Page 59 of Host for the Holidays
“No windows?” I’m imagining a waist-high railing with a thousand-foot drop, and I can feel the acrophobe tugging off the blindfold and pulling down the gag. Should’ve handcuffed her too. Rookie mistake.
“Don’t worry. There are metal bars all over. You couldn’t fall no matter how hard you tried. But we don’t have to go unless you want to.”
“We’re going,” I say definitively. I haven’t even taken out my camera yet because I know I won’t be able to get good shots through the windows. But it’s been killing me, and I’m determined to finish off strong.
Rémy leads the way, still holding my hand, and I’m suddenly wondering if there’s a way I can get my camera out and take the pictures I want with just one hand.Surely, that’s a skill I should have been taught in all those photography classes I took.
Spoiler alert: I can’t. I’m not a circus animal. Which means I’m going to have to let go of Rémy’s hand, and I’m not sure if it’s the acrophobe or plain old Madi who’s reluctant.
The December wind makes its way down the stairwell as we make our way up, and I shiver a bit as we reach the top, trying not to think about what wind means for the puddle iron.
“Yeah,” Rémy says, chafing my upper arm with a hand, “we should probably put our coats back on.”
Or you could just keep me warm. “Yeah.”
For a second, we stand looking at each other, still holding hands, a lot like we did in the metro. And then we let go and put on our coats. I’m sincerely regretting the knee-length dress and tights right now, though.
Coming upstairs was the right choice. It’s cold and windy up here, but it’s the difference between looking at the animals in an aquarium through the glass and actually swimming with them—with a latticework of iron bars everywhere to protect you from them, of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My fingers are itching for the shutter button, and I pull out my camera, walking right up to the bars and sticking the lens through. I compose my photo so that I get the Louvre, the Seine, Musée d’Orsay, and Notre Dame in it, then press the shutter. When I pull back, Rémy is looking at me with raised brows.
“Over your fear of heights?”
I smile, walk a few feet to the side and stick my lens through for a different shot. “If there’s one thing you need to know about photographers, Rémy, it’s that we will do anything to get the shot. I have waded into rivers and climbed trees for the right angle.”
A few feet away from us, a middle-aged woman is holding out a phone to take a picture of a middle-aged man. She’s shifting her arm around as she tries to find a shot she’s happy with. Given that the camera is at hip height pointed upward, not only will the man’s body be blocking most of Paris, he will also be shaped like the Eiffel Tower—large on bottom, small on top. My photographer heart can’t even stand it.
“Would you like me to take a photo of you together?” I ask.
She glances over at me. “Oh,wouldyou? That would be wonderful! It’s our 30th anniversary.”
I let my camera rest against my hip and take her phone from her. “Thirty years? Congratulations! What a special place to celebrate.”
I direct them to move a bit to the side so that one of the thicker bars keeping us all up here in outer space isn’t blocking the view. The man wraps his arm around the lady’s waist, and she puts her hand on his chest. It’s tender.
I take a few different pictures, trying to give them a few options, then hand the phone back.
“Thank yousomuch!” Her gaze shifts between Rémy and me. “Would you two like one?”
I glance at Rémy, but it seems like he’s waiting for me to answer. I look at the lady. She’s the type to make a comment about us being a cute couple, and I’d rather not make this awkward when it’s gone so well so far.
However, Ididtell Siena I’d get a picture at the top, and I’d rather be in a picture with Rémy than have him take one of me by myself. There’s a reason I’m usually behind the camera rather than in front of it.
“Yeah,” I finally say, getting out my phone to give to her. “That would be great.”
Rémy and I switch places with the man and woman, and I realize that, despite coaching a hundred couples how to pose in pictures over the course of being a photographer, I have no idea at all how to stand with Rémy. Howdoesone stand with one’s Airbnb host? Does the fact that you were just holding hands with him a few minutes ago change anything?
Just have fun. Siena’s words come to mind. I don’t need to overcomplicate this. It’s normal for friends to be close in pictures. In fact, it would be weird for themnotto be.
I get up next to Rémy and wrap my arm around him, trying to pretend it’s the most natural thing in the world after two years of zero physical touch like this with any guy but Josh. Rémy lays his arm around my shoulders. See? Friends. Fun. Easy. Breezy.
A friend totally pays attention to how solid her guy friend’s abs are at the edge of her fingertips and how her shoulder fits like a puzzle piece under his arm.
The way the lady holds the phone—namely, with both hands—tells me not to expect too much from this picture. It reminds me too much of my mom, and she is no tech wiz, believe you me. I set her default web page as Google, and she still typesgoogle.cominto the Google search bar. She and this lady could be friends.
The lady holds the phone as far away from her as humanly possible, only to realize that she’s got it in selfie mode. No clue how that happened. It was already on the camera app, facing the right way when I gave it to her.
Her husband gets involved, and all the while, my hand is on Rémy’s side, and his arm is around me, keeping me right up against him. We glance at each other as the couple tries to find the button to flip the camera back around, both of us trying to control our smiles. “I should probably help them,” I say.
