Page 9 of City of Love

She’s blatantly out of place, and not just because she’s hunched over, face buried in her knees, her shoulders shaking subtly from crying.

Or laughing maniacally, I guess, but if I were a gambling man—though I’m not and never will be—I’d bet on tears. Maybe it’s just the pessimist in me, or maybe it’s the torrential downpour outside that makes everything seem more gloomy.

No, this girl would look out of place even if she were sitting there with a friendly smile on her face. My flat isn’t the nicest, and it’s not in a great neighborhood. It’s the sort of building where tenants don’t bother keeping their voices down—like my neighbors at this exact moment—and people leave cigarette butts on the floor. This girl, with her fashionably short shorts and large, stylish purse, sticks out like a sore thumb. What is she doing here? Is she justaskingto be robbed? And more importantly, couldn’t she have collapsed in front of someone else’s door?

“Excusez-moi,” I say through clenched teeth, coming to a stop. I’m sopping wet and stressed about Lydia and the Saint Clan. I don’t have time for this.

As I move closer to the girl, I see that she’s shivering. I’m not surprised; her shorts are tiny and her shirt has short sleeves, plus her clothes look damp. Against my better judgment, I speak again. I try not to sound as irritated as I feel, but it doesn’t work.

“Ça va?”

Slowly—ever so slowly—the girl lifts her head from her knees. I frown at her appearance. Her eyes are red and swollen, her eye makeup streaking down her cheeks. Still, even in this state, I can tell she’s pretty.

“Ça—” she says with a valiant attempt at coherency. “Ça va—” She takes a deep, gulping breath. “Ça va bien,” she finally gets out, but her words aren’t really spoken so much as cried, and they’re clearly a lie, because she’s obviously not okay.

Something about her voice gives me pause, though, and I look more closely at her. “Are you American?” I say.

This sets her off again, and her crying intensifies—something I didn’t think was possible.People are going to hear her if she gets much louder.

“Yes,” she says through tears, her shoulders bobbing once again. Her arms wrap more tightly around her knees as though they’re her anchor to the world. “And I’m lost and wet and on my period and my phone is dead and I thought I spoke French but I don’t—”

“All right,” I say, cutting her off and looking around us at the hall. I don’t want to make a scene. In my line of work, and in this part of town, it’s better to fly firmly under the radar. Plus I can hear yelling coming from the neighbors’ place now, which means that someone will probably come storming out soon. “All right,” I say again. “Get up.”

Her cries slow as she looks up at me with a frown.

“Come on,” I say, and I can hear the bite of impatience in my voice. “I’m soaked. Let’s go inside.”

Her frown deepens, lending lines to her forehead and a little crease to her brow. “Your English is perfect,” she says.

“It’s my first language,” I say. “Are you coming or not?” Most of me hopes she’ll say no. I don’t have time for this.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says, though her voice isn’t unkind. “I don’t know you.”

I shrug and give her a little nudge with my foot. She scoots out of the way, and I feel a wave of relief rush over me. “Fine,” I say. “Then move away from my door, please. Good luck.”And good riddance, I add in my head. And with that I unlock my door, step inside, and close it, leaving me with just a glimpse of her shocked face before the door closes.

I’ve managed to pull my shoes off and peel my socks off when I hear a tentative knock. I sigh; I can’t say I’m surprised. I open the door, and there she stands, shoulders hunched, face both penitent and embarrassed. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest, and her hair hangs in wet curtains around her face. It’s hard to tell what color it is, but I find myself wondering all the same. Dark brown? Light brown? Some sort of brown, I think.

The girl swallows visibly before speaking. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small, her eyes tired, and I’m pulled out of my musings about her hair. “Can I come in? Just for a second to figure out what I’m going to do?” She glances nervously over her shoulder at the dingy hallway, eyeing the door across from mine as the shouting inside escalates. “I don’t feel safe out here.”

I pull the door open wider and step back wordlessly, though I’m tempted to tell her she might not feel safe inside, either. She shuffles in, her steps hesitant. But as she stands there looking nothing short of pathetic, I feel an unwelcome twinge of pity. I don’t remember the last time I saw someone look so lost. Strangely, even though I don’t know this girl, I get the sense that the crushed look on her face is out of the norm. Her face is made to smile; I can tell.

Though I’m not surehowI can tell. Because the way she’s wiping at her eyes and cheeks just smudges more makeup everywhere, and her shivering has intensified now that she’s not curled around herself anymore. Her damp shirt clings to her in a way I do my best to ignore, and as she starts rubbing her hands up and down her arms, I rack my brain. How do I handle this? The guys are going to be here in an hour, and they absolutely cannot see a girl here. There would be flirting and questions and possibly attempts to grab her purse. I need to get her out of here and on her way.

“Let me get you a towel,” I mutter. “And then tell me where you’re trying to go; I’ll call you a taxi.”

The girl gives a little sniffle. “I don’t know where I’m trying to go,” she admits in a shaky voice. “I have the address on my phone, but”—she digs in her purse and pulls out a phone—“it’s dead. I’m looking for a friend, and I thought I remembered this address, but I must be mistaken.”

Her teeth are chattering now, and for the first time she seems to take in my flat. Her eyes widen as she glances from the futon to the stretch of counter that constitutes my kitchen to the mini refrigerator. I can only assume she’s surprised by the lack of space.

I debate with myself for just a second—a rare occurrence, because I’m usually a very decisive person—before speaking. “All right. Stay here,” I say, my eyes quickly scanning the room to make sure there’s nothing out in the open she might try to steal. “I’ll grab you a towel, and you can charge your phone here. Good?”

I’ll also keep my eye on her the whole time, because I am absolutely not letting a stray tourist wander my flat unsupervised, no matter how innocent she might seem.

The girl nods. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nod back once before heading to the bathroom as quickly as possible. Do I really think she’s going to loot my place while she’s out of my sight? No. She seems like a mess. But I would be stupid to assume things.

I return three seconds later with a towel. “Portable,” I say, but I catch myself. “Cell phone,” I amend. I hold my hand out for it.

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