Page 89 of Host for the Holidays
Friends don’t fantasize about friends, Madi.
I wake my phone, which displays a few different notifications. One is Siena requesting a daily update, the other tells me I have photo memories waiting. I’m a sucker for these ridiculous methods apps find to make you open them when you otherwise wouldn’t, so I tap on it.
The photo is from two years ago. It’s Josh and me on our first real date—his work Christmas party. I’m all dolled up in an ice blue dress, while Josh is wearing a slim, gray suit. His arm is around my waist, and he’s pulling me close and smiling big.
It’s weird to see it. Like a vestige of a different life. Not that my relationship with Josh was so long ago, butthisphase of it—the exciting part, before he kind of stopped trying—was brand new. He had just told me he wanted to date me the night before, and I had rushed around all morning to find a dress for the party.
I stare at my face in the photo, so happy and full of hope. Little did I know, two years later, everything would have fizzled out, like room temperature, day-old soda.
My thumb hovers over the trash icon, but I have a phobia of deleting photos. It’s punishable under International Photographer Statute 11.542.43, which is something I just made up but feels real.
Rémy’s door opens, and I turn off my phone screen, eager to leave those kill-joy thoughts behind. But Rémy’s mood seems a little low, too, as we talk. I’m hoping I can help him feel better throughout the day, wherever we end up going.
“Any thoughts on where to go today? Should we scope out Montmartre?”
Rémy glances at me as he grabs two eggs from the fridge. “Um, maybe I can meet you there for a half hour or something. I need to make up some sample lesson plans to give to Monsieur Garnier—he’s the one in charge at Bellevue—and I have an errand to run for my mom’s Christmas Eve dinner.”
“Oh! That’s great about the lesson plans.” I can’t very well plan Rémy’s English lessons for him, but it doesn’t escape me that he isn’t inviting me to run the errand with him. “We could go later. Around dinner?”
He shuts the fridge door and looks at me, apology in his eyes. “Actually, I have plans with friends tonight.”
“Oh!” Why is my voice so high? I sound like I’m auditioning for the part of Mickey Mouse. “That sounds great. No worries. I can scope things out on my own. You’ve trained me up well.” I laugh, and it sounds every bit as unnatural as my Mickey voice.
Rémy looks a little hesitant. “I think it’s for the best. And you’ll do just fine.” The ghost of a smile touches the corner of his mouth. “If you need the help number for Paris Syndrome, I can give it to you.”
“There’s ahelp number?” I gladly latch onto that part because inside I’m feeling the tiniest bit sick to my stomach, and I don’t want him to know that.
“So I’ve heard.”
I opt to leave sooner than later to Montmartre because I’m afraid if I stick around, I’m going to say or do something stupid—like ask Rémy why he needs friends or plans that don’t involve me.
I make it successfully to Sacré Coeur and Montmartre—a definite personal victory part of me wishes I could rub in Josh’s face. The views of the city are beautiful from the basilica, and I can pinpoint a number of monuments and sites we saw on our Antarctic river cruise last night. It feels like I’m getting to know the city, finding my bearings, and I love that feeling. But I wish Rémy was here to share in it with me.
I wander around the streets, taking pictures of places that would be a good fit for the photo session. There are plenty of locations I’m just itching to shoot with a beautiful couple in front of my lens.
I grab a bite to eat at a little cafe not far from Place du Tertre. As I sit on the heater-warmed terrace, I fluctuate between feeling proud, independent, and Wonder Womany for eating lunch by myself, and staving off a bit of loneliness that’s trying to creep in.
Distraction arrives in the form of a street performer using sticks, ropes, and dish soap to make bubbles for the children passing by. The joy on their faces is indescribable as they jump and chase them, so I do the only thing I know how to do when that happens: pull out my camera to snap a few shots.
But mostly I just watch as the bubbles sail through the air, perfect blobs of iridescence, floating off until they inevitably pop. It’s kind of how I feel. This time right now in Paris with Rémy is my bubble. It’s beautiful, it’s magical, it defies gravity. But inevitably, it will pop, leaving me splattered with dish soap.
When my phone buzzes around two and I see Rémy’s name on my screen, my heart does a little hopeful dance. Hoping for what? I’m not sure.
Rémy:The radiators are working again, so you are safe to come back whenever.
I read the message a couple of times. Is there an implied wish for me to come home in that text, or am I reading into things?
Madi:Hallelujah! Have a good time tonight *smiley face emoji*
When I get back to the apartment around 5, it’s already dark. I stare at the elevator button for a few seconds, deciding whether I’m feeling brave enough to go it alone. But on top of the idea of it breaking while I’m inside by myself, the thought of trying to communicate with the elevator technician is enough to scare me away. I head up the stairs instead.
As I turn the key in the lock, I hear the muffled sound of keys jingling on the other side of the door. It opens, and Rémy’s there. When I saw him this morning, he was still wearing what he wore to bed. Now he’s got on dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket. It’s a killer ensemble, and suddenly I’m assaulted by questions about exactlywhothese friends are. And was itfriendsplural?
“Hey,” he says with a little smile.
“Hey,” I say, still standing in the doorway. I have the strongest desire to hug him; this was the longest I’ve gone without seeing him since we met, and I’m about to not see him all night. “On your way out?”
He nods. “Did you have a good day?”
