Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
Taylor
Now
Sometimes Paris is a terrible idea.
The shiny gray taxi spits me out onto the narrow street, then continues on before disappearing around the corner. This is the Paris of postcards or, rather, of Instagram. The cobblestones are charmingly uneven, a centuries-old church peeks above leafy trees, and ornate lampposts line the sidewalk. The air smells sweet and damp, the asphalt still wet from rain, but the sky is bright and cloudless. It's early afternoon on an otherwise lovely summer day.
I've so often dreamed of this trip, but I never imagined it would happen like this, with my mind in disarray and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The few passersby pay no attention to me, or at least see nothing wrong with me. So I approach the hotel, take in the SONNEZ SVP sign, and ring the bell as instructed. I listen to the drum of my heartbeat until it's replaced by the buzz of the door clicking open.
The floor is tiled in a faded geometric pattern, drawing the eye from the lobby to the small café area behind it, which is lit up by a skylight. There are (probably fake) plants in corners, a bench with stained cushions lining the wall in front of round metal tables, and wiry lights dangling from the ceiling. It's plain but modern and looks clean enough.
There weren't many places still available in Paris—it's late July, a perfect time to visit—so I booked the first hotel that seemed reasonably priced, expecting the worst, as I always do. As I always have to. But this is...fine. Almost nice even.
There's a short line to check in, and I go stand behind a bald man in a dark-blue blazer. He keeps rubbing his hand against his forehead with a handkerchief, which makes me realize I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. I'm wearing skinny black jeans, a gray V-neck T-shirt with tiny holes at the seams from being washed too many times, my trusty lace-up boots, and the leather jacket I found in the trunk of my car after I parked at the airport. Not summer attire. Not Paris chic. A few minutes later, the bald man pockets his key card and rolls his flimsy suitcase toward the tiny elevator I'm only now noticing.
It's my turn.
I step forward, meeting the eyes of the attendant behind the counter.
"Madame," he says softly, warmly.
He's about my age, late twenties, with sharp features: a crooked nose, a thick mane of dark hair, pitch-black eyes, and tan skin that contrasts with the white of his perfectly ironed shirt. He's tall and lanky, his fingers so long and delicate that I fixate on them for a moment.
"Checking in?" he says, assuming that I don't speak French.
I think about correcting him, but I don't want to attract attention to myself. I can be your average American tourist. Unremarkable, clueless. That's what I've been most of my life. It's not hard.
"Oui." The word catches in my throat.
His face brightens with a soft glow as he smiles. I shouldn't be noticing this.
"May I have your name?"
He's asking but it's not really a question. It's a thing men do, making you feel like you have a choice, like you're in control, when in fact, they're the ones pulling the strings. By the time you realize you've been played, it's too late to stop the game.
"Taylor Quinn," I say, staring him in the eyes.
Amir—that's the name on the tag pinned to his shirt—raises an eyebrow as he checks his computer. "I don't see a reservation." His tone is apologetic. Kind. "May I ask when you booked with us?"
I take a deep breath. It's an innocent question. He doesn't know. He couldn't.
"Last night," I say. "Though I guess it was early morning Paris time. It was a little...spur of the moment."
...
