Page 46 of City of Love

“Gun” and “knife.” I don’t study French weaponry, but I did study the sign in the airport that listed prohibited carry-on items. And now I’m a little concerned.

I sigh, finally giving in to my urge to start pacing. It’s a bad habit, but when I’m feeling anxious, pacing seems to help; it gives the illusion that I’m doing something, even if I’m not. And I’mnotdoing anything, other than worrying myself sick.

But whatever Noel is doing, it’s not good. He’s talking about guns and knives, and he seemed a little off when he saw that calendar alert…

I sit back on the bed, opening my laptop and pulling up a search engine. I quickly search “Montparnasse Baudelaire,” becauseyes, I saw what his alert said, even though it wasn’t for me. I’ll think about the ethics of that later. Right now I just need to figure this out. I’m not sure what the words mean, but it only takes a second to find the answer.

“It’s a cemetery,” I say. I’m talking to myself, but who else am I going to talk to? “And Charles Baudelaire is buried there.”

So sketchy.Sosketchy. He’s going to a cemetery at 9:30 tonight, and he’s talking about guns and knives. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself, but I also feel like a little bit of worrying is justified.

I mean, acemetery. Guns. Knives.

What if he gets shot? Or stabbed? Or arrested? Or all three?

My eyes widen as I begin to pace again, and I lean over and dig in my purse for my blue stress ball. I squeeze it, and the eyes and nostrils bulge out, looking bulbous and gross. Still, I keep squeezing, my hand clenching and unclenching as I pace.

This is bad. He’s going to be shot and stabbed and arrested. He’s going to die in French prison. What are their prisons like? Are they bad? The guillotine isn’t still a thing, is it?

Whoa, I tell myself.Chill, Lydia.

Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. No one is getting shot. No one is getting their head chopped off. I’m sure it’s fine. Noel isn’t stupid.

I make myself pull my movie back up on my laptop and finish watching it—forced relaxation. It one hundred percent does not work, but it does help the time pass. I’m antsy, and I keep looking out the window—not sure why, but whatever—but nothing helps. My insides are still jittery.

When Mme Marchand finally pokes her head in and asks if I’d like to go to dinner with her and her friends, I decline politely and tell her I’m going to go to bed early. Because it’s only eight o’clock, but sleeping seems like the best option at this point. I’ll wake up tomorrow and Noel will be here, and he’ll be unshot, unstabbed, and unguillotined.

I pull on my pajamas—an oversized t-shirt and boxer shorts rather than the flannel, because I still haven’t bought a fan yet—and get in bed, turning on another movie. A boring one this time, something that will distract me but also make me drowsy. Then I settle in for what will hopefully be a decent night of sleep.

***

It is not a decent night of sleep. It is not even a poor night of sleep.

Because I can’t sleep at all.

Every time I try to force my eyes shut, I see Noel in various stages of injury. This goes on for maybe an hour until finally I sit up and fling the covers off, glaring at nothing in particular.

My first, wild instinct when I get out of bed is to run after Noel, to go to that cemetery and make sure he’s okay. And Iwantto go—I want to see him, to be there for him, possibly to talk him out of whatever he’s doing.

But…that’s a terrifying idea. For so many reasons. A cemetery at night, to start out with, plus all the gun and knife business.

I move over to the window, looking out at the night. I don’t know Paris. I don’t know what Noel’s doing. There’s no way I could go after him.

Could I?

All I know is I’m going crazy here, worrying about him. I probably don’t need to be worrying this much, but I’d feel better if I could just make sure he was okay. And I need him to be okay.

Actually, what Ineedis to talk to someone. I need a sounding board. So I pick up my phone and dial.

Jade answers on the second ring.

“You’re calling me fromParis!” she squeals, bypassing a greeting. “How crazy is that?”

“It’s pretty crazy,” I say, smiling a little. “It’s…what, noon there?”

Jade sighs dramatically. “Yep. Midday in little Stone Springs. But let’s not talk about Wyoming. Let’s talk about your sexy pen pal.” I can almost hear her grin. “He’sgorgeous, Lydia. You know how I feel about that whole dark and brooding thing.”

She’s jumping right in, which is a typical Jade quality. “He’s…very attractive,” I admit. Then, I allow myself to say something I’ve been avoiding even thinking about. “I—I kind of like him.”

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