Alone in Paris: A Standalone Young Adult Romance

by Ashley Earley

  He sighs heavily, his eyes holding impatience and annoyance. He shifts his weight, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “C’mon. You have to tell me.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.” I want to shove passed him and leave, however, I keep my feet planted. My eyes drift to the door, but I keep my arms crossed firmly with my stubbornness bubbling at the surface.

  “Then you’re going to make it difficult for me to get to know you.” I ignore him. My mind reels as I try to think of a way to end this—to make him leave so I can have my space back. I want to be left alone.

  “Do you want to go on a walk?” he suddenly asks, breaking the momentary silence.

  I focus back on him, tearing my eyes away from my escape. “What?”

  “Do you want to go for a walk? You know, get some fresh air, look at trees, avoid running into lost tourists that aren’t paying attention as they gawk at their maps?”

  At first, I thought he was joking about the walk because it was just so random and bizarre, but I could tell that he was one-hundred-percent serious, and I wasn’t sure how I feel about that. I don’t know him. For all I know, he might be trying to kidnap me. There could be a sketchy white van waiting for me right outside the alley. “That doesn’t sound appealing to me.”

  “That’s because you’re unsocial.” He grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the door. I jump at the sudden contact and try to wiggle my hand free. However, his grip only tightens. He glances over his shoulder at me and gives an annoyed eye roll. “C’mon. You’ve been cooped up in here for too long.”

  I don’t want to go anywhere with him. I want to stay here while he goes on a walk, a long one. One he never returns from. I want him gone. He lets his guard down and loosens his grip a little, just enough to give me the advantage to yank my hand out of his. “I’m not going.”

  “Oh, quit being a stick in the mud—”

  “If you want to go, then go,” I interrupt. “But I’m staying here.” I turn away from him, going to my window seat, where I perch myself in a stubborn, crossed-arm position. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, but I don’t turn around. My eyes lock on one of my sketchbooks on the seat. I want to pick it up to skim through its contents. But I don’t move. I stay frozen until I hear his footsteps grow faint as he walks away before there is silence altogether.

  The silence is deafening. With nothing to do, I’m left to my thoughts. Images flash in and out of my mind like home movies behind my closed eyelids. My thoughts seem too loud for the room—overbearing, echoing, screeching, and painful. I try to push it all back to feel some relief. My breaths feel weighed—heavy. It feels like something is on top of me, crushing my lungs.

  I can’t stop my thoughts. I can’t just cut them off. I want them to stop. I want to stop thinking. I don’t want to see painful, once-happy images—memories. I want it all to go away.

  I want my lungs to give up and collapse so I can have peace.

  I turn over, restlessly, closing my eyes tightly against the light that’s still pouring into my room. It’s not exactly what I want, but my thoughts do calm down once I slip into unconsciousness. It’s the dreams that make my sleep unsettling. Images of a once happy me as I interact with my parents and dog, Jazzy.

  Jazzy gallops around the kitchen, yipping as her tiny legs skid across the floor. Mom is at the stove with her light brown hair pulled back into a messy bun. A spoon is in her hand as she stirs whatever’s in the pot in front of her. Jazzy pauses beside my mother before continuously bouncing beside her like a jumping bean. Her ears flop up and down with every jump.

  Mom laughs, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Jazzy, you know you can’t eat chili.” The terrier ignores her, continuing to beg and bounce.

  I watch all this from the kitchen table, where I sit with my homework scattered around the wood surface.

  It all feels so real. It’s so vivid. Though it is a memory, I feel like it’s happening right now. I feel like I can just reach out and touch my mother’s shoulder, and she’d turn to face me with a pleasant smile.

  Then the front door opens and slams shut. Jazzy immediately stops jumping and turns away from the stove, coming to sit at my feet. Mom looks up, halting her stirring and wiping her hands on a towel just as my father walks in.

  No one says anything as he walks in and starts a pot of coffee. His tie is loose, his shirt is unbuttoned, his eyes are bloodshot with dark circles under them.

  “How was work, honey?” my mother asks, her voice almost coming out in song. Dad grumbles in response. “Why don’t you go relax? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”

  We watch as he pours his cup of coffee—black—before shuffling out of the room. Mom sighs, turning back to her pot of chili. “He’s started drinking again.”

  It was obvious that I wasn’t supposed to hear that, so I bite back my reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vivid Nightmares

  I wake up with wet cheeks. The dream—or memory—is still so vivid in my hazy mind. I unclench the sheets, letting out a slow breath to calm the nerves that are buzzing through my body. I allow my eyes to close, taking in steady breaths.

  I can still smell the chili; hear Jazzy’s little yips. My heart clenches when I wonder what happened to her—when I think about where she could be now. I try to push the memories to the back of my mind. But I can’t seem to make them stay buried in the deepest part of my brain.

  Unable to handle the thoughts anymore, I climb out of bed. I can’t make my mind turn off. I want the images and the thoughts gone. I want to stop thinking altogether.

  I snatch one of my sketchpads off the window seat and grab my messenger bag before heading out the door. Instead of letting haunting thoughts resurface, I try to think of a place where I can plant myself for a few hours. Sketching should consume my concentration for a little while, maybe.

  I pause before I make it out to the street. People are moving every which way, barely paying attention to where they’re going. I jump out onto the sidewalk, cringing when a man almost knocks into me when he passes. He never looks up from his phone. I move to the very edge of the sidewalk.

  I walk along the curb, feeling like a tightrope walker with each step. My beat up Converse scrape against the edge. Watching my feet, I don’t look up until I realize that I haven’t been paying attention to where I’m going. Looking up, I can see the top half of the Eiffel Tower. I wasn’t even a block away. My feet always seem to bring me here.

  I’ve sketched the tower more than a hundred times. I could probably sketch it perfectly without looking at it. Having nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I sit on the far side of the park, close to the iron gate that is half-hidden behind the hedges. I wonder if anyone in this park knows that it’s here. My guess is: probably not. I pull my sketchpad and pencils from my bag to get to work. Though, instead of drawing the Eiffel Tower, I sit with my back to it and draw the line of buildings across the street.

  The trees, the buildings, the busy cars, and people; I capture it all down on a blank sheet of paper. I line it all out before making the street come to life on the page.

  When my pencil finally stops moving, I’m nearly done. My hand is cramped and sore. I clench my hand, flex it, and wiggle my fingers for relief before throwing my stuff back in my bag. I get to my feet to leave.

  Then freeze when I spot a familiar figure strolling my way.

  I quickly spin around to face the other direction.

  Is he looking for me, or is he just out on a walk? Did he see me?

  I glance over my shoulder, but he’s no longer where he was a moment ago. I glance over my other shoulder to find that he’d walked right by me.

  He didn’t see me. I think about that for a moment as I watch him walk away. If he hadn’t seen me… If he can just show up whenever he wants and watch me, I don’t see why I can’t do the same. He had shown up yesterday while I had been sleeping for Pete’s sake!

  I hung back for another moment, weighing
my options. I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want to talk to him, at all. Funny how I don’t want him around yet I’m planning to follow him to see where he goes.

  I discard every reason not to follow him and rush to catch up before I lose sight of him. He walks with his hands in his pockets, but he is moving with a quickness as he walks under the Eiffel Tower. I use the people around me to stay out of sight as I follow him to the other side of the tower before crossing the street. I’m careful not to touch any of the people I use for cover.

  Once Nathan makes it across the street, I watch him from the crosswalk as he slips into a restaurant. When I make it to the entrance, I hesitate. I can’t go in since I am flat broke. I also can’t go in because Nathan will catch me spying on him.

  I back away from the door when it suddenly opens, my heart jolting forward in my chest like a cartoon. It isn’t Nathan who walks out, though; it is an older man. He walks passed me without so much as a glance in my direction. Am I that invisible?

  The door opens again, and I quickly move behind the large restaurant sign that is off to the side of the entrance when Nathan walks out. I peek out from behind the sign in time to watch him go around the other side of the building.

  When I can’t see him anymore, I walk out from behind the sign to follow him. On the other side of the building, there’s an outside dining area. Almost every restaurant and café around here has outside dining that looks much too perfect. White tablecloths with sparkling silverware and tiny vases of flowers. Nathan is sitting at one of those tables, across from the man that hadn’t spared me a glance when he nearly bumped into me. And the man is wearing khakis.

  He’s the man that wants to demolish my home.

  My lips come together in a deep frown. How can I get close enough to hear what they’re saying? I look around. The dining area is enclosed with an iron fence as well as giant flowerpots. A few feet away—beside some trees at the edge of the curb—is a bench. It isn’t much cover, but it will have to do. His back will be facing me if I sit there, at least.

  I wait out of sight until someone walks by. I follow closely behind them, hoping to be overlooked. If he looked up as I walked by, he did not notice that it was me. I make it to the bench thanks to my knack for being invisible.

  I try to look natural, relaxed, as I try to eavesdrop on their conversation. Nathan and his dad are sitting away from the other tables that are full. I struggle to listen in on their conversation, but they only say a few terse words to each other as they settle into their table. A waiter comes by with their menus. I hear them mutter a few words before the waiter wonders off.

  They’re quiet for a few very long minutes until Nathan’s dad abruptly sets his menu off to the side. Nathan tries to avoid his father’s stare. However, he can’t give him the cold shoulder forever, so he sets his menu aside too once the staring became too much. “What?”

  Nathan’s dad leans forward and rests his arms on the table, lacing his fingers together as he prepares for the conversation. “We need to talk about what you’re going to do next year.”

  “I don’t want to go to college.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad because you’re going. College is important in our family, and you have to have a degree to get a good job.”

  “I don’t want to have a job like yours.”

  “It has to be something reasonable that you’ll make good money doing, so you’re forbidden to study art or anything like it.”

  And just what is wrong with art?

  “Is everything off limits except business and real estate?”

  “You need a good job, Nathan. I won’t let you study something that won’t get you anywhere. You need a real job, and you need to focus on your grades this next school year.” His voice gets rougher the more he speaks.

  “If I have to go to college, don’t you think I should be allowed to study what I want? You’re already deciding that I’m going and where I’m going.”

  “I’m making sure you don’t make a mistake by majoring in something stupid. You don’t need a pointless job. You already do pointless things like play video games. I haven’t seen you do one productive thing since you’ve been on break.”

  “I’m on break! I don’t want to do anything productive because I work my ass off during the school year.”

  His father’s tone is hard and stern when he speaks next. “You need to get your act together. Soon enough, you won’t get a break. You’ll be working hard to kick start your life.”

  “No, Dad, you’re wrong. I’ll be working hard to kick start the life you’ve laid out for me.”

  “Can we not do this?” His father’s jaw clenches and remains tight as he speaks again. I wish I could see Nathan’s expression. “There are people that don’t have the same chances and opportunities as you do. You need to take advantage of that.”

  “You’re the one that wanted to have lunch to talk about this stuff. You’re just pissed that I’m not agreeing with what you want me to do.”

  Not wanting to hear anymore, I jump to my feet. Why is his father so cold and set and unwilling to hear what his son has to say? Nathan wants something else, and maybe he isn’t sure what that is yet, but he’s sure that it isn’t what his dad wants him to do.

  I know I should leave, but when I look at his dad, his expression makes me pause. The look he has on his face is a combination of irritation and dismay.

  “Don’t you dare disrespect—” His words are cut short when the waiter comes back to take their order. Nathan’s expression doesn’t change, whereas his father’s expression completely changes from irritated to cheerful. Nathan remains silent as his father orders. When the waiter turns to Nathan, he waves him off. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  His father shoots a glare in his direction, but Nathan gets to his feet, keeping his eyes locked on his dad as he goes to leave. I continue to watch as he scowls and mouths his son’s name in warning. Nathan ignores him, though.

  I take a step back just when he walks out of the enclosed area a few yards in front of me, the back of my legs bumping into the bench behind me. I wonder where he’s going now, but hesitate to follow him. I look between him and his father—who is fuming alone at the table. They both are furious. If Nathan caught me following him, I didn’t want to be the target of that anger.

  I decide to walk back to my apartment instead of following him. I don’t want to risk being spotted. I watch Nathan walk away until he’s only a figure in the distance before I start the walk back.

  I don’t see Nathan again until I’m back at the Eiffel Tower. I’m not following him, I remind myself when I spot him again. I’m just going in the same direction. I’m just going back to my small park. My heart fell. What if we are going in the exact same direction? What if he is going to my apartment? I brush off the thought before my anxiety can build. He could be going anywhere.

  I try to stay as far back from him as I can.

  The amount of people around has thinned so I can’t use the crowd to hide. I veer left once we are on the other side of the tower. I almost make it to the hedges that hide the iron-gate when I see Nathan suddenly whirl around. He’s up at the street, yards away, yet his eyes lock with mine. I go stiff, drawing my hand back from the overgrown bushes when my heart slams against my chest.

  One of his eyebrows raise, and he begins to make his way over to me. Oh my God. How long has he known that I’ve been behind him?

  He answers my unspoken question when I’m close enough to hear him. “I saw you walking behind me a few minutes ago. Why are you following me when you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “I—I wasn’t following you,” I object lamely, wondering how he managed to spot me when I never saw him turn around. I had been careful, and I wasn’t following him. At least, I wasn’t anymore. I was going to the hidden park. My answer had still come out sounding feeble. I offer a more believable answer, “I wasn’t in the mood to talk.”

  I watch the way he moves as he steps closer to me. He d
idn’t look angry or freaked out. I hadn’t been following him…on the way back anyway, but he didn’t know that. He probably thinks of me as a stalker now.

  He’s standing right in front of me now, a mocking look in his eyes. “Are you in the mood now?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he waits for my answer. I’m hesitant, but I don’t want the silence between us to grow.

  Also—for reasons beyond my comprehension—I don’t want him to leave. “What do you want to talk about?”

  He thinks for a long, agonizing minute. His silence makes me worry about what he’ll say. “About something that doesn’t make you run.” His tone is teasing, but I know that there is some seriousness behind his words. It’ll be okay, though, because this time, I don’t want him to leave. I know something about him now. It was small, but I feel like we’re more even on the scale now because of it.

  “Then let’s not get too personal,” I suggest.

  He doesn’t respond for a long moment, but eventually nods in agreement. “It’s hot out. Why don’t we head to your apartment?”

  “Is that where you were headed?”

  He hesitates before offering a quiet, “Yes.” He turns on his heel then to head in the direction of my apartment. I don’t say anything as I follow him across the street. He doesn’t make an effort to fill the silence either. I can’t tell if the walk is awkward. I look at everything else around except him. I feel him look back at me a few times, but I take an interest in the brick walls of the alley instead of meeting his eyes. I want to ask him about his dad, but I wasn’t sure if he knew I’d been watching.

  The silence is still there when we’re in my room back at my apartment. I go to sit on the edge of my bed while he goes over to the rocking chair. His eyes drop to the pile of books that are beside the chair. He leans forward and picks at the stack, examining each book with curious eyes. I watch him, uneasy about letting him handle my precious books.

  “Who is your favorite book character?” he questions when he looks up.