Page 17 of City of Love
Something weird is going on.
My host family—or Noel’s mom, anyway, because I haven’t met her dad yet—is lovely. Marie Marchand is a cheerful woman with a graying cloud of hair. She greets me in English—thank goodness—and gets all up in my personal space with a crushing hug. I guess I can’t blame her, though; she thought I was lost, wandering around Paris. Which I basically was. And goodness knows I got all up in someone’s personal space today too, and he was thoroughly unimpressed by me. So it’s fine.
It’s just…she seems to have been waiting for me. No—expectingme. Like she knew I was on my way. How did she know that? When my cab pulled up in front of a much nicer complex than Mr. Grump’s, she was out in front, umbrella in hand, sort of dancing from foot to foot like she had to pee, except I think she might just be one of those people who’s always moving. She now tells me she has my luggage inside already, thankgoodness. Apparently my suitcases, unlike me, made it onto the train just fine.
She points to a bike rack out front as we walk up the stone stairs. “The red one and the yellow one are ours,” she says. “Feel free to use them anytime you want; the password for both locks is 2-8-1-0.”
28/10, or the European format for October 28—Noel’s birthday.
She chatters all through the elevator ride, and when she asks how I missed the train, I sigh, trying to figure out a polite way of asking her how she knew I was almost here.
“I went to the restroom and then sat down for a second and accidentally fell asleep,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s definitely an abbreviated version of the truth, but I don’t want to talk about Marcus. “I sort of got lost but managed to find a place to charge my phone so I could get the address”—I wave my phone a little—“and then I got a taxi here.”
She looks absolutely horrified, her eyes widening, her mouth forming a perfect O. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says. “Mlle Hilliard and I were so worried. I was so relieved when Noel said you were on your way.” She shakes her head. “We were—”
“Wait,” I say without thinking. When I realize I’ve cut her off, I quickly add, “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering how Noel knew I was on my way. We haven’t talked since before my flight.”
“Noel didn’t say,” she says as the elevator doors open. We get out and enter what looks like a tiny little lobby with only one door. She crosses the parquet floor and starts to unlock the door. “Now let’s go in and get you warm and dry.”
She beckons me in once the door’s open, and I enter gratefully. She flicks the lights on and says, “I can show you around a bit later, but for now let’s get you dry, and my guess is you’d probably benefit from a nap?”
My brain catches on that one word: “nap.” A glorious, lovely, beautiful nap.
“Yes,” I admit, all other thoughts flying out of my head—I can figure things out later. “That would be great, actually.”
She nods, and before I can say anything else she’s turning the corner and wheeling one of my bags around. “Here,” she says. “Pull out some clothes and get dressed, and then I’ll take you to your room. The bathroom is right there,” she says, gesturing to a door on the left.
I thank her and haul my bag into the bathroom she pointed out, barely looking around as I dig through my suitcase and pull out some dry jeans and a new shirt. When I’m done, I come back out. It’s as though my body is beginning to shut down against my will now that it knows a nap is in sight; I follow Mrs. Marchand down a hall and to a door on the right at the end. I don’t even bother turning on the light; I just thank her once more and fall into the bed. I’m out before I can even get under the covers.
***
I awaken some time later to a gentle knock on the door. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but I can see through the room’s window that it’s still dark, and something about it gives me the impression that it’s still night.
There’s another knock at the door, and I realize that in my half-asleep state I forgot to answer.
“Yes?” I say quickly, my voice croaky.
“Noel will be here any minute; do you want to come say hello?” says Mrs. Marchand, her voice muffled through the door.
“Sure,” I say. I pull my phone out and see that I only slept for maybe an hour; if I were at home, I wouldn’t even have gone to bed yet.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and then stand, smoothing my hair and then leaving the room.
“Come on,” Mrs. Marchand says. She’s standing only a few feet down the hall, and she still has that air of constant motion about her. I follow her out of the hall and to the front door, which she opens.
So I guess we’re waiting at the elevator.
“I’m just so excited for you to meet him,” she says, smiling over at me.
I should respond that I’m excited as well, but I’m too caught on what she’s just said.
Him?Him?What is she talking about?
“What do you mean?” I say, my voice coming out sort of strangled. “What do you mean, ‘him’?”
But she doesn’t answer; she’s pulling out her phone, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I must have misheard her.
