Page 31 of Meet Hate Love
Why do you have Margot’s number?
I hit send and immediately regretted it. That sounded… jealous? No… No way in hell. I mean, so what if he had Margot’s number? Why would I care? I didn’t care. It was just weird.
Not that it matters, but it’s weird.
That made it sound better, right?
(205) 555-9072: She gave it to me Friday after work, in case you died. She wanted to make sure she knew.
And I’d thought I was crazy.
I rummaged through my purse for cash as the waiter passed by without looking in my direction.
(205) 555-9072: Are you close?
Travel Tip Number 3: Do as much as you can on your own, especially if your travel partner is an uptight time watcher.
At least that sounded like me before I found him less asshole-ish.
(205) 555-9072: So, you sent that to say that you’re close and you’ll see me in a few minutes.
??
The thumbs-up emoji was a versatile little thing. It could mean “yep,” “okay,” or “sure thing.” Sometimes, given the right situation, it could even come across as a condescending fuck you. The ambiguity of it was exactly why I’d sent it.
I shoved my phone into my purse, then gave up trying to flag down a server and went inside to pay because, as I’d learned throughout the day, getting the check took time in Paris. And time was something I did not have.
I booked it to the nearest metro station. This time I got on the train going in the right direction (yay, me!). No one threw up (yay, people), but by the time I emerged from the station, I only had five minutes to get there. Not that I’d give a crap if my tardiness annoyed Vance. What I didn’t want to do was listen to him complain about it, for God only knew how long. The rest of the trip. Until retirement. From beyond his grave…
I hurried around a café terrace, and there, in the not-too-far distance, stood the glowing Eiffel Tower. Stopping, I pulled my phone from my purse and took a few pictures, and like Vance could sense somewhere in the universe that I was dawdling, he texted.
(205) 555-9072: I’m by the guy selling light-up Eiffel Tower trinkets.
Almost there.
And that was another word that could mean a lot of things. “Almost” was completely subjective.
I booked it down the busy sidewalk, dodging dog walkers and couples linked arm in arm, but the illuminated structure never seemed to get any closer. “How big is the thing?”
I had to be close. God, I had to be because I hadn’t run since my senior year of high school, and a few minutes into my sprint, a stitch had lanced through my side, making it hard to breathe.
I shot across the street and headed toward a park.
With my luck, there was a high probability my body would shut down from overexertion. Wouldn’t that be a way to cark it? In the middle of a Parisian park, right by the homeless man feeding a bunch of rats. There was a headline that could rival the whole carbon monoxide Airbnb:Chronically late travel journalist eaten by Parisian rats after sudden cardiac arrest.Vance would get a kick out of that, I’d bet.
The line of bushes opened to the sprawling, brightly lit swath of the Champ de Mars. I’d made it. Victory was mine. All I had to do was find the single man selling twinkling trinkets, and—I skidded to a stop. There must have been one hundred men with light-up Eiffel Tower souvenirs spread out on blankets. Vance evidently didn’t understand that the word “man” was singular.
Panting, I took my phone with the full intention of sending Vance the dictionary definition of “man,” but before I could finish, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
“I have mace!” I whirled around and positioned myself to nail the guy in the balls, dropping my stance when Vance shifted into the light.
“Did you really just make a ninja noise?” he asked, laughing.
Had I? Probably. I had always been a firm believer that people who came across as slightly insane were more likely to ward off a potential attacker than one who just screamed. “Why are you popping out of the shadows like hell’s annoyingly muscular timekeeper?” I touched a hand to my pounding chest just as he threw his head back on another cackle.
He jerked his chin toward the illuminated tower. “We’re late.” He was like a broken record with that.
I started across the lawn after him. “It’s three minutes past time—well, maybe four after you tried to give me a heart attack.”
