with a giant Chanel bag.
“How can they shop in those?” Leela wonders. “My feet hurt, and I’m wearing flats!”
“Maybe French women are born with stronger calf muscles,” I say.
“It’s like Fifth Avenue in New York,” she says. “But Frenchier. More cafés and more perfumeries.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’ve only been to New York once.
“Look!” she shrieks. “Sephora!”
She practically skips inside, eyes alight. “This is amazing,” she breathes. “Paris Sephora. This must be the flagship store! Sephora is from Paris, you know. Oh, wow, it doesn’t get any better than this. I’m just going to . . .”
Her voice trails off as she wanders inside.
“I’m going to try and find some Wi-Fi,” I tell her. “’Kay? Did you hear me? I’ll come back.”
She nods, distractedly. “Take your time.”
I stand outside a café that claims to have Wi-Fi. My three bars darken. Perfect.
I look at my phone. A missed FaceTime from my mom.
It just came in and it’s ten thirty here, which makes it . . . four thirty at home. In the morning. That’s not good. My shoulders clench.
I try to FaceTime her back.
It connects.
“Mom?” I say breathlessly. “Are you okay?”
She’s sitting at her desk. The computer light glows against her face, casting weird shadows. “Hi, honey,” she says. Her smile looks forced. “How are you? I miss you!”
“I’m fine! How are you? Why are you up? Is everything okay?”
“Just couldn’t sleep,” she says. “So I decided to do some work. Thought I’d call you and see how you are. See if it’s a good time to catch you.”
This isn’t totally unusual, but it still makes me nervous.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Paris,” I say. “Leela is buying lipsticks.”
“Are you traveling well together?” she asks.
“Pretty well. We’re with Kat now, too.”
“Oh, great. And . . . do you know how to get around?”
“Yup,” I say. “Thanks to your guidebook.”
“Good, good,” she says. Her forehead wrinkles. “You’re not worried about getting lost?”
“No,” I say. After years of driving everywhere, I never worry about getting lost. “How’s it going with Addison? Are you guys okay? Did you go out today?”
If she doesn’t go out all day she can’t sleep at night. I know this. Addison should know this. Why doesn’t my sister seem to know this? She needs to get out. This is exactly what I was worried about!
“We’re fine,” she says. “Everything is fine. Don’t worry about me. Send more pictures! I want to see what you’re up to.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you, too,” she says. I disconnect and stare at the phone.
I message my sister.
Why is Mom up at four in the morning? Is everything OK? Did she not go out today?
Addison doesn’t answer, which makes sense since it’s four in the morning.
I rub my temples. Why did my mom call me anyway? She knew I’d worry. The very act of calling me at four in the morning was designed to make me worry. So why call and tell me not to worry? She says she’s proud of me for going away but then wants me to worry? What does she want from me? Does she want me to worry or not?
I try to calm down. I stuff my phone in my mini-backpack and return to the store. Leela has a metal basket full of stuff.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Amazing,” she says. “I found some treasures here. Treasures! Can I have two more minutes? Just like two or three. Then we’ll go.”
“Sure,” I say. “No worries.”
She takes another twenty. But whatever, we’re not in a rush. Outside, she hands me a lipstick. “For you,” she says.
“Oh! You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I wanted to. It’s the perfect pink for you. Trust me.”
I give her a hug. “Thank you.”
We walk toward the Arc de Triomphe, which we can see in the distance. It’s basically a white statue that looks sort of like a horseshoe.
“There it is,” I say. “Very impressive.”
We walk toward it but we can’t figure out how to get to it. There are cars driving in what seems like a circle around it and no crosswalk.
“Are we missing something?” I ask. “Is there a Star Trek–like teleporter we’re not seeing?” It’s hot. I’m tired.
“We can figure this out. There are people there. I can see them.”
It’s true. I can see people there. But how did they get there?
“Oh! Look!” Leela says, pointing to what looks like a subway entrance. “Maybe that goes under the traffic into the Arc.”
“You’re a genius,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We go underground, and it indeed seems to be a pathway to the Arc. When we pop up on the other side, I ask the scary question. “How long is the wait?”
“Dix minutes,” the woman says.
“Did you hear that?” I say. “Dix minutes! That’s ten, right?”
“Yup,” says Leela.
“Is there an elevator?” I ask.
“Non,” she says.
“Let’s see how Leopard Pantsuit Lady does this in her stilettos,” Leela says.
“She’s not doing this,” I say. “She’s going to have her helicopter take her to a private dinner on the Eiffel Tower.”
“Lucky bitch.”
We follow a family with two young kids up the stairs. There are no windows. Just a circular staircase going up and up and around and around. The stones are square and spiral. Each step has a small rubber mat on it and there’s a brown metal railing on the left side.
Hmm. My heart slowly starts to pound. Louder. And faster.
Is this going to be a problem? Is it going to be a repeat of what happened in the Tube? At Anne Frank’s?
Am I going to have to turn around again? I can imagine what my mom would tell herself. You can turn around! You don’t need to go up there! I try to block her voice out. But are these stairs ever going to end? Am I just going to keep walking up and up and up forever? No. It’s going to end. We’re at least halfway up, aren’t we? It didn’t look that high up when we were outside. I’m just hot. And tired.
My heart beats even faster.
Am I having a panic attack?
My heart is hammering. My mouth is dry.
What if I stop breathing? What if I pass out? How would anyone save me? How would they get here?
Shut up shut up shut up.
Need air.
“Lee?” I whisper. “I don’t think I can do this.”
She doesn’t hear me, so I raise my voice as loud as I can, which isn’t much louder. “Lee? I have to stop!”
She spins around. “What? Why?”
“I can’t breathe. I have to go back.”
She takes three steps down to me. “Are you okay? Do you want water? What’s wrong?” She takes her water out of her bag and thrusts it into my mouth.
I take it gratefully, and drink fast. “Thanks. I’m not sure I can make it.”
“Do you want to turn back?”
“Maybe,” I say. That’s all I have to do. Turn around. Go back down the stairs. I don’t have to keep going. My mom doesn’t push herself to leave the house. Why should I push myself to see a silly view?
“Do you want me to see how much more there is?” Leela asks.
I nod. Good idea. “Okay.”
I stand in place while she disappears up the steps. I have a plan. I’m not throwing in the towel yet. Just taking a break. And then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.
I can still turn around.
But if I turn around now, I might never try to see a view again. And then what if all flights of stairs start to look daunting? Will I refuse to go anywhere that doesn’t have an elevator?
Plus, I didn’t panic on the stairs at Anne Frank’s. I panicked in the house. Am I never going to be able to go into small spaces again either?
Forget elevators. They’re too small. I’ll have to live my entire life on ground floors with high ceilings.
Then I’ll really become my fucking mother.
Leela comes back a few minutes later. “I can see the light. It’s about ten more flights. What do you want to do? We can go back down if you want. But I think you can do it. Actually, I know you can do it.”
I take a deep breath. My heart is still beating fast. But not as fast.
I am not becoming my mother. I am going to push through this. It’s only ten flights. I can do it.
My heart continues to slam against my chest, but I take deep breaths and keep going. One foot in front of the other. I’m doing this. Leela takes my hand and squeezes it.
As soon as I see the light up ahead, I know that I did it. It’s over. I panicked, but I did it. I take a huge breath of air when I step off the stairs and into a big room that opens to the outside. “Please tell me that was it.”
“Yes,” she says. “We’re done. You did it! You triumphed at the Arc de Triomphe.”
“I thought I was going to die,” I say. My heart is still beating out of control. “How are we going to get down? Is there a fireman’s pole?”
She puts her arm around me. “No.”
“Can I jump?”
“Probably not. But going down is always easier,” she says.
My legs are still shaking. “I think I had a panic attack. Maybe?”
Her eyes widen. “Are you sure?”
“No? I don’t know? I think it happened before. On those Tube steps? Remember? And possibly at the Anne Frank house.”
“I’m so sorry. We could have turned around.”
“No. I’m actually glad we didn’t.” Now I know I can do it.
We step outside. Ah. A breeze! It’s nice up here. We lean against the spiked railing and look through. It’s like we’re in the middle of the world and the streets all shoot out from where we’re standing. In the distance, I see parks and towering office buildings and the Eiffel Tower.
I wish my mom could see it. She’s never been to Paris and she’ll probably never come, either.
My heart aches. My poor mom. She misses out on so much.
Paris is so beautiful. London is beautiful. Amsterdam is beautiful. There are so many places to see. Yet her world is shrinking to the size of a snow globe.
And yet every day my world gets bigger. I want it to be huge.
I watch the tiny people and colorful cars, all out and about. Working. Living. Maybe I could come back one day. Maybe I could live here. Not forever, but for a year. A year abroad, maybe? University of Maryland has an exchange program. I could do it. I did this. If my mom makes it through this month, maybe I could do that, too?
If my mom makes it through. If.
But what if she doesn’t? What happens then? Am I going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her? Am I never going to move out? Am I going to live in the same bedroom for the rest of my life, sleeping in the same bed, staring at my glow-in-the-dark stars? My sister will go away to college and have a life but I’ll have to stay at home forever?
Is it my responsibility to take care of her? There’s nothing physically wrong with her! She can drive her own car if she wants to! I triumphed. Why can’t she?
“Let’s take a selfie,” Leela says, interrupting my rambling thoughts. “With the Eiffel Tower in the background.”
She lifts the phone and holds it up. “Say ‘triumph,’” she says.
I push my concerns away and force a smile. “Imagine if we’d waited four and a half hours for the Eiffel Tower and then I stopped halfway? Never mind, I think they have an elevator.”
“Stop talking, I’m trying to take a photo!”
I kiss her on the cheek, and she snaps the picture.
Since I know I made it up, the walk back down is easy. We head to Île Saint-Louis because Travel Europe says they have the best ice cream.
I order nougat au miel and Leela gets fraise. I take a stack of napkins. We walk back over the bridge and sit on a bench and look at the Notre Dame Cathedral.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Mostly better,” I say. I hesitate. “I’m just worried, you know? That I’m turning into my mom.”
She turns to me. “Syd, a little anxiety isn’t a panic attack. Everyone has anxiety. It’s normal. It’s your body responding to actual danger. Like being chased by a lion.”
“Do I often get chased by lions?”
“No, but our species used to. We have anxiety to heighten our senses so we can react and hide from danger, or so we can fight the danger. The problem with your mom is that she sees danger when there really isn’t any.”
“Like at the grocery store.” I lick the side of my cone. The ice cream has started to drip down the side.
“Exactly,” she says.
“Because there are no lions at the grocery store.”
She laughs. “Right.”
“But she worries that if she goes she’ll have a panic attack.”
“Yes.”
I try to understand. “You’re saying my mom avoiding the grocery store because of panic attacks is like a caveman avoiding a forest because of lions.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“So panic attacks have become my mother’s lions.”
“Exactly,” she says, nodding. “Except cavemen were right to avoid lions. Lions can actually kill you. Panic attacks can’t.”
Right. We sit in silence eating our cones. By the time we’re done, she looks like she has a strawberry goatee.
I hand her a napkin.
“Thank you.”
“How do you know this anyway?” I ask.
“Psych 101, baby. It’s a required course for marketing majors. Teaches us how to manipulate people.”
“Good to know,” I say. I pause. “But . . . there was no lion chasing me up the Arc de Triomphe.”
“No, but there were a lot of steps. And it was hot. Your heart was thumping. Your adrenaline was rushing. Add in all your fears about leaving your mom and turning into your mom and of course you got freaked out.”
“And what about at the Anne Frank house?”
“Same. You were thinking about the Holocaust, death, being forced to live in an attic, your mother, you were hungover, maybe the room was small, maybe there were stairs . . .”
“There were stairs,” I say.
“I’m sure it pushed plenty of your buttons.”
“I think it did.” I smile at her. “Thanks.”
She winks. “Anytime.”
I hand her another napkin. She’s still a strawberry mess. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.
“Laundry,” she says. “I’m out of underwear.”
“My bras are disgusting.”
“What if we pick up stinky cheese and bread and wine—”
“And macarons,” I add in.
“And macarons, obviously, and we go back to the apartment and do laundry and relax? It’s so hot out and we did a lot today.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “Lead the way.”
We type in the key code and use the key Kat left us since she said she has to work late tonight and we’ll be on our own for dinner. We went to a boulangerie and picked up a huge still-warm baguette. Then we stopped by a tiny fromagerie where bricks of cheese lined the walls and bought blocks of Camembert, Brie, and two others called Cantal and Fourme d’Ambert. Finally, we went in to the corner épicerie and bought a bottle of rosé. We’re going to do our laundry, eat bread and cheese and drink wine, and go to sleep early. We’re wiped. My feet are burning and blistered, despite not wearing gold stilettos.
We’re laughing when we open the door.
“Hi!” Kat says. She’s wearing a bathrobe and her hair is wrapped in a towel.
“Bonjour!” I say. “I thought you were working late!”
“I got out early,” she says. “Did you have a fun day?”
“We did,” Leela says, smiling. Her arm is linked through mine.
“Spectacular! I’m so glad. I just got home, but we have to get moving! Go shower or bidet or whatever. We’re meeting a group of people in Oberkampf. It’s very cool. You’re going to love it. It’s like the Williamsburg of Paris.”
“We bought stuff to eat for dinner,” Leela says.
“So don’t eat! Just drink.”
“I’m kind of zonked,” Leela says, and turns to me. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yeah, but . . . we’re in Paris. We should go out,” I say. “Don’t you think?”
“We’ve gone out every night for the last week and a half. I thought we could stay home and have an early night. We have a million things to do tomorrow. The Louvre. Musée d’Orsay, Sacré-Coeur. Plus we have two more nights here. Staying home one night isn’t going to kill us.”
“But . . . but . . . it’s only nine,” Kat says, looking baffled.
“But I’m tired,” she snaps. “So’s Sydney.”
“I . . .” I look back and forth between them, feeling a little like I’m the rope in their tug of war. “I’m not really sure what to do here? I want to hang out with both of you? I want to stay in and I want to go out?”
“You want to go out,” Kat says, her eyes shining. “You can stay home when you’re in Maryland. You’re in Paris! Don’t you want to eat French food and drink more wine and maybe see my handsome boss again?”
“Well . . .” She does have a point. “Let’s go out for a bit.”
Leela crosses her arms. “We bought dinner! We have bread! And cheese! We’ve been spending so much money. We don’t need another dinner out.”
“I’m sure Alain will pay,” Kat says. “He always pays.”
“Why don’t we eat the bread and cheese now and then we can meet up for a quick drink,” I say. “Compromise?”
Leela takes a step back, pursing her lips. “Honestly, I’m wiped. I’ll stay home by myself. You go. It’s fine.”
It does not sound fine.
“Oh! I have an idea!” Kat says. “You’re too tired to go out? Why don’t I invite everyone over here instead? We’ll have a party. It’ll be great. Spectacular. Yay party!”
“Oh,” Leela says, biting her lip. “But—”
“No buts! I should have thought of this before. We’ll invite everyone over to toast your arrival and have wine and cheese and your baguette! Let me go text everyone. Leela, can you just move your stuff to Syd’s room, and we’ll close the door and fold up the bed?”
She runs off before we can comment.
We’re both silent. I force a smile. “Excited?”
Leela rolls her eyes. “Can I wear my pajamas to the party?”
“Um, no,” I say. “Unless they’re really cute pajamas?”
“My My Little Pony sleep shirt?”
“Not that kind of cute.”
“Then no. I’m out of clean pajamas too, actually. Do you think we can do our laundry during the party?”
“I don’t see why not,” I say, brightening. “Look at that, multitasking!”
“Hmmph,” she grumbles.
I hold out the Brie. “Cheese?”
The party is in full swing. There are a whole bunch of people in the living room, drinking wine and halfheartedly aiming their smoke exhalations out the windows.
Leela is talking to a Parisian named Pierre in French. Her hand is on his knee. She is smiling. Smiling! Woot!
I am sitting between Alain and Kat on what only an hour ago was Leela’s pullout bed. They are debating the best hotel in New York. “I like the Plaza,” he says. “It is the best, non?”
“Why? You have to stay in SoHo next time. You have to. Stay at the Mercer or something. So much cooler. You’re not a fifty-year-old man!”
He leans closer to me. “Where is your suggestion, Sydney?”
“I am not an expert on New York hotels, I’m sorry to say.”
“But you will come visit me?”
“Maybe,” I say, laughing. This guy definitely isn’t shy.
My phone buzzes beside me. It’s Addison on FaceTime.
“Excuse me,” I say.
“Hi,” I say, her picture coming into focus. Her hair is wet and in a ponytail. “Just got home?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Where are you? It’s loud.”
“At Kat’s,” I say. “She’s having a party. One sec, let me find someplace quieter.” I pass the washer, where I can see all our clothes bunched inside. Leela started it before the party. I step out of the apartment into the hall and leave the door unlocked. “Hi!”
“So how’s Paris?” she asks. Her tone sounds kind of bitter. “Nice lipstick.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m wearing the one Leela bought me. It really is the perfect pink. “Paris is good. How’s Mom? She called me in the middle of the night. Are you taking her out for some fresh air?”
“She’s not a dog, you know.”
I flush. “I know that, thank you. But she needs to go out. Otherwise she’s up all night. Can’t you just take her for ice cream? The Baskin-Robbins is five blocks away. It’s an easy walk.”
“What she needs to do is go to a doctor!”
“We tried that. It didn’t work.”
“Then she needs to go to another one! A shrink!”
“Great!” I know I’m yelling but I don’t care. It’s not like anyone inside can hear me. “Take her!”
“She won’t go! She’s insane.”
“I’ll be home on August second. I’ll take over. You just have to help her for a few more weeks.”
“I think she’s getting worse.”
“It’s too loud here. I can’t hear you.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to keep you from your party,” she snaps, and then hangs up.
I stare at the blank screen. Great. Just great. I try calling back but she doesn’t answer. I open the door and go back inside.
My phone beeps again. An iMessage.
Hi.
There’s a number but no name. Who is it? It’s a 778 area code. What is that?
Who is this? I type in.
You’ve forgotten me already? So much for we’ll always have Amsterdam.
My heart stops. Jackson?
Did you meet someone else in Amsterdam?
Yes. He works at the Pink Dolphin. Texting is too PG for him though. We FaceTime.
I smile to myself and wait for him to type back.
Jackson: Funny. I got your number from Matt’s phone. I guess Leela called you once. OK that I used it?
Me: Yes.
Jackson: Where are you?
Me: Paris. You?
Jackson: Berlin.
Me: We’re pretty far from each other.
Jackson: Nine hours by car. Two days and nine hours by bicycle. How’s Paris?
Me: Magnifique. I think that means magnificent but I’m not a hundred percent sure. How’s Berlin?
Jackson: Gut.
Me: How’s Matt?
Three dots. And then three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots.
Jackson: How’s Leela?
Me: You didn’t answer my question.
Jackson: You didn’t answer mine.
Neither of us is typing. I don’t see the three dots.
“Syd? Where are you?” I hear Kat ask.
Me: I gotta go. Have fun. Gute nacht.
Bonne nuit, he writes.
“It was nice to see you,” Alain says. He hugs me good-bye. “I am sorry I have to leave, but I have an early breakfast.”
“It was nice to see you too,” I say.
He kisses me on both cheeks, and I let his lips linger.
I could totally make out with him right now. Well, I can’t really because there are still twenty people here and the apartment is not that big and Leela’s mess is all over my room, but I could kiss him, couldn’t I? So what that I’ve been texting with Jackson? It’s not like I’m going to ever see him again. I am in Paris and Jackson is in Berlin and Alain is French and gorgeous and not kissing him would be a crime. A crime.
I turn my head just a little bit so that, there we go, his lips are gently touching mine. I lift my hand so that it’s on the back of his neck and now we’re really kissing and he tastes like wine and he pulls me closer to him and now his hand is on my back and his lips are moving against mine and this was definitely a good idea, it really was, we’re kissing, we’re kissing, we’re French kissing, and you know what, my room isn’t that messy . . .
He pulls away and smiles down at me. “Unfortunately, I really must go. But maybe you will come see me in Tuscany? Kat has all my information.” He pronounces it inforrr-ma-sion.
“Maybe,” I say. “It’s a definite possibility.”
“Then good night,” he says. “À bientôt.”
I close the door behind me and exhale.
I tell a very drunk Leela she can share my bed. The living room is just too disgusting with wine and cigarette smoke to sleep in.
“We’ll clean it tomorrow,” Kat says.
“That was fun,” Leela says. “And I saw you kissing Alain! Was it magnifique?”
“It was pretty good,” I admit.
“You kissed Alain?” Kat screams, throwing her arms in the air. “How did I miss that? Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He invited us to Tuscany. We’ll see.”
“I’m going to try and call Gavin. Night.” She blows a kiss, and disappears into her room and closes the door.
“Did you hear my French?” Leela asks. “It’s pretty good, huh? Isn’t it?”
“It is,” I say, handing her two Advil and a glass of water. “Have these. We have a big day tomorrow, right?”
“Right,” she says. “We’re going to see the Mona Lisa. Mona. Mooooona! I can’t wait to see her. I wish I had her. Wouldn’t it be cool to have the Mona Lisa in your bedroom?”
“That would be cool.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to steal it or anything.”
“I don’t think you could steal the Mona Lisa. I’m pretty sure it’ll have tight security.”
“Good point. Very good point! Where would I put it, anyway? There’s not much room in my suitcase. It’s already hard to zip.”
“Yes. Maybe I can put it in my backpack?”
“You’re such a good friend!”
“I am.”
“You take good care of me. It makes me feel very loved.” Her head lolls from side to side. “You’re my best friend, you know.”
“I know.”
She opens her eyes. “Am I your best friend?”
“Of course you are,” I tell her.
“More than Kat? Do you like me more than Kat?”
“Shh,” I say. “You’re being really loud.”
“So? Does that matter? Don’t you want her to know that I’m your best friend?”
Seriously? “Yes, I will tell her you’re my best friend. Okay?”
“Good. And for the rest of the trip it’s just us, right? You and me?”
“Just us. Unless you’re planning on meeting up with Matt again,” I can’t resist adding.
“I’m not. And no Kat either.”
It’s not like we have definite plans for Kat to join us again. Unless we really do go to Tuscany. But one step at a time.
“Where are we going next?”
“Barcelona,” I say.
“Right! Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow. Monday or Tuesday?”
“Okay. But can we go somewhere cold?”
“Huh?”
“Barcelona is really hot. I don’t think I can do more hot. Let’s go somewhere cold.”
“Like Switzerland?”
“Yes,” she says. “Switzerland! Good night.” And with that, she passes out.
And the plans change again. I look at my phone to see if Jackson texted.
He didn’t.
Our last few days in Paris are hectic but fun. On Sunday, we visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa.
“She’s not that special,” Leela says.
“Travel Europe says that the only reason she’s so famous is that she got stolen. Otherwise no one would even know this painting existed. And now she’s the most famous painting in history.”
When I still haven’t heard from Jackson, I decide to text him.
Me: How hard would it be to steal the Mona Lisa?
Jackson: Not that hard. You should try it.
And then:
Jackson: Do you think Drecksak is an insult?
Me: It does not sound like a compliment.
We sneak messages back and forth and back and forth.
On our last day, Leela and I visit the Palace of Versailles, and then meet Kat for a fondue dinner. We start with bread dipped in cheese, move on to pieces of steak, and then end with strawberries dipped in chocolate.
“I need to get a fondue set for res,” Leela declares, her mouth full of cheese.
“Res?” Kat asks.
“My dorm. They call it res in Canada.”
“Do most people live in a dorm sophomore year?” Kat asks.
“Most people get apartments,” Leela says. “But dorm living is so much easier, you know?”
“Maybe we should get an apartment,” Kat says to me.
Leela snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“Why not?” Kat asks.
Leela looks at me and then at Kat. I can see her registering the situation. She looks back at me, her eyes almost gleeful. She doesn’t know about your mom? I imagine her shouting, I know something you don’t know!
“What?” Kat asks.
“Nothing,” Leela says, but she’s smiling. Seriously?
I want to wipe the smile off her face. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe we should.”
“We could get a place right near campus!” Kat says. “I have a ton of cool furniture in storage in New York from when my parents moved, so we wouldn’t even have to buy too much stuff. I signed up for another year in the dorm, but there’s a waiting list so I bet I could get out of it.”
Leela dips her strawberry back into the chocolate. “I think it’s a great idea,” she says.
My neck and back feel hot. Does she really?
“So were you able to get in touch with Gavin the other night?” I ask, switching the subject.
Kat gets a dreamy smile on her face. “Yes. He’s good. It’s color war.”
“What’s color war?” I ask.
“It’s camp Olympics. But there are only three teams, and each team has to wear the same color. He’s head of the blue team. He’s lucky it’s a good color on him. Want to see a picture?”
“Yes,” I say, and out comes her phone.
“Doesn’t he look cute?” she asks.
“He does,” I say.
She puts her phone down and sighs. “I’m going to miss you guys. I wish you were staying longer. Maybe I’ll meet you guys for a weekend? Tuscany?”
I think about Alain. I think about Jackson.
“We’ll see,” Leela says, smiling tightly. “We’re going to Switzerland next. Not sure how long we’ll be there. And then who knows?”
“Yeah,” I say, dipping another strawberry in chocolate. “Who knows.”