I nod and turn for the door. “I’d claim that if I were part of a real couple I’d be more sexually satisfied, but then I remembered the other half of the couple was you.”
He grins. “There’s the Bex I know and…occasionally like.”
We hold hands as we walk down the hall. I contemplate suggesting a kiss in the elevator but I suppose I can’t reasonably claim Kylie is hiding in the walls.
The crew is set up in the lobby and films us walking to the car. Mics are attached as we are taken first to the Rodin Museum’s sculpture garden—where Theo checks his phone so often that Lars threatens to take it away from him—and then Montmartre.
We are unloaded next to a sidewalk café at the base of the steps leading to Sacré-Coeur. Once the guys are ready, we begin climbing—slow going when every third step has a tourist posing for a selfie.
It’s nearly sunset—an ideal time to be at Sacré-Coeur, the highest point in the city—but a less ideal time to film. I can’t imagine who will be enticed to visit by watching Theo huff in irritation every time a woman is blocking our path while she blows a kiss or flashes a peace sign at some distant audience.
“We should offer more interesting trips,” I announce when we finally reach Square Louise-Michel, the long grassy slope that leads to the basilica.
He raises a brow. “Perhaps you should leave the criticisms of our company for when we’renotbeing recorded.”
“It’s not a criticism,” I reply, reluctantly climbing the final set of stairs. “But Paris is an easy trip to arrange and so is Sorrento. Families don’t really need help planning things like this.”
Theo’s on his phone, typing. I doubt he even heardme.
We finally finish climbing and turn to take in the view, as instructed by Lars. From here, we can see half of Paris, cast indreamy, golden light. Church spires, more palaces than you can count, the Eiffel Tower. I’ll admit it’s worth the climb, but I’m too irked by the way Theo’s not listening to appreciateit.
“You know what’s more intimidating?” I continue. “Sri Lanka. The Arctic Circle. The Amazon River. Those are places most people—Americans, at least—don’t have the first clue about. You’re not planning a jaunt with your three-year-old in tow to any of them without assistance.”
He’s still distracted, this time reading something off his smartwatch. “Planning trips like that is a far greater undertaking and responsibility than you may realize.”
He’s probably right. ButI’malso right, just like I was right two years ago when I told my father the brochure should be online, and several months later when I told him a TV show would bring in the publicity the company needed.
Theo is the one who’s made me realize that I’m capable of being an asset, of making an intelligent choice. He doesn’t get to take that back just because the difficulty of what I’ve proposed overwhelms him. Or because he’s too preoccupied by incoming texts.
From Montmartre, we travel to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where we dine under Café de Flore’s white awning. I attempt to have a very television-friendly chat about the writers who made the restaurant famous while Theo continues checking his motherfucking watch like it’s a bomb he might need to defuse at any moment.
Maybe I shouldn’t blame him—though I do. Maybe I should blame the fact that we’ve both been here before, that we’re not doing anything especially unique.
And there are so many difficult, interesting trips Families Travel could offer. Sand-skiing in Huacachina. The salt flats of Bolivia or this collapsed cavern in Turkmenistan that’s been continually aflame for decades.
My mouth opens to bring the idea up, and he glances at his watch again.
I fight a ping of irritation.Morethan a ping, because I was so excited to see him and am thrilled to be sitting across the table from him—positively bubbling over with ideas I want to share and things I meant to say when he was in New Jersey—and he just wants to be somewhere else.
“Do you have a date tonight or what?” I snap. “I’ve never seen someone check their watch as often as you have.”
His gaze shoots to the crew standing just a few feet to our left. “No, actually…I’m meeting Peter. He’s in town, and we’re getting a drink.”
A tiny ache resides in the center of my chest. I know he has other friends, but…can’t he see them in London? If our situations were reversed, I’d have been too greedy for the moments I get with him to willingly give up even one of them.
The crew breaks down. “Thank you,Bex,” Lars says with a pointed glance at Theo, “for carrying that conversation single-handedly.”
Theo simply shrugs in response. Then looks at his watch.
It’s just the two of us as we walk back to the hotel, neither of us speaking. Him because, I assume, he’s so excited to see the friend he seesconstantly.Me, because I’m pouting. It’s not the first time I thought people cared about me as much as I cared about them only to be proven wrong. I should be accustomed to it, but apparently I’m not.
We enter the lobby. Theo stiffens beside me and I’m late to realize why: Peter is here, rising from a chair, crossing the room to greetus.
“I thought I was meeting you out,” Theo says, tense and miserable. “Rebecca was heading upstairs.”
This has to be about me, about Theo’s desperation to not includeme.
Peter enfolds me in a hug. “I was hoping you’d be here,” he says. “Come have a drink with us. The hotel has a bar.”
