Page 50 of Host for the Holidays
I laugh. “I’m serious, Siena.” I pause for a second. “I didn’t tell you this, but I almost broke up with Josh a few weeks ago. Or, I guess I tried, but . . . he convinced me to come to Paris instead.”
“Whoa.” She’s surprised. And maybe a little hurt?
“I should have told you. I just . . . I guess I knew deep down that I was being naïve by letting him persuade me that things would be different. And I knew you’d call me out on his crap. And my crap.”
“Ugh, why are you friends with me when I’m the worst?”
“You’renotthe worst. You’re the best. So best that I knew you’d tell me the truth I didn’t want to hear.”
We sigh at the exact same time, which makes both of us laugh for a second. But then it’s right back to the elephant in the room. On the phone. Whatever.
“So now what?” she asks.
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What do I do now? “I don’t know. Which is kind of exciting, honestly. I mean, would I be glad for a little financial cushion now that I’m on my own in this city, with no job prospects? Yeah. But who needs money, right?”
“Um . . . yeah! Sure.”
I’m grinning. Siena doesn’t know what to do with me right now. She’s used to being the adventurous one, and I’m throwing her off, which makes me feel even better than I already do, which is pretty great given the circumstances. Siena has to choose between pulling me back down to earth, which is not her thing, and potentially being an accessory to my ruin.
It’s the best thing ever. Why haven’t I tried this before!?
“Money shmoney,” I say.
“Okay, well, let’s not get carried away, Mads. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m loving this enthusiasm. Truly. But I’m also loving the idea of sending you some more money on Venmo so that I don’t have to fly out there in a few days and spend Christmas rescuing you from homelessness on the streets of Paris.”
“No no no,” I hurry to say. “I was exaggerating! I’m not that desperate.” I have my credit card, after all. And are you even American without a load of credit card debt to prove it?
“Okay, but promise you’ll tell me if you need money?”
“Cross my heart.”
Siena breathes a sigh of relief. “Gosh, it’s stressful being the responsible one. I’m not cut out for it. Can we trade back?”
“Nope. I’m liking this too much. But youcanjoin me in being excited about all the things I can do while I’m here in Paris.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re really going to stay, aren’t you?”
The disbelief in her voice alone decides things for me. I’m surprising everyone today. Myself included. “I don’t see why not.”
She squeals a little. “Oh, I’mlikingthis new Madi! Are there any limits to thiscarpe diemspirit of yours?”
“Try me if you dare.”
“If I dare? All I do is dare! I was made for dares.”
“You think I don’t know that? You didn’t bat an eye when you got dared to belt ‘God Save the Queen’ at that Fourth of July barbecue sophomore year.”
She snorts. “That was a great night. Thank you for proving my point. So”—I can almost see her straightening and getting serious—“there are a few ways to approach this. But most obvious direction to take yourcarpe diem-ing is toward your ridiculously hot host, who’s clearly more than willing.”
“Wow, you really went for the outer boundaries right away, didn’t you? I’m not going to make Rémy a rebound, Siena.”
“Rebound is an American concept from an American sport. French men were created for this stuff! This is where they shine—showing women who’ve been stuck in the drudgery of an unfulfilling relationship how to zest life like a lemon. Didn’t you ever seeEat, Pray, Love?”
My brow wrinkles. “Didn’t that take place in Italy?”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.”
“Donotlet Rémy hear you say that. Or any French person.”
