Page 102 of Host for the Holidays
The conversation takes off in French again, and I’m left on the tarmac, observing as it goes places I can’t follow. Élise directs her conversation at Rémy, which means he can’t translate for me like he was before. The feeling at the table is one of cheer and sociability, and I try not to detract from that, keeping what I hope is a generally pleasant expression on my face.
Rémy glances at me at one point, confirming my suspicions that I’m the subject of conversation between him and Élise. Under the table, he puts a hand on my thigh. He keeps his eyes on me as he talks. They’re soft and warm, and the whole thing is just . . . sweet—and it’d be even better if I could understand what he’s saying.
I swallow, suddenly overwhelmed with how bittersweet this all is. It’s a little bit like hiking. You get to a place where you can see the most amazing views—and then you turn back to the trail ahead and realize you’re nowhere near the top. You’re not even sure what getting to the top will entail or if you’ve got it in you to make it there.
I wait for a lull in the conversation between Rémy and Élise. “Hey, where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the right.” Rémy’s eyes scan mine. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’ll be right back.”
I excuse myself from the table, hoping it’s not a solecism to leave during the meal for the bathroom. It’s hard to imagine someone like Élise or Madame Fortin having anything as primal as bodily functions.
I make it to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, then close my eyes and lean against the sink. It’s blessedly quiet in here, giving my brain a rest from trying to parse out words from a foreign language. And this isn’t Madame Wilson’s slow, clear French. This is Busta Rhymes-speed talking.
I pull out my phone, hungry for something familiar—and also because it’s impulse at this point to pull it out in the bathroom, which is really gross, now that I’m thinking about it. What is wrong with humans? Or maybe it’s just Americans.
I open social media because that’s what my fingers are programmed to do. A couple of notifications pop up, and I tap on them because, using the bathroom may be primal, but no instinct is more urgent or constant for my generation than the one to get rid of pesky notification badges.
It’s Linnae from the photoshoot yesterday. She posted a bunch of the photos and tagged me in the photosandthe caption. The post has—what?!—five hundred likes. I look at the timestamp on it. It’s only been up for twenty minutes. Whoisthis woman?!
I click on her profile, and my eyes bulge. She has two hundred and eighty thousand followers.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and I tense. Is this Madame Fortin, coming to inform me that she can’t have the equivalent of Tarzan ruining her Christmas Eve dinner?
“Madi?”
I let out a relieved breath. It’s Rémy.
I open the door, and Rémy looks back at me, concern in his eyes. “I came to check on you.”
“I haven’t been in herethatlong, have I?”
He shakes his head. “I just . . . felt like something might be off.”
How can he read me so well after such a short time knowing me?
He takes my hand. “Is it?”
I don’t answer right away because I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to ruin Christmas Eve for Rémy. In fact, that’s thelastthing I want to do. It wasreallynice of him to invite me in the first place.
But I also don’t know how to go back out there. I don’t know what I’m doing or how to behave. I’m flying in the dark.
“Come here.” Rémy pulls me by the hand and into the hallway. We walk a bit farther, away from the dining area, then go through a door on the left. It takes us into a bedroom. It smells like Rémy, which makes it feel familiar. Besides the tidy bed, bedside table, and a dresser, it has two tall bookcases against one wall. They’re full of books mostly in English.
Rémy leads me over to the bed. He sits down and tugs on my hand to pull me next to him.
I resist. “I don’t wanna take you away from dinner.”
He tugs more insistently. “Don’t worry about that.I’mnot worried about that.”
“Yeah, but you’re not the one trying to make a good impression out there.” I surrender to his pulling and take a seat next to him.
“Neither should you be. You’re perfect the way you are.”
“What? Christmas Eve takeout Madi?”
He smiles and puts a hand on my cheek. “Are we talking FLC takeout?”
