Page 70 of Host for the Holidays
I bring her back down to earth as best I can, reminding her that it was not a date, Rémy is not a souvenir—and definitely notmysouvenir—and that she was the one who told me tojust have fun.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “This is just me happy you’re having fun!”
I pinch my lips together but decline to fight her on it.
“Youarehaving fun, aren’t you?” she asks.
I pause for a second before responding with a bit of reluctance. “Too much.”
“Impossible.”
“No, it’s not. I just broke up with Josh, Siena. I should be sitting in a pile of disgusting, snotty tissues, blubbering into the phone to you right now. Is something wrong with me? Did a dementor suck out my soul without me knowing?”
“Umno, you’re a woman who’s spent the last two years of her life busting her butt to make a relationship work with a guy who should probably be attending Workaholics Anonymous. You’ve been starved for fun, Mads, and it’s completely normal for you to take advantage of it. Everyone processes things differently.”
I sigh. “You’re right. I think deep down I’ve known for a while that it wasn’t right with Josh. Last night, when he started talking about all the things he had planned for today”—I ignore Siena’s scoff—“I should have been on cloud nine, but I felt . . . nervous, I guess? I assumed it was because it was finally happening after so long, but I don’t think that was it.”
“See? You have to trust your gut more, Madison. And right now your gut is telling you to keep enjoying your time in the greatest city in the world with the hottest host in the world. And to eat more pastries.”
“Is it my gut or you telling me those things?”
“Both. You’ll be home before you know it, and I promise—like, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-my-eye promise—that you’re not going to be wishing you spent more time in Paris covered in snotty tissues, crying over a man who couldn’t get it together enough to see what he had. So if you’re going to grieve, let the grief come on its own time. Don’t try to force it. Especially not in Paris.”
“How can you be so crazy and yet so wise?”
“Easy. Those two words mean the same thing. Also, Mads, you know he’s going to try to fix things again, right?”
I think for a second before responding. Josh isn’t one to give up easily, but I was firm with him yesterday—definitely more than I’ve ever been.
“Just prepare yourself for it,” she says. “Like, actually prepare how you’ll respond so that he doesn’t suck you back in with smooth promises and apologies.” She lets that sink in for a few seconds. “Okay, now to the good stuff! Tell me more about tonight.”
When I hang up with Siena, I’m feeling a lot better. She’s right. There’s no sense in beating myself up over what I am or am not feeling. And I should be taking advantage of this time in Paris. Who knows if I’ll ever come again?
Rémy’s face stares back at me from my phone screen, and the thought that our friendship will become some blip on the radar of my existence tweaks my heart.
I tap out of the burst photos, feeling the fatigue start to set in. Just before I turn off my screen, a different photo in the app catches my eye. I didn’t even notice it before because my eyes were so focused on finding the ones the photo recycling lady took for us.
But there are more recent photos than those—photos I don’t remember taking—so I open one of them. It’s me with Laura and Luke in front of me. Behind them is the Eiffel Tower, sparkling.
I swipe through three more—one of me with my camera to my eye, one of me looking at the camera screen to check my settings, and a last one with my camera at my side and a laugh on my lips. Laura and Luke are laughing, too.
Rémy must have sneaked these photos while he held my camera bag. And suddenly I’m blinking and swallowing a massive lump in my throat. It’s not a huge deal. They’re just iPhone photos.
But itisa big deal. Rémy must have really been listening when I mentioned not having good photos of myself. Not only that, but he caught me doing what I love—and in the most magical place on earth (sorry, Disney World).
I mean, no, these photos he took aren’t going to win an International Photography Award, but they’re a heckuva lot better than most of what I have. And it’s more than that. They say it’s the thought that counts, and guess what? I can’t even count high enough to tell you how much the thoughts these pictures represent are worth to me.
I chew my lip for a second, then open the messaging app and choose the conversation thread with Rémy.
Madi:What are you up to tomorrow?
THIRTY
MADI
It’s stilldark outside when I pull open the theater curtains next to my bed in the morning. My phone is lying beside me, dead. That’s what I get for sleeping with it next to me when it only had 3% battery. My legs and I were too tired to descend the ladder again to plug it into the only outlet in the room. Apparently French maids of yore were not in the habit of charging their electronics right next to them.
It took me a while to fall asleep; I couldn’t stop thinking of how part of me was hoping Rémy would kiss me last night in the elevator.
