Amir shoots another glance at the front door, but whatever he’s looking for, it’s not there. “It says on your booking”—he points at his screen, frowning—“that this is your honeymoon.” He lowers his voice on the last word, as if sharing a dirty secret.
Oh, that.
It had sounded like such a wonderful idea: a Paris honeymoon. A lifelong dream of visiting the City of Lights, the real love I’d been waitingfor finally coming along, fantasies shared in the dead of the night. And then…I see myself pounding the steering wheel of my car with a rage I often suspected was inside me but had never let out. Looking over my shoulder as I marched into JFK airport. Heading to the ticket counter and asking if there was space on the next flight to Paris. There was!There was.And how did I want to pay?Cash. Cash?The airline representative’s curious tone when she asked; my eyes struggling to meet hers when I confirmed.Yes, cash.The words resonated between my temples, because they couldn’t have come out of my mouth, could they? I wasn’treallygoing to Paris right then and there, was I? The question circled in my head in an endless loop as I sat straight in 37E, while all around me screens lit up with the latest superhero movies or old episodes ofFriends.
And then they closed the door. We were about to take off, and the voice on the PA system was asking all passengers to switch off their phones. My mind scrambled as I tried to think ahead to what I needed: somewhere to sleep. I typed in the keywords frantically, half hiding my phone under the leather jacket on my lap as a flight attendant, with a bun so tight I could see the shape of her skull, moved through the cabin. After I selected a hotel and room type, there was a question: What is the purpose of your trip? I wrote the truth.
Amir keeps staring past me, but if he’s looking for the husband part of this honeymoon, he’ll be waiting a long time.
I’m not prepared to share that information, so, when the silence has gone on too long, he clears his throat. “If there’s anything we can do to make this special trip even more memorable, please let us know.”
“Well, um, thank you,” I say, pretending not to notice the amused look on his face. “Merci beaucoup,” I correct myself, as if it’s going to make me look any less like a sad excuse for a newlywed.
He moves along gracefully. “I’ll need your passport and a credit card.”
I hang on to my bag tighter, my fingers gripping around the worn cross-body strap. “Excuse me?”
The young family shifts behind me, mumbling a little louder. Their children have started to roam around the lobby, and the boy is attempting to climb inside a cleaning cart parked by the wall.
“It’s something we have to do,” Amir says. “For safety. And it’s the law. We have to record everyone who comes through here.”
The law.It makes me shiver.
Of course hotels require identification. I knew that. But I hadn’t thought about leaving a trace. No one can know I’m here. Now I have no choice. I carefully unzip my bag and slip my hand inside to retrieve my passport. It’s crisp and clean. Never used before. I hand it over.
“Will you take cash?” I say.
Cash is the one thing I happen to have plenty of.
“Absolutely, madame,” he says as he turns around to face the small copier on which he flattens my passport, cracking the spine open.
While he’s not looking, I open my bag a little more. Wads of bills threaten to spill out, dollars mixed with the euros I changed at the airport, all fighting for space. I never actually counted the money. I saw it and took it, like it was mine. Ten or maybe twenty thousand dollars, that’s my guess. More money than I’d ever held in my hands.
“Did you have a nice trip over?” Amir says, taking the bills I pushed his way.
“Yes, very nice, merci.”
“And will you need help with your luggage?”
I don’t know what comes over me. The exhaustion, maybe, or the dreadful realization that my life has been slipping away from me, the spiral going downward faster and faster, the end an inevitable crash.
“It was stolen. We… My… It’s just me for now.” The words come out in a whisper, and then it’s too late to take them back.
Another attendant arrives then, a woman with long red hair, also wearing a crisp white shirt. The parents behind me let out an audible sigh of relief at finally getting help.
Amir smiles back at me, like I’m the only one here. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then, he leans over and lowers his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Paris is not always safe. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time, but it can be… Well, I would watch yourself.” He glances at my bag. “And your belongings.”
So he saw the money.Great.And there I thought I could go unnoticed.
He types on his keyboard for a few more seconds before adding, “I upgraded you to our honeymoon room.”
“Oh,” I say, ready to protest. I’m not used to random acts of kindness.
“It’s on a higher floor, overlooking the courtyard. Not much of a view, but it’s quieter. And there’s a bathtub, too.”
“I won’t need that.” It comes out harsher than I intended, and the confused look on his face makes me think twice. “I mean, merci beaucoup. That all sounds lovely.”
He smiles back. “This way you can relax after everything that happened to you.”
