Chapter 10
The next twenty-fourhours were spent inside my apartment until I couldn’t take it any longer.The city was crowded with tourists and what felt like most of the U.S.to celebrate New Year’s in Times Square.I thought I had properly prepared by stocking up on soup, cheesesticks, and ice cream.But once all that was gone, I realized I needed to go out with the masses and get more food.
I throw on sweatpants and snowboots, my puffiest, warmest coat, scarf and knit hat.With my money in my pocket, I open the door and step out almost stepping on a letter that matches the wrapping on the other boxes.Snatching it from the ground, I go back inside and open it immediately.
Dear Kandace,
My name is Oliver Hanning.I’m twenty-four years old.I was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois and have one brother.My parents have been married for twenty-seven years.
A year ago, I dropped out of Stanford and came to Paris to stay with relatives.When I overstayed my welcome, I took some of my inheritance, before I was cut off, and blew through it.I couldn’t afford to fly home and my parents refused to lend me the money.I work odd jobs, but have found a regular waiting/bartending job at an ex-patriots bar in Montmartre.I negotiated a monthly rate at the hostel and lived there for two months.
I’ve made friends and party too much, so I’ve stayed...probably stayed too long again.I was supposed to leave the day after you arrived.Something told me to stay.
That’s a lie.I stayed because of you.My boss kept me working and you intrigued me.There was something between us the day you showed up in that yellow dress on a late fall day that made me think twice about leaving.
You had this innocence that made me want to do bad things and you were just so damn beautiful that what seemed like easy prey turned on me and tricked me into feeling something I hadn’t felt before.So what do I do?I try to be what you want.I didn’t think a guy from Chicago could compete with the French.
I’ve told you who I am.Now let me show you.
There’s a ticket with your name on it at the Air France counter at JFK.If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, this American will be waiting in the same spot we last saw each other under the Eiffel Tower on December 31st at midnight.
With love,
Oliver
A ticket to Paris?He bought me a ticket to Paris!Is he insane?What makes him think I’ll go back to Paris for him?He lied to me.Why would I go?There’s no reason I should.I’d be a fool to take him up on that offer.I haven’t even forgiven him yet.
Setting the letter on the table, I walk back out the door, realizing I said ‘yet.’But I’m too hungry to deal with this level of crazy.As I walk down the wet sidewalk, I begin to wonder what the weather in Paris is like this time of year.What the Eiffel Tower looks like on New Year’s Eve.And why he gave me this key to his apartment.When did he get an apartment?Is he staying there forever?Or for now?
Walking into the corner market, I grab a handbasket and head to the frozen foods section.I can’t think about Oliver on an empty stomach.But with my hand wrapped around two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey I stop before they reach the basket.
Paris.
Paris with Oliver.
Not Olivier, but Oliver.I didn’t fall for him because he was French.I fell for him because he was awesome.I set the ice cream back in the freezer case, set the basket down, and hurry out the door.Rushing down the street I remember all the little moments we shared—the artist’s squat where he told me I was amazing, when he told the redhead I was amazing, when we were making love and he kissed my temple, when he gave me his phone because he trusted me...Why am I still here?
I open my door and rush inside, flinging my coat and kicking my boots off.I grab my suitcase from the top shelf of my closet and throw it open on the bed before tossing stuff inside of it.An eight hour flight.That’s plenty of time to figure out why the hell I’m even going, much less giving him a chance to make this right.Sitting down next to the case full of overflowing clothes, I take a minute to process what I’m doing or should be doing.Flying to Paris on a whim is frivolous.
That’s not me.I’m not frivolous, carefree, or careless.I have responsibilities and my studies.My part time job down at the registration office.And I need to clean the apartment before my roommate returns in five days.
Excuses.
