Page 19 of Host for the Holidays
“Yeah, they do that. We Parisians love a good transportation strike. Let me take that for you.”
I’m too tired, too grateful to object. All that baguette cutting serves Rémy well as he carries my suitcase up the stairs. After two sets, I offer to change places with him.
He’s breathing hard, but he rejects my offer. He’s going to arrive sweaty to work today because of me.
“You’re a saint,” I tell him as we reach the 5th floor. “How much are you regretting telling your friend you’d help him out with hosting?”
He sets down the suitcase and looks at me for a second.
I put my hand up before he can talk. “Don’t answer that. For the moment, I feel like at least one French person doesn’t hate me, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He laughs. “I don’t regret it at all.”
I don’t regret it, either. Rémy has been very nice to me. I don’t know if I could have handled this experience if I’d had a host like the taxi driver. I don’t see Rémy blowing smoke into my face anytime soon. Bless him.
I grimace. “Even though Josh asked you to take me around? I’m sorry about that. Youreallydon’t have to.”
“And what if I want to?”
I don’t really have an answer for that because what grown, working man wants to play free tour guide to a stranger? Our initial meeting must not have been quite as bad as I thought if he likes me enough to want to spend more time with me.
“Today is my short teaching day, so I should be home by one,” he says. “There’s a free museum nearby that’s about the history of Paris if you want to go when I get back.”
Is my face betraying how badly I’m dying to get out in the city but also how terrified I am of doing it alone? Because it sure seems like it is.
His dark brows rise slightly as he waits for my response. It’s a gentle invitation, and somehow, I know I could say no without offending him.
But why would I say no?
“You don’t have to decide n—"
“Yes,” I hurry to say. “Yes, I want to go.”
He smiles. “I’ll be back here by one, then. If you need anything while I’m at work, you can just call or text me.” He hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s my number. Make sure you include that +33, or it won’t work.”
* * *
Once Rémy is gone,I spend way too much time on the phone with my credit card company, sorting out what they think is fraudulent activity but what is actually me trying to survive in a foreign country that doesn’t seem thrilled that I’m here.
It’s only after that’s all figured out that I remember my laundry downstairs. I take it out of the machine, then go upstairs again. I’ve gone up and down way too many stairs today.
I dump an armful of wet clothes on the small table under the bed and move to the window where the laundry rack stands. It’s small, and, just like everything in Paris, it fights me. And it wins. I have no idea how to open this window. I suspect I need a key to do it, because the handle has a keyhole on it, and the handle won’t turn.
I run downstairs, hoping to find that the window there is different, but it’s not. It won’t budge. After debating for a minute, I grab Rémy’s number from where I set it on the coffee table and carefully type in the numbers.
Madi:Hey Rémy. It’s Madi, your local incompetent American tourist. I’ve made it my mission to single-handedly reinforce all the worst stereotypes about my people.
I bite my top lip, wondering how long it will take him to respond. Heisat work, after all, and when Josh is at work, it often takes him hours to text back.
The three dots pop up right away, though.
Rémy:You might have to stay longer than three weeks to tackle that list. *wink emoji*
I smile. This guy’s got jokes.
Madi:You talk a lot of trash about us for someone who’s half-American. *tongue sticking out emoji*
Madi:Anyway, I’m having a bit of an issue here . . . I can’t figure out how to open my window to hang my laundry.
