Page 35 of That Weekend in Paris
I GO BACK to the room at two o’clock, taking my suitcase with me. I let myself in quietly, tiptoeing across the rug-covered floor, to the side of the bed, where I see Klein staring up at me, his eyes open.
“Hey,” I say, “how are you feeling?”
“The headache’s gone,” he says, cautiously, as if he’s afraid it will roar back at any moment.
“Wonderful,” I say. “I’m so glad. Can I get you anything?”
“Actually,” he says, his voice sleep-roughened, “I’m starving.”
“Would you like me to order something from room service?”
“That would be great,” he says.
“Let me look for the menu,” I say, getting up to rummage around the desk, and then finding it in the middle drawer.
“You can open those curtains if you don’t mind,” he says.
I pull them wide, letting afternoon sunlight into the room, and then take the menu over to the bed.
“Just let me know what you want, and I’ll call it in.”
He slides up to sit against the pillows. “Thanks, Dillon. I really appreciate all of this. It’s way beyond the call of duty.”
“I’m just sorry it happened. Have you ever had anything like this before?”
He shakes his head. “That’s the weird thing. Nothing remotely like that, that wasn’t self-induced, anyway.”He closes the menu and adds, “I think maybe just the soup and some bread. I’m a little afraid to be too adventurous at this point.”
“Sure. Something to drink?”
“A bottle of cold water would be nice.”
“Okay, got it.” I go over to the desk, pick up the phone, and place the order with room service. “She says it should be here in twenty minutes.”
“I think maybe I’ll take a shower before the food gets here. I feel like the walking dead.”
“I can leave the room if you’d like.”
“No, Dillon. I’m cool with it. Really.”
“You know,” I say, “I can find another room for tonight.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m the one who’s put you in this position, and it’s not like I need this huge room for myself anyway. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
I turn my head as he gets out of the bed and walks to the bathroom, aware that he’s in boxers and no shirt. I do catch a glimpse of his broad-shouldered back as he steps into the bathroom, and I feel a wave of heat sweep up my neck. As a distraction, I pick up my phone, drop onto a chair by the window, and scroll through my Instagram feed until bored.
I drop the phone on my lap and stare out the window. I’m in Paris, in a beautiful hotel, a country music star on the other side of the bathroom door. Surely, I can find something more relevant than staring at social media.
I head for the desk again, looking for some paper and a pen. A couple of lines had played through my head earlier. I’d meant to put them in the notes on my phone at the time but had gotten distracted and forgotten.
I close my eyes and try to remember the first line, scribbling it down as the words come to me. I wait a few moments, recalling the next line, and writing it down as well. I tap my fingers on the side of the chair. Once I’ve found the melody, I add the words.
“That sounds great,” Klein says, startling me.
I look up with a self-conscious smile. “Oh, yeah, I was just messing with some thoughts I’d had earlier.”
“It sounds great, really.”
“We’ll see if I can make something of it,” I say.
