Page 74 of Host for the Holidays
RÉMY
I’m definitelyno photography pro, but by the time we leave Galeries Lafayette, I know enough to fumble my way around the camera settings—with a little help from Madi.
Listening to her explain everything is fascinating. Aperture, ISO, shutter speed, sensor size . . . she knows so much—and that’s dumbing it down for me to understand. It really is half-art, half-science, what she does. Composing the photo is all about lines and angles and perspective, adjusting the settings requires a knowledge of how all the different light elements interact and affect one another, and understanding how to work with the available light itself . . . well, that’s a whole new world I hadn’t really stopped to consider until today.
It really is interesting to me, but part of my interest is on Madi’s behalf. Twice today, she offered to take photos for tourists. I’ve seen her take a ton of photos—I’ve even been in a few myself. She’s snapped a few candid shots, always looking guilty after and telling me she prefers to have people in her photos.
I don’t mind. If she has some photos of me, maybe she won’t forget me when she leaves. It’s small consolation, but it’s something.
Every hour I spend in Madi’s company makes me feel more keenly how unfair it is that we’ve met under these circumstances—temporary ones. If she weren’t leaving in a couple weeks, if she hadn’t just broken off a near-engagement, we’d have enough time for things to settle so that I could date her the way I want to. But we don’t.
If I were smart, I’d keep my distance. But I’m a world-class fool, so instead of doing that, I decide to spend every minute of today with her. The sun is starting to set, and already I’m feeling like it’s gone by too fast.
Myrealfear is that Josh is going to sneak back into her life. He’s been there for two years, and she would hardly be the first woman to get back with her ex-boyfriend. She doesn’t seem too sad about the breakup, but people react to the loss of a relationship in different ways. I was kind of like that with my dad. When he left, I didn’t let anyone know how much it hurt me.
Which makes me wonder if maybe all this time Madi’s spending with me is denial—or a distraction.
Well . . . if she needs distraction, I’ll give it to her in spades.
The air is starting to turn cooler as we walk in the direction of the Louvre. All the macarons we’ve eaten have since worn off, and both of us are feeling peckish. It’s great timing for the last stop of the day I’ve got planned.
We stop for a few minutes at Place de la Concorde, admiring the fountains, the Obelisk, and the large ferris wheel. I lead us through one of the gates that accesses the Tuileries Garden, and even though a lot of the trees are bare, I’m hoping it will mask our destination long enough to make it more of a surprise. I choose one of the smaller paths rather than the wide one that goes straight through the center of the gardens.
“This is beautiful,” Madi says, looking around us at the trees lining our path. I love that she thinks thisisthe destination.
If everything weren’t so symmetrical, it would almost feel like we were in a forest. The gardens are big enough, too, that there’s the illusion of privacy. That thought sends a little pulse through me, and I look at Madi.
She’s admiring our surroundings, though, not a thought in her head like the ones in mine—how easily accessible her hand would be if I wanted to hold it, which, to be clear, I definitelydowant; how I could stop those occasional shivers by pulling her close; how the pink on her cheeks complements the pink of her lips so perfectly, I want to kiss them both. And that’s only the beginning of it.
She sighs.
“What’s that for?”
She shrugs. “I just feel so bad for you, you know?”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Living here. It must be so rough.” She makes a sympathetic grimace as she looks at me.
I smile. “We all have our trials.”
“Yeah, I guess so, but yours is pretty bad. I mean”—she stops as the trees open up briefly and gestures to a fountain to our right—“anotherfountain? Really? And surrounded by ancient statues and in the middle of a massive, perfectly symmetrical garden?” She pulls out her camera and takes some shots. “Maybe some people are into that stuff, but”—more shutter clicks. She lowers her camera, and the screen lights up with her last picture—“I just don’t see it.”
“I’m glad to have someone who understands the struggle.” It makes me happy that Madi loves Paris. Partly because I know she associatesmewith Paris.
“You should come visit the U.S. We have fountains too, you know. We call them drinking fountains, and they’re spectacular. Truly marvelous.”
I bust up laughing. “Sounds like it’s worth coming to see.”
Madi smiles as she looks up at me. “Oh, absolutely.”
Our eyes hold for a minute like both of us are trying to decide how much of this is a joke. And then my gaze goes rogue, dropping down to those pink lips. I force it away, hoping Madi didn’t notice, then I turn to my left, motioning with my head for her to follow me.
We walk a bit, then cut a quick right as the trees open up again, revealing our destination: the Christmas market. White gabled shops line both sides of the path, their roofs decorated with garlands, red bows, and lights. “Silver Bells” is playing over loudspeakers as the huge, lit ferris wheel turns high above us and ice skaters glide along the rink.
All Madi’s pretending to hate Paris melts before my eyes.
“Rémy,” she says slowly, her eyes taking everything in. “You’ve ruined me. How am I supposed to ever be content with a day in my life after this?”
