When the Heart Falls(105)

Monsieur Bellugue had given us the welcome speech on the bus here, including the little tidbit that we'd have to remember to bring toilet paper to the co-ed bathrooms each time we went.

"Oh my God, how embarrassing would that have been? See, already you're the best roomie ever." She grabs her stack of squares and heads out.

I'm nearly asleep, lost in dreams of old Paris, a black and white version with flashes of color, when cold water splashes on my face, startling me awake.

Jenifer is standing by my bed holding my water bottle. "Come on, sleepy head. We're in Paris. Let's go out to eat, I'm starved."

I wipe my face, forgetting about my injury, and flinch at the use of my left hand. Jenifer seems oblivious, already freshening up her make-up and hair for a night out.

Normally I'd jump at the chance to explore Paris at night, but the weight of the day is crushing me, and I just want to sleep. "I don't know. Maybe later."

She stops mid lip pucker and scowls at me. "Did you miss the part about being in Paris? Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead. Come on. It's on me."

My stomach rumbles. I haven't eaten since the unsatisfying bit of food on the plane. "Okay, fine. Just give me a minute to get ready."



It's sensory overload finding a cafe or restaurant. First we take the Metro into the heart of Paris, which is an experience in and of itself. French signs and unfamiliar landmarks and street names make it hard to navigate. We pick a stop at random, something that looks like it'll be fun, and exit to a street alive with lights, people walking and shopping and talking—mostly in French, but some English, Italian and Algerian mixed in there as well.

I gawk at the traffic, cars driving at random through intersections that don't seem to have clear road dividers. I'm not sure how they aren't all crashing into each other. Next to what looks like a bus stop, a car stops and fills up on gas. It's not a gas station like I've ever seen, just a random gas pump in the middle of the sidewalk.

The scent of crepes wafts through the air, and my stomach grumbles so loud the guy walking past us turns to stare.

"Jenifer, we have to stop and eat. I'm dying."

Nodding, she turns into the first door we pass, the smell of roasting chicken mouthwatering.

Unfamiliar music plays in the background as we're escorted to a table. My pulse quickens. "This is our first meal in Paris. Oh my God!"

Jenifer smiles. "I know, right? What are you going to order?"

"I'm not sure, yet. You?"

Jenifer points to someone behind me. "Him. Do you think the gorgeous Italian staring at us is on the menu? Check him out."

"I'm not here to meet men." My mind flits back to Cade, how he tilts his hat when he's greeting someone, the way his eyes light up when he talks about old buildings, but I shut down the thought. He's only here for the summer, and I'm here for much longer. Besides, the butterflies in my stomach scare me. Last time I had those, I got hurt.

Jenifer licks her lips, eyes peering over my shoulder. "Oh, but look at those strong arms, those broad shoulders, that thick head of black hair—"

Le sigh. "If I look, will you shut up?"

"Deal."

I reach up as if to stretch, surreptitiously turning my head to catch a glance at the man making my roommate drool. He is pretty good looking, if you like that tall, dark and handsome type.

Jenifer winks at him. "Yummy, right?"

I shrug and return to the breadsticks the waiter brought. "I suppose." The first bite sends me to heaven. Garlic and butter and perfectly baked dough, so yum.

"You suppose? Don't go all Ice Queen on me now. That guy is hot."

Lovely. Like I want that nickname trailing me around the world. "Sure."

"How?" She throws her hands up in the air. "How does a prime specimen like that not even intrigue you?"

"I'm just not interested." I take another bite, chew and swallow. "Now, let's talk about something other than my sex life." I hold up a breadstick. "Like these. Have you tasted these? So freaking delicious. I wonder if I can smuggle them back to the US." I think back to the question about food items during customs and now I understand, it's not the pineapples they're worried about. It's the carbs.

Jenifer shakes her head then raises her hand and waves to the Italian. "Hi."

I groan and sink into my seat.

"Ciao," he says, his Italian accent thick.

Jenifer makes an 'eep' sound. "Did you hear that? He said 'Ciao.' So sexy."

"Sure, whatever."

She ignores me and goes back to her conversation across the restaurant as other guests stare at us in shock. This is why people hate Americans. We're annoying.

"Do you come here often?" asks Jenifer. "My friend and I need help on deciding on what to order."

"You want a tasty meal, I can show you the best," he says from behind me.

Jenifer holds up her menu. "Really?"

I feel him approaching and squirm in my seat, wishing I'd stayed asleep after all.

He pulls out the chair between us. "I sit with you and amaze you. The chicken is very good."

Jenifer doesn't seem to think it odd that he just invited himself to our table, but my arm prickles with goose bumps in warning.