Page 47 of Host for the Holidays
If our relationship is a plant, Josh sees it as a succulent; he waters it just enough to keep it from dying. But as much as I love succulents, I don’t want my relationship to be treated like one.
The other ugly truth is that Josh will keep doing this if I let him. He will drop the ball, and then, when he sees my disappointment, he will get a bigger ball. And then he will drop that ball too.
And I’m just . . . I’m done.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Josh. But I can’t do this anymore.” I look at him one more time, grab my portfolio and camera bag, and I walk out.
TWENTY-ONE
RÉMY
My fingers are itchingto take my phone out of my pocket. Instead of bowing to their unrelenting pressure, I refold one of the towels in the bathroom. It looks worse after I get my hands on it because IKEA did the first fold, and evidently, I’m not as good as they are.
Élise comes in, tilting her head to the side as she surveys the bathroom. It lookssomuch better than it did before. Fresh towels, plush bathroom rugs, a new soap dispenser and shower curtain. Once we get some pictures in the gold frames on the wall—Madi’s, I hope—it will look amazing.
“What made you decide on black, white, and gold?” Élise is clearly not on board with the choice.
“We just thought it would look good, I guess.”
She nods, but I can tell she wants to say more. Before she can, I hand her some stuff to take into my room. This—keeping Élise busy, preferably in another room—has become my way of keeping things at bay. And bythings, I mean history.
Last time I saw her, we kissed. It was a mistake on my part. For a few years, we traded off liking each other, but we could never seem to get the timing right for both of us to be interested and available at the same time. Afterlycée, she moved away to attend the university in Caen while I stayed in Paris to study and then work.
When she came home briefly over this past summer, we hung out right before she left back to school, and, even though I didn’t feel particularly interested in dating her at that point, I was so frustrated with the back and forth that I figured my feelings might return if I just acted like I was already feeling them.
They didn’t. And now I’ve gotten myself into an awkward and delicate situation because, aside from the fact that we’re friends, Élise’s dad is over the teaching position at Lycée Bellevue. If I mess things up with her, it can cause . . . problems.
So rather than trying to sort out that big mess, I keep the conversation focused on everything but that: André’s mom, Élise’s studies, the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow.
Okay, not that last one, but I’m really stretching myself trying to keep control of the conversation, and so far, I’ve been successful. I can’t keep this up forever, but I could use some more time to figure out exactly what to say to her that will be 1) kind 2) true and 3) clear. Being around Madi has clarified a lot of things for me about what I want in a woman. I can’t haveher, but I can hope there’s someone else out there exactly like her. Preferably down to the very last detail. Right?
I take another look at the bathroom, wishing she was here to see the progress, then I make my way out, spotting Élise still in my room. She’s opening the blinds, and she glances over at me.
“It’s so dark in here,” she says. “It’s not healthy, you know.”
I rush in with impressive speed. “You don’t have to do that.”
She stops, giving me a quizzical look. I can’t help a glance behind her to the drying rack, where Madi’s bra is dangling. Yeah, I still haven’t said anything to her about it. It probably has freezer burn at this point.
Élise is smart, though. She follows the direction of my gaze, stares at the bra for a second, then looks back at me. It’s like her eyebrows and mouth are connected because the left side of her mouth lifts at the same time as her left brow. “Rémy,” she says in a teasing voice. She starts to open the window, but I put a hand on hers to stop her.
“Just leave it,” I say. For some reason, it feels like something bad will happen if that bra gets moved. Apparently, I’m superstitious now. And also creepy?
But not creepy. I’ve had my blinds shut for the past couple of days like the bra needs privacy or something.
“I didn’t know you wore bras,” she says with a mischievous smile.
I try to shrug it off, but the fact that I’ve still got my hand on hers to keep her from opening the window and bringing the bra in probably isn’t helping my attempt at nonchalance.
“Does André know you’re fraternizing with his guest?”
I take my hand off hers and start rolling the shades back down. “I’m not. It fell there from upstairs.”
The way she’s looking at me tells me she doesn’t believe me. It also tells me that she’s covering up some jealousy.
“It must be nice to have an American here to practice your English with,” she says, turning away from the window. “And other things . . . .”
“It’s not like that,” I say, following her out of the room. If she makes André think I’m helping him get a 5-star review by seducing his guest, he’s going to be . . . disappointed. And stressed out. I don’t particularly want Élise thinking it, either. Or her dad. “I mean, yes, it’s nice to have someone to speak English with, but, whatever else you’re thinking, that stuff is not happening.” Élise has always teased me a bit about my English. She doesn’t understand why it’s always been so important to me to speak it as well as I can or why I have more English books than French ones in my bookcases at home.
