Page 12 of Host for the Holidays
I frown, not sure if I should be offended. “Yeah. Why?”
She faces forward again and starts walking. “If foreign languages at my high school were taught by people likeyou, a lot fewer people would have skipped class, that’s for sure.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. That was a compliment, I’m pretty sure. I’m also pretty sure it shouldn’t make me feel like I just won some kind of prize.
“Oh, hold on,” she says as she pulls out her phone. It’s lit up and vibrating, with a big contact picture of a guy smiling. He’s got sandy blond hair and a straight, pearly white smile. The nameJosh-wahis written underneath.
She puts the phone to her ear. “Hey, hon. Yeah, everything is fine. Sorry, I should have texted you to let you know things got taken care of.”
She’s clearly talking about the payment issue. Why did I not just wait? The woman has a boyfriend, for Pete’s sake. It makes a million times more sense for him to foot the bill than for me to. But what am I supposed to do now?Oh, I was just kidding about that. The paymentdidn’tgo through.Yeah, no. That’s a straight shot down 2-star lane.
We stop at the street we have to cross to get to the store, waiting for it to be safe to walk. The time comes, and I start walking, but Madi’s not paying attention. My impulse is to usher her forward with a hand on her back, but I resist, maybe because I feel like her boyfriend might punch me through the phone.
Do I wave a hand in front of her face? Snap? Pull her by the arm? I settle for tapping her on the shoulder, which I don’t think I’ve ever done in my twenty-six years on earth.
She glances up at me and immediately understands, skipping forward and into the street.
“No, it’s fine,” she responds into the phone. “I’ll just grab something from the store and see you after you get done with dinner. I can ask the host to help me let you in.” She glances at me, clenching her teeth like she’s worried she’s overpromised.
I give her a reassuring nod and stop, since we’re in front of Monoprix now.
“Have fun at dinner,” she says into the phone. “Oh, can you bring me some sweats or something? I have no clothes to sleep in, and I need to wash the ones I’m wearing. Stat. I think it’s a crime to smell like this in Paris, so for all of our sakes, please don’t forget. Okay, thanks. Love you. Bye.”
I put out my hand to invite her to go into the store ahead of me.
“Sorry about that,” she says as I grab a shopping basket. “My boyfriend is here for work, and all his coworkers are going out to some fancy place by the hotel for dinner. He doesn’t feel like he can skip out.” She looks around at the products nearest us and halts, her eyes scanning everything in the vicinity. “Oh, gosh. Thank heaven you’re here. I have no idea what I’m looking at.”
For the next ten minutes, I walk around the store with her and translate, slipping a few things I think I’ll need into the basket. It doesn’t escape me that Madi’s boyfriend is eating at a really nice restaurant while she’s choosing between prepackaged cheeses. Could he not have invited her along? I’d have thought most couples would be eager to have the Parisian dining experience together.
Whatever. It’s not my business.
“That should be enough,” she says. “I can come back for more tomorrow when my stomach isn’t staging a revolt—and when my credit card is actually working.” She crosses her fingers.
I look at the stuff she’s put in the basket. Prepackaged sandwich cheese, a loaf of sliced bread, and orange juice.
She’s watching me take stock. “What?”
I just chuckle, shaking my head.
“My stars and stripes are showing again?”
“You might as well be waving a flag.” I reach over to the baguettes set up in baskets along the bakery wall next to us, pressing on the packaging to make sure I choose one that feels just right. I stick one in the basket and make my way to the cheese refrigerator, choosing a decent Camembert.
When we get to the checkout, Madi pulls out her euros. She mentioned her credit card is currently being declined, and I know from her phone call with Siena that her taxi driver robbed her of the small supply of euros she has.
I tap my card on the credit card machine, and it beeps.
Euros in hand, Madi looks up at me.
“Save those for later,” I say.
She’s about to argue with me, and I don’t want to give her the wrong idea about why I paid. This 5-star review is a tightrope—doing enough to keep her happy without being over the top.
“Most places prefer electronic payment these days,” I explain as I bag our purchases. “You’ll want to save your cash for souvenirs or something.”
She can’t hide her relief as she slips the euros back in her purse. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Just need to call my credit card company so I know I’m not gonna be stranded in Paris forever.”
Someone whose boyfriend is in Paris at the same time as her shouldn’t be worrying about that, right? The guy hasrichwritten all over his tan face. At least, it looked like it from my two-second view of his contact icon.
