This is a very big deal, I have to tell myself as the nerves whirl inside me. Realizing I can’t face the wall and ignore him forever, I turn. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My hands are clenched at my sides, and my heart is still pounding away in my chest like a jackhammer.
His hair is dark brown with hints of lighter brown locks. He is lean—though not wiry—with long, strong-looking arms and a vigorous chest. His eyes are gray with a blue tint, and his bangs lightly cover his eyes, making his eyes look dark like thunderclouds. He stares at me—taking me in—with his lips slightly parted.
I struggle to hold myself in place as we gawk at each other. I want so desperately to run, but something is holding me back, keeping me in place. I look at his pants and almost laugh at the sight. He’s wearing jeans; the same ones I had seen from under the staircase.
No words touch my lips. He is equally silent as we continue our staring contest.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling bare and embarrassed, with nothing else to do. He seems to snap out of his trance at the same time and takes a small step forward. My eyes follow the movement. He gives me a small, sheepish smile.
You could cut the awkwardness in the room with a knife.
“I didn’t mean to just walk in like that,” he starts. “I’m sorry.”
Breaking away from my shock, I’m finally able to move. Without replying, I make a sudden break for the door. I brush right by the boy in my escape. I can hear him chasing after me, and, like before, I don’t stop.
“No, wait!” the boy calls, right behind me.
Feeling a light brush against my shoulder, my whole body jolts. A strange feeling rushes through me, and then the hand clasps on harder. I’m tugged back without warning, stumbling back and tripping over my own feet in the process.
I blink when I suddenly finding myself with my back firmly pressed against the wall. My shoulder blades dig into the surface, making me squirm with discomfort. “Let me go! Let me go or—or I’ll scream!”
I struggle, trying to shove him away. However, I might as well have been shoving a brick wall for all the effect I was having. I fight a long, dramatic sigh, knowing my threat means nothing. We were in an empty building, who would hear my screams? I wince back as my eyes move up to his face. His chest is rising and falling steadily from the run, though his expression isn’t menacing, or anything of the sort.
“I just want to talk to you,” he says. I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say, so I just stare at him. My eyes drift to the stairs behind him. I’m so close, but he has me trapped. “Please,” he adds, making me turn my focus back to him.
Numerous thoughts and fears fly through my mind. Why? Why does he want to talk to me? What could he possibly want to talk about? I fight the urge to roll my eyes then—at myself. Uh, maybe about how you live in an abandoned apartment building? Just a guess.
I’m trapped. I can’t get past him. I have no way around this.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lost Sketchbook
Everything inside me is trembling. My nerves are buzzing with anticipation and agitation. I look him dead in the eyes, my heart thudding against my chest. Having no idea where this conversation could lead, I finally spit out the words: “What do you want?”
His hold on me loosens ever so slightly. “I just want to talk to you.”
I want to try to push him away again, but so far my attempts haven’t budged him. I need to find a way around him. I need to keep him talking until he lets his guard down. “Then spit it out.”
“Are you—are you living here? Alone?”
I want to say no, but it’s obvious that I am. What was the point in lying when he could see right through it? “Yes,” I answer, hesitantly.
“Why?”
Why? Because I can’t leave. Because I have nowhere else to go. This is my life now. “I just am,” I reply, defensively.
Curiosity pools in his eyes as his brows come together. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Someone’s catching on.” I shove him then, making him stumble back a few steps. I make my daring escape for the stairs. I don’t even make it to the fourth step before an arm wraps around my torso and jerks me back. I struggle against the boy, trying to pry his arm away as he drags me back up the stairs.
He sets me back on my feet once we’re back at the top, but keeps his arm tightly around me. “Why are you living here?”
“Because I am! Now, let me go!” I continue to try to wiggle out of his hold. He tightens his grip, keeping me just out of reach of the stairs.
“Only if you promise not to run again.”
“Considering that I don’t know you,” I say as I struggle, breathing hard between words, “I can’t promise that.”
“Calm down, if I wanted to do something to you, I would have already.”
“Is that supposed to be a comforting statement?” I feel him shrug behind me in response.
“Promise not to run?” he asks. I think for a moment, my eyes on the stairs. He won’t let me go unless I cooperate, and lying doesn’t work on him because he expects it.
“Fine,” I grumble. He removes his arm slowly, waiting to see if I’ll run. I debate, my eyes still on the stairs. Running would mean coming back; coming back would mean going through this with him again. If I handle this now, maybe I can get rid of him. “You said you wanted to talk. What do you want?”
“Why bother? Would you even answer any of my questions?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I turn to face him. “That would be a no.”
He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. “I’m not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I’m holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn’t much I can say. “This isn’t a hostage negotiation.”
He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. “I guess I should introduce myself.” He holds a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Nathan.”
I stare at his hand for a moment. “Taylor,” I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand.
He lets his hand fall back to his side. “At least I got you to say something non-hostile.”
“I haven’t been hostile,” I object.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, haven’t you?”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snap. “Leave and don’t come back.” I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can’t follow and annoy me if I lock the door.
“Where are you going?” he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn’t. Once inside, I slam the door behind me.
“That was totally not hostile!” he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.
Normally, I can spend hours locked away in my bedroom with a book, but not this time. I’ve been sitting for who knows how long. I can’t focus. I sit at my window with a book resting in my lap. I’ve tried reading the words on the page countless times, but each time I try, I get distracted.
I couldn’t read a sentence without having to reread it a few minutes later because thoughts like, “Is he still here?” and “Did he go home?” would float to the surface of my mind. I shook my head to banish the thoughts every time they resurface. Trying to focus back on my book, I tell myself that he probably left but that I didn’t care either way.
After a few hours of struggling with the distractions, I give up on the thought of reading. I set my book aside just as my stomach growls. I go over to my stack of books in the corner—by the rocking chair—to pick up my copy of Sense and Sensibility. I open it, flipping through the pages until I reach Chapter 19—where five-euro rests. I move the euro away, happy to see that I probably have enough to buy something to eat, and read my favorite quote that rests on the page behind it
: “Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.”
I jump up, setting the book on top of the pile before heading for the door. After yanking open the first door, I gain confidence to open the second, sure that the boy is long gone now. I just can’t stay inside any longer. My own thoughts will drive me insane!
As soon as I see what’s on the other side, I stop. The boy, Nathan, is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall and staring down at something in his lap. He looks up when I fling the door open. A bag that I hadn’t noticed before is slumped against his leg.
My eyes move to the thing resting in his lap. It’s flat, thin and white. Paper. But it isn’t blank. There is a design, vividly standing out against the bright white paper. It is unmistakably my sketchbook. However, I can’t tell what drawing he’s looking at. I’m immediately alarmed that he’s going through and looking at my sketches.
I move my attention back up to him. “What are you still doing here?” I demand, staring at him like a nasty bug that needs to be squashed.
He shrugs against the wall. “I don’t have to be home for a while and I have nothing else better to do.”
There’s a minute of silence. I’m too focused on the sketchbook in his lap to know if it’s an awkward minute. “Plus,” he adds, “I knew you’d come out eventually if I annoyed you enough.” I ignore him, yearning to snatch my notebook from his lap. I don’t like that he’s flipped through my sketches, especially since I showed them to very few people. “You’re really talented,” he tells me when he notices that I’m staring at my book, snapping me from my thoughts.
“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t go through my sketches.”
“I’ve already looked through the whole book. I’m just re-examining.”
“You—What?” I stammer, shocked and irritated. “You looked through the whole thing?”
“Yeah, and they’re really good!” I stare at him in disbelief. I’m not happy about him looking through the sketches, but I couldn’t fight the bit of pleasure that came with the positive comment. I try to push back the satisfaction by letting the irritation that came with this boy return.
“Living here has taken a toll on your social skills,” he points out.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”
He gets to his feet. “I said, your social skills have gotten poor. How long have you been cooped up here?”
I scowl, storming past him to head for the stairs, my mind returning to thoughts of food. I hear him give a small tsk. I whip around to scowl at him again before galloping down the stairs.
Each step groans in protest. The stairs behind me complain as well, warning me that he’s following me. I don’t look back when I reach the bottom of the stairs. I focus straight ahead as I head for the back door.
“Why are we going out this way?” he asks as I swing the door open.
I step out into the alleyway, glancing in both directions to see that it is clear of people. “Because I don’t want anyone to see me,” I answer as I clang down the iron steps. My shoes scuff when they hit the concrete.
I don’t have to check to see if he is behind me as I make my way down the alley. I know he’s there. Maybe I can ditch him on the streets. I touch my right front pocket to feel for the money, just to make sure that I hadn’t forgotten it.
When I reach the street, I bank left. The streets aren’t crowded; nonetheless, I keep next to the curb to avoid everyone that passes. When I come to another intersection, I make another left. He’s still behind me. The streets get narrower as I continue walking, and cream-colored buildings are on either side. The buildings seem to go on forever, and the slight way the buildings lean, make it look as though the street is tilted. Streets like these remind me of a maze.
Each eighteenth-century building has the same number of rectangular windows above small stores and cafés. People are seated outside the cafés at small tables that can barely fit three but are perfect for two. They are laughing, smiling, and enjoying their day out, whereas I am here, just as stuck and lost as always. The only thing different about today is that I have a strange boy at my heels—who is determined to stalk me.
I walk until I reach the end of the street, where I find myself in front of the same bakery I had just bought a croissant at a few days prior.
I slip inside, with Nathan right behind me, and hand over my euro for a French breakfast puff. I barely glance at him as I brush past him to exit the bakery. “You should go.”
The bells above the door chime as I leave. I unwrap the paper from my puff and eat half of it in one bite. The door shuts, and I’m relieved to be alone again as I start to make my way back to my apartment.
But then the door behind me opens again—the chimes above the door ringing.
The annoyance builds. This needs to stop. I don’t want him following me around like this. I want him to go away! He needs to stop following me around like some lost puppy!
I spin around to face him, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. “What do you want?”
He stops in his tracks, smirking. I stare back, weighing the possibilities of what he could say next. “You’re so moody. Are you PMS-ing?”
My jaw drops, my eyes big with my thoughts on throwing my French puff in his face. Rage quickly replaces my surprise. “I’m moody? I ought to—I ought to—” I groan harshly, stomping my foot in frustration for my loss of words. I turn away from him, quickly walking away as I grit my teeth. I need to think of better comebacks, or at least finish them!
“To get to know you!” he calls after me. Despite my rage, I pause. My hands ball into fists at my sides. My jaw is clenched, and despite the little voice in my head telling me not to, I turn. “What?”
“I want to get to know you,” he clarifies. I cross my arms over my chest, partly so that there’s a barrier between us, and partly because I feel uncomfortable. I stare at him, unsure of how to respond. Why? Why is he here, following me around? Why is he so…focused on me, but is a jerk when he opens his mouth?
When I finally muster up a response, it is one I do and do not expect, because I didn’t expect the courage that came with my sudden burst. “Well, I don’t want to get to know you. I don’t want you around. In fact, I don’t want to see you again. So just go!” I turn on my heels, speed walking all the way back to my apartment.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Difficult & the Snarky
Something crunches beside me. I open my eyes to find a paper bag sitting beside me. I sigh, stretching as I sit up in bed. I stare at the bag quizzically, wondering how it could’ve—
“Good morning!” I jump at the sound of the voice. I whirl around to see Nathan sitting in the rocking chair with an identical paper bag resting in his lap.
“What the—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Thought you could use some breakfast,” he says as he takes a big bite out of a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” I say sourly, ignoring what he said. Just because my stomach was grateful for the gesture, didn’t mean I was.
“I assumed that was just moody-you talking,” he tells me with a mouthful.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t.” I snatch up the bag, trying to look disapproving. The French puff I’d eaten last night hadn’t kept my hunger at bay for very long. Inside is a biscuit like his, and it looks just as unappetizing. However, I’m hungry and have no intention of leaving it in the bag.
I look over at him, but then my eyes shyly waver to the covers beneath me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s silence for a few long minutes as we eat our biscuits. “So, uh, how do you normally get food?”
“You’d be surprised how many tourists drop money,” I tell him as I take my last bite of biscuit.
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to pickpocket?”
I shake my head, surprised by his suggestion. Sure, I’ve thought about it. Pickpo
cketing would be easier than searching the streets for dropped change. But I can’t take the chance of getting caught. I’ve been so careful for so long; I didn’t want everything to come crashing down because of some loose change, or something of the like. “That’s not how I roll.”
A single brow shoots up. “‘Not how you roll’?”
I shrug, fighting a smile.
“No one says that. You gotta get back in the social circle.”
My head snaps up at that. Oh, I don’t think so. “What?”
“We need to fix your unsocial-ness,” he says, speaking slowly with a mouthful of food.
“What makes you think I need fixing?” I question bitterly.
“Well, for starters, you’ve been very rude to me”—I roll my eyes at this—“and you’re living alone, cooped up in an abandoned apartment complex without Internet, or a TV. How, exactly, have you survived this long?”
“And you’re too social. I told you to go away, and you keep showing up. Why do you even care? Just go away!”
“And you think the proper way to say ‘thank you’ for the breakfast I brought you is ‘get out.’”
I leap out of bed, glaring at him fiercely. “What is your problem?”
He leaps from the rocking chair, letting the paper bag fall to the floor. “What is my problem? You’re the one who keeps telling me to get lost!”
“What do you care? Why are you even here? What do you want?”
“I told you! I want to get to know you—”
“But why?” I press. “It doesn’t make any sense! You say you want to get to know me, but then you’re all snarky and rude.”
He takes a few steps toward me, towering over me by at least a foot. I keep my eyes on his face, fighting the urge to take a step back. “I want to know why you’re here, living alone in a dumpy apartment.”
I hesitate to come up with the vaguest answer possible, even though I suspect he’ll ask similar questions until he gets an answer that satisfies him—the full truth. “Because I have no choice.”
Alone in Paris: A Standalone Young Adult Romance Page 3