Page 35 of Host for the Holidays
Rémy leads the way to the ticket machines. It takes him less than sixty seconds to get a ticket for me. Typical.
He seems to know just what I’m thinking as he turns to hand me mine. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
We make our way to the next machines—the ones that eat the ticket, then spit it back out on the other side of the gate you walk through. There are a zillion people waiting to pass, and I’m not looking forward to it being my turn. Rémy has me go first, talking me through it calmly as if we have all the time in the world rather than the world waiting behind us.
I have to take off my thick gloves to handle the little paper ticket. I should have done that while we were waiting.
I hurry to stuff the gloves into my coat pocket.
Rémy puts a hand on my arm. “Take your time. People can move to one of the other ones if they need to.”
Someone waiting a few people behind me says something in French, clearly directed at me. It doesn’t sound nice. Rémy responds with a few pithy words. I mean, technically, I have no idea what he said or how many words it was, but it must have been a great comeback, because the guy shuts his mouth and doesn’t say anything else.
“He hates me, doesn’t he?” I slip the ticket into the machine.
“He’s just a jerk,” Rémy replies.
I hurry through the turnstile and grab the ticket as it pops up on the other side, then wait for Rémy. He’s such a pro at this that he has a card he just taps once to let him through.
With that obstacle over, Rémy leads the way toward . . . honestly, I don’t even know where. I’m like a kid at a theme park, entirely reliant on him to get us where we need to go. I should probably just have a stroller, maybe even one of those leash backpacks.
In a lot of ways, though, this does feel like a theme park. The crowds are intense, and Rémy and I get separated as people crisscross to get to their various destinations.
My muscles are tensing and my chest is tightening as I try to keep track of him amongst the chaos. I try to hurry my pace to catch up with him again, but a group of young and unusually tall adolescents cuts in front of me, and I lose him entirely.
SIXTEEN
MADI
It’s not rational,feeling like I’m going to be swallowed up in this crowd and disappear or get trampled or something, but that’s what my body and mind are telling me is going to happen. I can’t see Rémy anywhere, and I’m trying to calm my building nerves, to remind myself that I’m an adult and, if the hooligans who just cut me off can handle this, so can I.
It’s not working great, though, and my eyes search the people around me frantically, seeking familiarity.
Suddenly, the crowds part, and Rémy is right in front of me. He grabs my hand with his, and our gazes catch for a second, his apologetic and reassuring. I reallyamlike a five-year-old at Disneyland, because that hand is my lifeline right now.
Rémy forges a way through the crowds and leads us down some stairs, through a hallway, and finally to an open space with an empty train track, never letting go of my hand. The crowds are much thinner here, with people spread out along the platform on both sides of the tracks, waiting for the trains to come.
We find a free space to stand, and I glance down. My heart skips a beat at the image of our hands. So far, Rémy holding my hand was just a kind gesture—areallykind one, of course. But there’s no need for it anymore. And yet, I don’t really want to let go.
I glance up at him, and he’s looking at me like he knows what I’m thinking because he’s thinking the same thing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s like an electric shock, and I jerk my hand away, my conscience zinging.
Josh:Might be a few minutes late.
“He’s gonna be a bit late,” I say, looking up at Rémy as I slip my phone back into my pocket.
He nods, but the smile he gives me looks the tiniest bit forced as he sticks his hand in his pocket.
A low rumbling and the blinking zero on the countdown sign farther down the platform tells me that the train is coming. Not a moment too soon. We get lucky and snag two seats next to each other, but I’m not so sure itisluck because I’m aware of every inch of space—there are three of those inches—between my leg and Rémy’s.
We sit in silence, though it might be because the rush of the train is so loud it’s hard to talk over it unless you want everyone within ten feet to hear your conversation.
But even when we reach the next station—and the one after that—neither of us say anything. It’s like those extra two seconds of holding hands is hanging over both of us, and while I’m dying of curiosity to know Rémy’s thoughts, I’m not dumb enough to think that would be a good thing.
We’ve passed two stops when my phone vibrates.
Josh:I’m down here but no one is answering. Are you there?
