Part II
* * *
PARIS
13
MY MOTHER AND MARK are in first class, and we’re back here in coach. Which is fine because she’s not talking to me anyway. I’m kind of glad to see that Matt is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably in first class too. Corrie is sitting at the back of the plane. She couldn’t get a seat next to us, but she was lucky enough to be able to purchase a seat on the same flight, last minute.
I hate red-eye flights. I plan to sleep, and luckily, there is not a baby in sight — this just might work. If only I could get Oscar to shut the hell up. He’s been chattering like a tween girl at a sleepover since we boarded. It’s actually kind of cute how excited he is.
I’ve got everything I need for PLAN SLEEP: sleepy-time tea, noise cancelling headphones, my relaxation music mix, comfy pillow, throw, and last but not least, Oscar’s shoulder.
The flight attendant is kind enough to give me hot water for my tea, and Oscar and I chat while I drink it. Corrie comes over to say goodnight. She’s got pink fuzzy sleep booties on and a zebra airplane pillow.
“I’m going to read for a bit,” Oscar tells me. “I’ve downloaded the latest Stephen King.”
“Can I borrow your shoulder to sleep?”
He grins. “Always.” Damn, I love that smile.
I lay against him, listen to music, and let myself drift. I’m exhausted — I haven’t slept well at all these past few nights, too caught up in my mother’s drama, and too full of nervous energy about Paris. Just as I drift off, I mutter, “Goodnight, Oscar… I love you.” I don’t know why I say it.
I guess it’s because I mean it.
When I wake,the plane is much brighter, bathed in the light of dawn. Oscar is sleeping.
Oh, damn…
Did I really say that out loud? Did I really tell him I love him?
I check the trajectory graphic on the screen in front of me. We’re almost there — only an hour to go. I’ve slept a good six hours — I’m pretty thrilled about that. I really need to go pee.
I awkwardly climb over Oscar, trying not to wake him up. He tosses and mutters something unintelligible.
I don’t have time to worry about the whole business of telling Oscar that I love him. I’ve got much bigger fish to fry. I need to break up this wedding, and soon. If I just stand there and do nothing, my mother will make the biggest mistake of her life in five days.
Five days. I do the math quickly in my head… one-hundred and twenty hours.
I have about one-hundred and twenty hours to break up this wedding.
Paris is as lovelyas I remember, but chillier. I’ve never been here in April. It’s not quite as busy as I recall, and I’m happy about that. I suppose it’s not tourist season yet.
Oscar is already busy checking out the French women wandering about. You can easily set them apart from the tourists — they’re the ones beautifully dressed and wearing fashionable shoes. I don’t think French women would be caught dead in sneakers.
We both love to people watch. Sometimes, we’ll just sit on a bench and watch people go by, and he’ll run commentary based on their appearance. He’s never too mean though. He just likes to make up funny stories.
Once, a harried woman walked by, two kids in tow, wearing yoga wear and a messy ponytail. Oscar smiled and whispered, “I’m busy as hell today. I’ve got to run to the store after I drop off the kids at school. I need to drop off William’s suits at the cleaners, and pick up chicken for dinner. But thankfully, I’ll let my hair down and get out of these shabby clothes later. I’ll throw on the pretty teddy I picked up at Victoria’s Secret, and slip it on under a trench coat, and surprise Jose, my Portuguese lover. He’s a brooding artist, and makes me come like my boring husband can’t.” I laughed my head off. The man has stories for everyone. I can’t wait to see what he’ll have to say about the French. I’m sure there will be a horrible accent involved.
My high school French is good enough to communicate with the taxi driver and get us to our destination, a quaint little apartment in the first arrondissement, the center of it all.
The driver has a heavy foot, a little fast for my liking. Corrie sits shotgun, speaking horrible French to the driver. I’m sure he doesn’t understand a single word. I certainly don’t. Oscar and I enjoy the sights of the city as we zoom by; the stunning European architecture, and the people milling about. Memories of my last trip here assault me — it was a long time ago, with friends on a backpacking trip. I’m sure this experience will be very different.
I spot the Eiffel tower in the distance, and think about Matt. I’m looking forward to dinner with him. He called to let me know that we’re having dinner on our first night here (tonight).
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I’d said.
“Well, not when it comes to the very beautiful ones,” he’d replied. “Truth be told, I’m hoping for a second date.”
