Page 36 of Host for the Holidays
Madi:So sorry! We’ll be there in a few minutes.
I look at it before pressing send and change thewetoI.I will be there in a few minutes.
“Is that Josh?” Rémy asks.
I nod. “He’s waiting outside for us.”
“I’m sorry, Madi,” Rémy says as the door alarm sounds, notifying everyone that it’ll be closing.
“For what?”
“Making you late.”
I stare at him. “You’re kidding me, right? I just saw the most amazing thing I’ve seen in my entire life, and you’re apologizing for it?”
The doors shut, and the train is back on its way, too loud for us to carry on the discussion. I can’t believe Rémy thinks I’d be mad at him for taking me to see the Louvre courtyard.
My nerves ramp up again when it’s time to make our way out of the metro. We have to go through the same machines, but this time they’ve got glass doors that open and close instead of turnstiles. It’s like an American Ninja Warrior challenge, and I’m nervous they’re going to close when I’m only halfway through. But they don’t.
I grab my ticket when it pops back up on the other side, and Rémy comes up alongside me as we hurry up the stairs into the chilly December night again. When we get to the top of the stairs, I feel a surge of victory.Iam the newest American Ninja Warrior. Or Parisian Ninja Warrior.
“I survived!”
Rémy smiles. “You did.”
I put my hand up, inviting a high-five, and he doesn’t hesitate. The moment our hands touch, I remember our milliseconds-too-long-hand-hold. Rémy does too.
We drop our hands and start the walk back to the apartment, where Josh—my boyfriend—is waiting.
Rémy doesn’t make things awkward, though. He talks through our IKEA purchases, which we agree we’ll put up tomorrow after the morning delivery. I can’t help but be excited about sprucing up the apartment, and Rémy seems to be jazzed about it too. He keeps talking about what André will think when he sees it.
When we get to the apartment building, we stop and look up and down the street. It’s not particularly well-lit. There are a few apartments here and there with a string of lights on their street-facing windows, but for the most part, it’s dark enough that I have to squint slightly as I look for Josh. There’s no sign of him.
“Didn’t he say he was already here?” Rémy asks.
I take out my phone, frowning. “Yeah, he did. And that was almost ten minutes ago.” Did he leave? Wouldn’t he have texted me? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?
My hand tingles guiltily, as if Josh somehow knows of those two nanoseconds—okay, it was more like twonormalseconds—and decided to break up with me by way of disappearing without a word.
I scan the street again as if he’ll magically appear, but he doesn’t. “He must have left.” I don’t even know what to feel about that. Part of me is glad not to have to face him when I’ve got an overactive conscience, but the other part of me is worried.
Rémy scrubs a hand over his jaw, which is covered in that evening shadow I’m getting to know from seeing him every night before bed. “Madi . . .” he says, and I can hear the apology coming.
“Don’t say sorry again, Rémy. He could have waited a few minutes. I do it for him all the time.” It’s true, and just saying it alleviates my guilt a bit—and makes me a bit angry. I feel like I’m constantly waiting for Josh, but he can’t wait for me the one time I’m late?
I hoped Paris would be different—more like things were in the beginning of our relationship, when Josh planned fun dates and romantic dinners—but it hasn’t been.
Rémy meets my eyes, and for the second time tonight,somethingis happening between us. The street doesn’t just feel empty now; it feels private.
“Listen,” I say to lift the tension, “I know you’ve probably been to the Louvre a hundred times, but that was just what I needed. Same with helping me in the metro.” I can’t quite meet his gaze just now because ofhowhe helped me in the metro. I charge forward. “It helped me realize what I want out of my time here. Thanks to you, I’m basically a metro pro now.”
He chuckles and pulls out his keys. “Before you know it,you’llbe the one yelling at tourists figuring out the ticket machines.”
“Hey, you told me to take my time.”
“Yeah,” he says as he wiggles the key into the lock, “but therearelimits, you know.” He’s smiling at me in a teasing way that gets my blood pumping. He pushes open the door partially, then pauses. “And yeah, I’ve been to the Louvre a lot, but tonight was different.”
There it goes again. My heart’s going haywire as he looks at me. What does he mean bydifferent?
