“The Billionaire Rancher’s Bride,” he reads. His lips twist. “I like his chaps.”
As our wait stretches on, his monotone becomes a little less—well, monotonous. If I were to draw a Levi Mood Map, the level would be steadily rising. He nudges me and points out a tiny dog in a tiny carrier. A typo on a passerby’s Star Wars T-shirt (DARTH VADER WANT’S YOU) makes him laugh out loud.
The best is an old lady in brand-new, ultra-hip Nikes, the b-baller kind with neon colors.
“She’s trying to be down with us hip kids,” Levi murmurs. “In her muumuu and fur coat.”
I fail at not-laughing. “Don’t make fun! She—she probably got them as a gift or something.”
“I bet they help her get money and hoes.”
“Levi!”
His smile turns smug and he starts to fade back into monotone Levi, slumping against the chair and kicking his legs. The line on that mood chart is dropping, so I cast my eye about for something to boost him. He’s going to back out. Get scared.
“Our flight’s on the board!” I cry, pointing. “Paris, flight 905, at 11:38! We can check in now.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says.
Two hours is loads of time, but somehow it seems like it could all tick away in the few minutes it takes to go to the bathroom.
I use the women’s bathroom and then wait for Levi outside the men’s. It’s a bit weird that it isn’t him waiting for me. I’ve walked out of countless mall or movie theatre bathrooms to see him dragging his feet as he paces the floor, excruciatingly bored. A quick glance around tells me he’s definitely still inside.
I wait.
I fish my cell phone out of my pocket and keep an eye on the time. One hour and fifty minutes until our flight leaves. Where the hell is Levi?
Another few minutes go by. My scalp starts to prickle and I’m ready to charge into the bathroom to find him, because this is not normal. Levi does not disappear, and he does not get chatty or comfortable in bathrooms. He gets in and gets right out, after washing his hands at least twice. What if something’s wrong in there?
I’m about to really panic when Levi finally meanders languidly out of the bathroom.
“What took you so long? Jeez, I was freaking out!”
“Calm down, God.” His forehead twitches in annoyance. “I was just looking at the tiles.”
“What?”
“The tiles in the bathroom. The workmanship is pretty good. I’m impressed.”
I can’t think of a thing to say. I had forgotten he was such a weirdo. Who admires bathroom tiles for ten minutes?
This bodes well. If he likes examining tiles in minute detail, he’ll love the Louvre.
I drag my tile-admiring brother to check-in, take out our passports, check our luggage, and walk through to the Great Beyond. It feels amazing to just have my backpack, no more giant suitcase to tow around. Wait …
“Levi, you don’t have any carry-on luggage?”
Levi is just standing there, hands in his hoodie pouch, completely un-weighed down. I have a backpack full of stuff for the long flight. Levi has … nothing.
His dull eyes suddenly sharpen.
“Our luggage goes away?”
“Yeah, it goes into the luggage compartment, underneath the plane.”
“We can’t get stuff out of it?”
“No, not now that it’s gone!”
He blinks three times and his lower lip slips out.
“My iPod was in there,” he murmurs. “And my book.”
I groan. “Levi, what were you thinking?”
“I didn’t know, okay?” He glares, but his cheeks start to redden.
He isn’t the one who did all the travel research, I realize. He hasn’t been scouring the Internet for tips on what to bring and how to pack. He’s naive, an embarrassed kid who now has nothing to do on a ten-hour flight. The urge to protect him flares up inside of me, even from something as harmless as boredom. But boredom isn’t always harmless, especially to Levi. Ten hours with only in-flight entertainment, which he’s guaranteed to hate and sneer at? I don’t even want to think about what could go on in his head if he’s sitting there, unoccupied and stewing, for ten hours. And I’ll have to sit there and apologize to everyone who will give us the evil eye over his groans and kicking legs—if he can even move his legs in a cramped airplane seat. I’ll look like an incompetent babysitter.
I flash back to Dr. Pearson, saying Levi would never be a functioning adult. I think this is the kind of thing he meant.
“I’m sorry, Lev,” I say.
He grunts and turns to walk toward security.
I offer to buy him a new book in the shops on the other side of security. I offer to buy him video game magazines, the latest Stephen King novel, anything he wants. He refuses it all.
Then I notice The Billionaire Rancher’s Bride, tucked into his hoodie pocket, his hand curled around it. We board the plane, shuffling around all the dads in vacation attire trying to stuff bags into the overheard compartments, and when we finally locate our seats, Levi pulls out The Billionaire Rancher’s Bride and starts to read.
It feels like I get a chance to peek behind the curtain and see the little child pulling the levers behind Levi’s cynical exterior. Innocence and earnestness, eagerly turning pages when he thinks I’m not looking. This is the real Levi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’ve always fantasized about finding love on an airplane. A sexy stranger would be seated across the aisle. A boy a few years older than me, French or British or Norwegian. Maybe a college student, or a guy taking a gap year and doing nothing but wandering. A guy with interesting stories to tell and passions to share, like scuba diving or mountain climbing or basket-weaving. I don’t know. Anything. We’ll connect like in a nineties romantic comedy, like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.
That doesn’t happen this time. I keep my eyes peeled for any kind of promise, but the other passengers prove to be hopelessly mundane. I occupy myself with a book, music, podcast rotation. Levi finishes The Billionaire Rancher’s Bride and when I ask him how it was, he says, “Pretty good. Although I don’t think there’s really that much money in ranching.” To my infinite relief, he falls asleep after that. He spends the rest of the flight snoring and twitching beside me.
When the countdown to arrival hits thirty minutes and my ears pop with the dropping altitude, people open their window shades and peer outside. It’s so bright it’s like we’re landing on the sun. The light reveals countryside below, dotted with towns and a few lakes and rivers. The country fades into more and more towns. French suburbia, I guess.
And then, suddenly, I recognize shapes and outlines I’ve seen a hundred times on maps. The twist of a river or the shape of a town gives me déjà vu. Paris. It’s out there.
It takes forever and a half for the plane to land. A million adjustments and realignments and shuffling back and forth before we’re finally safe at our gate. Then, after standing up and joining the jostling queue, it takes another half of forever to disembark. Levi, all disoriented after his nap, tenses up. His shoulders hunch, his eyes start to dart around, looking for an escape.
We finally snake our way off the plane. We’re free, turned loose in Charles de Gaulle Airport.
I’ve given up my expectation of finding love on an airplane, but I’m still open to a baggage claim meet-cute. Levi’s suitcase came along the carousel right away, but as we wait for mine, I look around, hunting for cute hair, cute legs in cute jeans, adorable smiles …
I spot an artful haircut and spindly legs and my interest is piqued, but when his head turns, I freeze.
Jacques.
Jacques St-Pierre. A hundred feet away, his arm around Selena Henderson’s waist. Wait, did Selena dye her hair black?
Then Jacques grins, and his eyes crinkle and he laughs, and that is so not Jacques. It could be his twin, but it’s not him. That girl is not Selena.
All the air comes rushing out of my lungs in relief, but I ca
n’t stop staring at this totally random couple. What if Selena did come back to France with Jacques to stay at his row house in Versailles? What if the two of them exchanged sloppy kisses at the baggage carousel, exactly like these two?
The thought brings tears to my eyes, for Past Me’s sake. Present Me doesn’t want Jacques, doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him—but like she’s my heartbroken friend, I sympathize with Past Me. These doppelgängers look so happy, and seeing them hurts Past Me. That was supposed to be her happily ever after. Poor girl.
“Keira, I think that’s your bag,” Levi says. “Keira? Keira, get your bag.”
Levi shuffles pigeon-toed alongside the carousel, rubber boots squeaking on the floor. He grabs the suitcase and hauls it off, whacking some lady in the butt.
“Ouch!” she yelps.
“Levi!” I hiss. “I’m so sorry, ma’am!”
She glares at Levi, who has already yanked up the handle on my suitcase and is now dragging both our bags over to stare intently at a wall rack full of brochures with titles like What to do now that you’re in Paris? and Day trips to die for!
I glance over my shoulder to see that Fake Jacques and Quasi-Selena have found their bags. They’re walking up the concourse with them, fingers entwined. They get on a moving sidewalk and gaze into each other’s eyes. They can actually speak to each other; how the hell do Jacques and Selena communicate? Selena used to always get the verbs “avoir” and “être” mixed up in study group, saying “je suis fini” instead of “j’ai fini” when we finished assignments—saying she was dead, instead of finished. And Jacques’s English is far from amazing. Do they communicate entirely through tracing the shapes of letters with their tongues while they kiss?
I turn away from them and the trip to France I always dreamed of. I focus on the trip I have, which is Levi roughly grabbing brochures and creasing them with his grubby hands.
“What are we doing first?” he asks.
“I dunno,” I mutter.
“Hey, Museums of Paris. Looks like there are some war museums.”
Thank God world peace hasn’t happened yet. Levi would be bored to tears.
“Yeah,” I say. “We should definitely check those out.”
Levi grunts approvingly. He’s visibly better than he was even a few minutes ago. He’s standing up taller, his arms move more freely, and he’s even smiling a bit.
I fire off a quick text to Mom via TextAnywhere, the free international messaging app Josh made me download: Landed in Paris, Mom! Everything’s fine!
Well, except for having my heart stomped on in front of me.
Her reply is just a single word: Great.
I sigh.
I pre-booked tickets for a shuttle bus into the city, so we go outside to the pickup loop. It’s full of taxis and double-deckers. My heart flutters. I’ve never been on a double-decker.
“Um, excusez-moi,” I say to the driver, who’s leaning against the side of the big, white double-decker with, I think, the right logo. “Est-ce que nous sommes dans la correcte place?”
His eyes crinkle. Is he laughing at my stupid American accent? But he looks at our tickets, says, “Oui, mademoiselle,” and helps us load our luggage under the bus as we climb aboard.
I lead us to the itty-bitty staircase leading to the second level. Levi grabs the back of my shirt. “Not up there.”
“But I’ve never been on a double-decker before!”
“I’m sure it’s exactly the fucking same as a regular bus. Come on, let’s sit down here.”
I keep climbing. “You can if you want.”
There’s a pair of old people in Hawaiian shirts and a handful of Asian schoolgirls sitting up here, but somehow, the seats at the very front are empty. I hurry toward them and sit where it feels like I’m teetering on the edge above the road.
Levi’s great weight plonks down beside me. His jacket rustles. He sighs.
“This is so cool, right?” I say, grasping the handrail in front of us.
He grunts begrudgingly.
I thought the bus was cool at a standstill, but when it starts to move, it blows my mind. Without seeing the driver, it feels like the bus magically pulls itself into traffic. We bounce and sway like crazy, and when we stop, it seems like we’re going to slide over the top of the cars in front of us.
“This is giving me a headache,” Levi says once we’re on a highway, tiny little cars zipping along around us.
“So close your eyes.”
He does, and within seconds, Levi’s head has fallen back and he’s snoring. I get my first glimpses of Paris alone.
So far, it looks like the outskirts of any other city: industrial. The names of cosmetic companies plaster the sides of giant warehouses and clinical-looking facilities. You’d picture L’Oréal Paris as swanky offices with views of the Arc de Triomphe, not blocky, slate-gray buildings that look the same as they would in Hicktown, USA. This is Paris?
And then I see it. Way off in the distance, almost fading into the cloudy sky, taller than anything else.
The Eiffel Tower. Just jutting out of the landscape, signaling to me. You’re here.
I sit up and crane my neck, watching it for as long as I can before we drive between taller buildings and lose sight. It feels impossible, like the moment in Jurassic Park when they first see dinosaurs. That’s it. That’s the Eiffel Tower, that’s my dream, off in the distance.
I’m here. With Levi beside me, I’m finally here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I thought they drove on the other side of the road here,” Levi says, blinking sleepily.
The bus has finally carried us into Paris proper. We navigate narrow streets lined with trees, a café on every corner.
“No, that’s England.”
“I’m pretty sure it was France.”
“Well, obviously not, weirdo.”
“Hmm.” Levi stares out the window at the somewhat dingy shops we’re passing. “Look, McDonald’s. I could go for that.”
“Look at all the cafés, though, Lev. Wouldn’t you rather have lunch at a real Parisian café?”
“Not the ones here, Keira. They’re all crappy.”
I roll my eyes. Sure, maybe they have dirty awnings and garish neon signs, but still. Parisian café trumps McDonald’s any day.
The bus finally slows and starts to turn into the Gare de l’Est. It’s a squat, sprawling white building full of windows with a sun motif. It wouldn’t be out of place on a Riviera near the Mediterranean. We disembark from the bus in a slow, long lineup of tourists—old people already clutching their cameras and mispronouncing French words.
“The Gare de l’Est is a lot more beautiful than I expected it to be,” a woman just ahead of us says, snapping a picture through the bus window as we wait to climb down the stairs—only she pronounces it “jerr de least.”
“It is, isn’t it, Martha?” her friend muses. “But if you think this is beautiful, wait until you see Ver-sales tomorrow!”
Ver-sales! I want to freak out at them. Gah-re de lest, lady! Vehr-sai! Roll your r’s. Skip the s’s. Come on.
You should have to pass a test to be able to come here. You should have to prove you deserve it.
We grab our luggage and a wave of fatigue hits me. It’s the middle of the night, according to my body, but it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning here and I have to hold on. At least until a late-afternoon nap. We enter the big, noisy train station.
“So?” Levi says, looking up at the glass ceiling. “Where now?”
“To the hostel to drop off our stuff. It’s in the cinquième arrondissement.”
“What?”
“The fifth arrondissement,” I repeat. “Arrondissement is like … rounding? Estimation? The different areas and neighborhoods of Paris are called arrondissements. There are twenty of them.”
“Why don’t you just call it the fifth neighborhood?” Levi grumbles.
“Because it’s an arrondissement.”
“God, yo
u’re so annoying.”
“I’m annoying?”
He glares at me. “You keep trying to act like you’re French, like it makes you better or something. Guess what, I don’t care. Just be fucking normal.”
My cheeks burn. As much as I hate to admit it … maybe I do sprinkle in random French words when they aren’t absolutely necessary. Oh God, how dumb must I sound, saying “bon matin” in the morning or shouting “bonne nuit” down the hall before I go to bed. I just love the way they sound. Okay, and the way they make me sound. Except for the first day of senior year, when I volunteered to take Jacques to his next class and said “bienvenue à notre école”—before I’d learned exactly how to pronounce the accents. Bienvenue ay notre ee-cole. Oh God, it still hurts to remember his cruel laugh.
Levi’s right about another thing: he doesn’t care. With Levi, none of that posturing and posing matters. With Jacques, I was constantly performing. Eat a hot dog at lunch, he’d raise his eyebrows. The next day I’d nibble on a salad. I would have rather gone hungry than seen that dismissive look on his face when he looked at me. Now I can relax, be myself. I don’t have to constantly try to impress someone who thinks he’s slumming it with a chubby girl. “Trop grosse.” Screw him.
I wonder if Selena is going through that song and dance. She’s welcome to it.
I snap out of it and lead Levi down the stairs to the underground subway station. We head to a giant map of the metro system and my heart does this weird squish thing. Colored lines snake all over the page and trace a vague approximation of the city’s shape and I’m proud of myself for recognizing it. I could stand here for ages, just reading the pretty names of all the stops and imagining the amazing places they could take me: Quatre Septembres, Château d’Eau, and, funnily enough, Franklin D. Roosevelt. Levi points that one out.
“Weird,” he says. “We have to go there. Let’s go there now.”
“First we have to find the hostel. It’s, um …” I pull out my street map of Paris and find the address I scrawled there. I find the stop nearest to it. “The nearest metro stop is Jussieu, I think. Right?”
Maybe in Paris Page 5