Page 21 of Host for the Holidays
“Don’t worry about it.” I gather up the towels into my arms.
“I promise I’m not usually this much of a damsel in distress. I’m a functioning adult who contributes to society. Or I have every intention of doing so, at least.”
Now that my work is done, I have nowhere to look but at Madi—the slope of her shoulder, the glistening water on her skin, the hollow of her clavicle. If only there was a tattoo on her forehead that saidI’m taken.
“Then you will have no trouble getting dressed,” I say, turning away. “Lunch is on the table.”
“I was busy flooding your shower while you were making me lunch? Ugh. France: 5, America: 0.”
I laugh and close the door behind me.
* * *
By the timewe leave for the museum, Madi has adjusted the score to 6-to-0.
“You have ruined the perfectly good American grilled cheese for me forever,” she says as we make our way down the flights of stairs together. “If in three weeks I go home hating the USA, I’m blaming you.”
Go home. Right. Madi is very temporary, and that’s a good reminder for me. I could get used to having her as a roommate and a friend, but this is just Christmas vacation for her. Christmas vacation with her boyfriend.
Speaking of which, I’ve only seen a bit of Josh, but I’m not impressed so far. I steal a glance over at Madi.
She looks amazing. That’s no surprise, of course, because she looked amazing even with matted, wet hair and mascara smudged below her eyes. Now, she’s wearing ankle boots, jeans, and a cream cable-knit sweater. Her hair isn’t wet anymore, but it’s got a wave to it since she let it air dry. I like it.
And I like Madi. She’s sweet. She’s fun. I’m lucky she’s the guest I’m hosting. It could definitely be worse.
She’s got a camera hanging at her hip, which I know now is not just a larger-than-average tourist tool. Madi is an actual photographer. As we walk to Musée Carnavalet, she’s all wide-eyed wonder, taking in everything around us. It’s so strange to see the city I’ve lived in all my life through such fresh eyes. Buildings I’ve passed dozens and dozens of times without even noticing are like epiphanies for her. It makes me excited for the museum.
I chose it for three main reasons: it’s close, it’s not a place she and Josh are likely planning to go, and it’s free. I would have been happy to pay for Madi, but she’s feeling guilty enough about my taking her around.
I haven’t been to Musée Carnavalet since we came as a class when I was eleven. Whether it’s because I’m at a better age to appreciate it or because of Madi’s curiosity, I find myself as interested as she is. Not that I can match her level of enthusiasm. She’s so intentional about her photos, and it’s kind of fascinating to watch her scope out the space. She is completely wowed by the architecture and spends a full five minutes trying to capture the area just inside the entrance.
“I’m weird,” she says when she catches me watching her crouch as far as she can into a corner to take a picture. “I have a thing for light, and the windows here make this space just—” She does a chef’s kiss before snapping another picture.
“Can I see?” I nod at her camera. I’m curious whether it will give me a clue about whatshe’sseeing.
“Um, sure,” she says, getting up and walking over. “It’s been a while since I’ve done landscape photography, so I’m out of practice. Recently, I’ve been doing more product photography, which is always under artificial light.” She shows me the LED screen.
I look from it to the actual room, like I’m checking that they’re the same. Theyare, of course, but the perspective in the camera makes it look . . . different. “That’s amazing,” I say, trying to figure out what it is that makes it so striking.
“Sometimes doing weird things pays off,” she says with a laugh. “I’m a bit neurotic about light and lines. It’s part of the gig, I guess.”
Madi has a lot of questions for me about what we see as we make our way through the museum. I answer as best I can, wishing I’d paid better attention to all my history classes when I was younger so that I could satiate her curiosity better.
“Oh my gosh.” She stares through the warped windowpanes that provide a view onto the gardens, her expression yearning. “Look how beautiful that is.”
“We can go out there, you know,” I say.
She looks over at me, staring. “Are you serious?Wecan go out there? Don’t joke with me about serious matters, Rémy.”
“Gardens being those serious matters?”
“Gardens that look like they dropped out of a Chanel advertisement, yes. Can we really walk out there?”
I nod, smiling at her reaction. I might as well have just told her she can live here.
* * *
It’s almostdinnertime when we reach the door to our building. I’ve never spent that much time in a museum—and this museum isn’t even on most tourists’ radar. I’ve also neverenjoyedmy time in a museum that much. We went to a lot as a class when I was younger, and while we all looked forward to those days, it was for the change in routine, not for the museums themselves.
