Page 39 of That Weekend in Paris
“Thanks.”
The weight in her voice tells me it is something she needs to hear.
I’m not really sure how long we’ve been walking, but the light has started to fade, and streetlights along the edge of the park have started to flicker on. “I have an idea,” I say.
“What?”
“Why don’t we get room service tonight and write a song together?”
She looks completely surprised by the suggestion, as if it is not something she would ever have imagined me wanting to do with her.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“That sounds amazing,” she says. “I would love to write a song with you.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Dillon
“If music be the food of love, play on.”
?William Shakespeare
IT’S A LITTLE awkward sharing a room with Klein. I mean, there’s the whole bathroom thing and working out who’s going to take a shower first. I bridge the subject as soon as we get back to the room, not wanting to delay the awkwardness.
“I could take a shower at the spa,” I say. “That would probably make things a lot more—”
Klein turns in the doorway to look at me. “You should use the shower here. I can go downstairs, have a coffee, or something.”
“You don’t need to do that. But do you mind if I go ahead and take one?”
“No, of course, not.”
I open my suitcase where I’ve left it on one of the luggage stands, rummage through for some clean clothes, and grab my makeup bag to take with me. Once I’m in the bathroom with the door closed and locked, I stare at myself in the mirror, noting the pink in my cheeks. I wonder if I could have sounded any more ridiculous. I tell myself to get a grip and then stand under the shower for a good ten minutes, mainly because I dread going back out into the bedroom and facing Klein. But once I’ve dried my hair and put on a little makeup, I have no more excuses to delay.
“We could order some dinner,” Klein says, looking up from his seat at the desk. A laptop sits in front of him, and he closes the lid, standing. “I’m actually hungry.”
“That sounds good,” I say.
He hands me the menu, and I spend a couple of minutes perusing the options. He offers me a piece of paper and pen to write it down and says, “I’ll order if you like.”
“Okay.” Apparently, he’s already looked at the menu because as soon as I’m done, he picks up the phone and calls room service, placing the order in a polite, even voice.
When he hangs up, we stand for a moment, uneasy, until he says, “So, about that song. You still up for working on something with me?”
“Yes, I would love that.”
He walks to the closet and pulls out his guitar, bringing it over to the bed and opening the case to pull it out. “Anything in particular you want to write about?” I ask.
“I kind of liked what you were working on earlier,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He sits down on the corner of the bed, strums a few chords, and then picks up the melody I had tapped out earlier. I feel a little thrill of pleasure, knowing that he had paid attention enough to recall exactly what I had put down.
And then he adds, “This is what’s been playing through my head ever since I heard you this morning.”
