Someone bangs on the door. “One minute!” I cry, my voice regrettably strangled. He laughs against my thigh. It’s the exact kind of situation in which I would normally be unable to come—people right outside the room, pressure, chaos. Instead, it all seems to swirl around me, and the sight of him groaning against my skin is my only focus. “Yes, yes, yes,” I whisper like a prayer, and somehow he knows this means more, faster, harder. I fly right over the edge, tugging his hair, my knees giving out until I’m on the floor, too, and the two of us lie down on the carpet and laugh.
He’s already hard again. “You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now,” he whispers in my ear.
“No condom,” I remind him.
“I’d fashion one. I’d turn into fucking MacGyver and create it from a shoe lace and my driver’s license.”
I laugh. “Sounds hygienic.”
The doorknob rattles aggressively. A fist strikes it. “Drew, it’s Davis,” a voice announces unnecessarily. “I need you out here now. The natives are restless.”
“I’d like a quick word with your manager,” Josh says, his nostrils flaring.
I smile. Though part of me would love to watch him put Davis in his place, it will only make things worse. “No thank you. I’ve seen how your quick words work out. I don’t need another Come repeat that on shore, asshole moment right now.”
Slowly, his mouth curves and he looks at me, his palms on either side of my face. It’s different than his previous smile. It’s not as if I’m the girl he just went down on, but someone he adores. I want to stay here forever.
This must be what it’s like to fall in love, I think. Huh.
We stand up and Josh fixes the straps of my dress, tucks my hair back behind my ears.
“Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to buy condoms,” I whisper, moving toward the door. “And Josh? Buy a lot.”
37
JOSH
She snuggles against me, tiny and soft. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies. Her eyes are still closed but she smiles. And then she laughs.
I don’t even have to ask why. She met me last night at her hotel and promptly grabbed one suitcase and her guitar and told me we were leaving. Apparently, Davis would just stroll right in, otherwise, which still enrages me.
It was only once we’d checked in across the street under a different name that she left Davis a message, canceling her interviews for the day, and she’s been laughing about it ever since.
“Davis is, at this exact moment, exploding,” she says. “Like, I think his brain might be literally exploding.”
I push the hair back from her face. “I have the somewhat troubling suspicion that you’d like to watch that.”
She hitches a shoulder. “Don’t act like it comes as a surprise. You know what I’m like.”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling her on top of me. “I might need a reminder though.”
The midday light is thin. Through the windows we look at the rooftops of Paris, covered now with a fresh layer of snow. “I could live here,” she says, pushing the room service tray away.
“In this hotel?” I ask. “Let me reiterate: this wouldn’t count as living off the land.”
She laughs. “Fuck off. I meant in Paris. I could be, like, a barista maybe. I think I could do that. I’d get fired for having an attitude back home, but here I’d fit right in.”
I press my lips to the top of her head. “What about me? What would I do?”
She taps her lower lip, thinking. “You’re…hmmm. You work as a gravedigger.”
“A gravedigger? That’s the best you can do?”
“Regular nine-to-five job and it would keep you in shape. I’d need a lot of attention when I get home from the coffee shop. Foot massages and such.”
“I’ll check to see if anyone’s hiring before I leave,” I say and then regret it. I’ve referenced leaving and though her smile holds, I feel the way it turns a little jagged. I fly out tonight. It was the best I could do, but it’s not enough for either of us.
“We can actually go outside the room, you know,” she says. “If I’m all bundled up and not wearing makeup, no one will bug us. Just please don’t say you want to go to the Louvre. You know how I feel about smart people shit.”
I laugh, running a finger down her sternum. “Yes, I remember. For a girl who can recite criminal statutes on demand, you’re weirdly opposed to letting anyone think you’re smart. But don’t worry. I have other ideas.”
I lean over, pressing a kiss to the space between her ribs.
She purrs, arching toward me. “I think I know what your ideas are. I’m fine with staying in if you are.”
I lower myself on top of her. “Don’t worry. It’s not sex. Well, it is, obviously,” I say as I reach for a condom. “But it’s not only that.”
38
DREW
In the afternoon, the snow stops suddenly. “This is my plan,” says Josh, holding my coat for me. “We are going to walk.”
I raise a brow. “Just walk?”
His mouth twitches. “Just walk.”
Outside, the world is strangely silent and peaceful, the roads mostly empty. We buy cheap gloves and hats at a kiosk and then he links his fingers through mine and pulls me close. When we kiss, our breath hovers between us like a small white cloud.
We head over toward Île Saint-Louis, an island that sits right in the center of the Seine, just past Notre Dame. He pulls me inside a café and we order chocolat chaud—hot chocolate, but nothing like the drink I know from home. This is thick, velvety, bittersweet. Something you sip. Maybe an acquired taste but on this weird, offbeat day, it feels right.
We sit with our drinks on a bench he’s cleared for us. The sun’s dying rays descend upon the Seine, painting it in splashes of orange and crimson and gold. My arm rests against his and I let my head lean on his shoulder. If it weren’t for his looming departure, I’d be so weightless right now I doubt gravity would keep me on this bench.
“I’d do anything to feel this free all the time,” I tell him.
His lips press to the top of my head. “You don’t need to do anything to feel this free, though.”
He’s right. This outing has barely cost us a penny—we could easily afford it in my barista/gravedigger fantasy—and I’ve never been happier. I certainly wouldn’t need more, but I doubt it would hold up if he wasn’t here with me.
“I’m not sure my mother has ever had a moment this peaceful,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He’s already told me she’s probably got two years left, maybe three. It weighs on him, that ticking clock. He wants to fill it with all the things she won’t have, and it’s too late for some of them. “If she did, the shit my dad’s done has tainted it by now.”
“Why does she stay with him?” I ask.
“Because of us,” he says. “I found out when I was a teenager and it was already old news to her at that point. She was willing to pretend things were fine, for our sake, so we’d feel like one big happy family.”