Page 37 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

I can't help but think it's a sign from the universe, like my life is only going downhill from here. I’ve peaked in Paris and life will never be the same again.

"Likewise," I retort, clearing my throat when my voice only comes out in a croak. "I would've spent another day in bed. It’s a good thing you baited me here, the fresh air was a really great idea," I say, voice clearer now, as I reach for the menu. “Then again, kind of rude you made me come all the way here.”

We're meeting in this super cute café that’s halfway between our apartments, about a fifteen minute walk away from my home. Usually, I welcome the short walk there. It’s fifteen minutes of excitement on the way there and it always makes me feel better to have a bit of movement after scorching down their delicious treats.

Today though? Today I cursed Max with every step, wishing him wet socks whenever I had to stop and catch my breath. Maybe I should have just stayed in bed after all.

"Wow, I forgot how grumpy you get when you're sick," he chuckles and takes a sip of his cappuccino. "You make the man flu look like a piece of cake."

"Ha ha. You ever had a cold while on your period?" I ask him dryly, eyebrows raised up my forehead. He has no idea about the kind of pain and discomfort I’m going through.

“Touché. But—” He narrows his eyes at me, pointing at his crutches. “I made it by foot with a broken leg. So I’m declaring I win this round of suffering.”

I roll my eyes at him, then blink surprised when a waitress suddenly sets down a coffee in front of me.

"Thank you," I utter, confused. I didn’t even have time to take a proper look at the menu. Are we here so often I already count as a regular?

"I took the liberty of ordering for you," Max says nonchalantly, stirring his drink and shooting me a grin. "After all, you always get the same thing anyway."

"Don't say that like it's a bad thing. You never switch your order up either," I point out and take a sip, humming happily when the hot liquid soothes my still-itchy throat, even if just for a moment.

"So… Paris?" he muses, leaning closer as curiosity tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I want to know everything. Where did you go? What did you do? How did you like it?"

"I went to the Louvre, took a way too long walk along the Seine and went to Giverny. I have to give it to you, I kind of get it now," I admit, watching his face light up.

“I knew it! You just had to give Paris a proper chance.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. “I’m ready for the ‘I told you so.’” I reach for my bag and quickly retrieve his souvenirs. "Here, I got you some magnets. Hope you don’t have these already."

His grin widens as he reaches for them immediately, turning them to inspect them from all sides. They are small trinkets I picked up during a slow afternoon. Memories of Reed accompanying me, giving his commentary on the particular overdone ones, rush through my head.

"Thank you! These will look amazing next to the fifty others on my fridge."

"I'm surprised you even still have space there," I chuckle, trying to push the memories back into the box they just escaped out of.

"Who was the guy?" Max asks, and I freeze, like a deer caught in headlights, my eyes quickly jumping to him.

"Who?" I try to act cluelessly and take a sip of my coffee.

"Sis, you’re an idiot if you think you can fool me.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, clearly amused. “Some of the photos you sent me, there’s just no way you took all of them on your own. And don’t think I didn’t notice the two shadows in a couple of them.” He lifts his hand and wiggles his index and middle fingers for emphasis. “Plus, if it had been one of your girlfriends, you definitely would’ve told me by now. So that only leaves one option. Come on, tell me. Who’s the guy?”

"Damn," I mutter, crossing my arms in front of my chest. For some reason I feel just like at fourteen, when he caught me with a beer and threatened to tell our parents. "What crime series did you just binge, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Bones. But that’s not the issue here." He leans his chin on his hand, grinning at me like I’m about to provide him with the hottest gossip. "Go on. Tell me about him."

"Do you remember how I texted you about the asshat who ran me over just after I arrived?" I ask, eyes fixed on my coffee, picking up my spoon to stir it, just so my hands have something to do.

There's no use trying to hide it from him. And really, what's the harm if he knows?

"No way," he says, like I just revealed the biggest scandal of the century. "Seriously?"

"What can I say? He's hot," I reply with a shrug, taking a sip of my coffee to hide the blush rushing to my cheeks. "And it turns out, once he's gotten a few hours of sleep and some food, he's a lot nicer."

"Okay. I'm listening."

I don’t really know what comes over me. A part of me wanted to tuck this thing between Reed and me into a little corner of my heart, make it something to cherish and keep to myself. You know, print out the pictures for my grandchildren to find after I’ve passed away.

But a larger part wants to talk about him. Wants to shout about him to the world, even though I have no claim on him whatsoever.

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