Page 6 of Host for the Holidays
The guy looks down at his phone and swipes to refresh the app. He looks up at me and shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”
I look down at my phone and, sure enough, a message pops up telling me the payment declined.
Panic starts to set in. I can’t get a hold of Josh, I have no baggage, Paris refuses to acknowledge my American credit, and I am currently trespassing on private property.
“Lemme try on my computer,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow at me. He’s as skeptical as I am that it’ll do anything different, but I’m desperate, and I’m secretly hoping Josh will call back while I stall. I grab my laptop out of my backpack and, after inputting the longest, most convoluted WiFi password in the history ofhomo sapiens—the guy has to read it to me three times—I try the payment online.
The host stands in front of me, waiting for his money, probably ready to chuck my carry-on and precious camera gear out the window and onto those cobblestones the second it declines.
I can already see on my end that the payment failed. You know what else failed? Whatever physiological mechanism keeps me from tearing up. My eyes are filling, and I’m about to water this laptop keyboard. I blink like a madwoman to get rid of the tears.
“It didn’t work,” I say, shutting the laptop far too enthusiastically for someone who is about to be homeless in Paris. “I think my credit card company thinks it’s fraud.” Or maybe they just know I can’t pay them three hundred euros plus 24% interest. “But Josh should call any minute.”
My host isn’t fooled by my brittle optimism. He’s looking at my shiny eyes, taking stock of me. He nods. “I can show you around the apartment while we wait.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it all—it’s not very big—but I agree to this without hesitation. Anything to delay my eviction.
He shows me the living area, which might as well be an IKEA display, since I’m fairly certain every single thing is from there, but it’s all worn down. We head to the kitchen after. It’s barely big enough for the two of us, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he shows me where to find the crockery and utensils. It doesn’t take long—there aren’t many of them. The fridge is hotel-room size with a freezer that might fit a frozen pizza or two if it wasn’t overgrown with freezer burn.
“And this is the washer,” he says, pointing to the machine I noticed earlier.
“Cool. And the dryer?”
He raises a brow. “There is no dryer.”
I chuckle. This guy is actually pretty funny.
But he’s deadpan, and my smile fades. “Wait, what?”
He jerks his head toward the bedroom, and we make our way over there. “You dry your clothes on one of these.” He opens the window to reveal a contraption I’ve never seen before. It looks a bit like a dish-drying rack that got zapped by the machine onHoney, I Blew Up the Kid.It’s like an upside-down pyramid of clotheslines. He gives it a gentle spin. “This one is mine, though. Yours is outside of your window.”
This guy is weirdly possessive of things that he’s agreed to rent out to guests. “My window?”
“I’ll show you.”
He leads me out of the bedroom. Just to the left, there’s an opening I hadn’t even noticed before. It leads to a dark, narrow staircase from my nightmares.
I’m starting to getTakenvibes again, but after the shampoo incident, I’m too scared to do anything but follow him up. Every step whines like the melting witch inThe Wizard of Oz.
Finally, we emerge into the light—there’s no door to this room. I look around the space. There’s a red curtain running along one wall and another, much smaller one just beside it. It must be some sort of anteroom, but I don’t see a door anywhere that leads to my actual room.
The guy pulls aside the big red curtain like P.T. Barnum. “This is where you’ll be sleeping.”
I stare. And stare. And my eyes fill with tears. Again.
FOUR
RÉMY
The American is completelysilent as she looks at her room, and I can’t really blame her. I came this morning to check out the place before heading in to work, and even though I only had time to glance into this room, I admit, it is not a pretty sight. It makes me grateful that I’m sleeping in André’s room rather than this one.
André is a good friend, so when his mom suddenly got sick, I stepped in to help out with his newly acquired Airbnb, since his first guest was due to arrive in just a few days. I got a text while I was at work today, though, telling me not to expect the guest anymore because of a lack of both response and payment. I almost felt relieved for the guest, even if I was slightly disappointed on my own account. I was kind of looking forward to meeting Josh and speaking English with him.
But here I am, showing the room to this young, American woman, who isnotnamed Josh. Her brown hair is still wet, and it falls down almost to her elbows, leaving wet marks on her shoulders and back. She’s fresh from the shower, which means the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks is visible, as are a pair of soft pink lips.
These are the things that escaped my notice initially. I was too distracted trying to protect myself from projectile toiletries.
