Alone in Paris: A Standalone Young Adult Romance

by Ashley Earley

  “Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre,” is my answer.

  He nods, setting the books aside carefully. “I read that. Why Mr. Rochester?”

  “We have a lot in common.” He looks at me quizzically, so I continue. “He’s alone, living in a great big mansion all by himself.”

  “Ah, but he wasn’t alone. He had the staff, and Bertha, and Ms. Fairfax.”

  I purse my lips. “True, but he was lonely, and feeling alone is the same as being alone. Besides, his wife was crazy, so I don’t think she counted as a companion.”

  He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His expression is serious but careful. He’s worried I’ll run but is determined to say whatever it is that’s on his mind. “Are you lonely?”

  My eyes move to the window beside him. I can’t look him in the eyes as I think about my answer. How did we go from him spotting me walking behind him to this? This is the last thing I want to talk about.

  I am. I am so lonely here. I have no one to talk to—no one to keep my life exciting. My life is dull. I’m lonely. This is the first time I’m even admitting it—thinking about it.

  I fight back the tears that threaten to spill over. I blink, not allowing a single drop to escape my eyes.

  I sit there quietly, avoiding his eyes. Yet, at the same time, I want to meet his cautious eyes. I ignore the urge and stare—unseeingly—out the window, refusing to answer. I decide to ask a personal question of my own. If he is going to ask personal questions, then I could too. “Do you get along with your parents?”

  He sighs. “You’d been following me longer than I thought. You saw—You heard all that?”

  If I thought that I couldn’t meet his eyes before; it was practically impossible now. “Yes. Some of it, at least. I heard you arguing.” I feel like I should apologize, but he’s followed me and invaded my privacy a lot, so I don’t.

  Nathan sighs again. “I get along with my mom, but my dad and I fight half the time.” He pauses and I open my mouth to ask why he fights with his dad, but he does on. “Nothing is ever good enough for him. Everything always has to be perfect. I swear he might disown me if I don’t go to college.”

  “No. No, dads are cruel, but not that cruel.”

  Both of us are silent for a heartbeat too long. We always seem to have conversations that lead to silence. If I didn’t like to hear his voice, maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much.

  Nathan changes the subject, relieving both of us from the dark road that our conversation was about to go down. “What do you do around here, you know, for fun?”

  I shrug, still aimlessly staring out the window. “I don’t know…I read, I sketch, go on walks.” My answer comes out sounding like a question.

  After he doesn’t respond for a few moments, I look up at him. His left brow twitches up before quickly returning to place. “So, not much.”

  I shake my head, turning my eyes down to my hands. “No. It’s really boring around here.”

  He grins, it seems a little forced, though. “I wouldn’t think that living in an abandoned building would be very exciting.”

  I’m suddenly hit with a variety of emotions. His words slam into me like a truck. My heart jumps a little with the thought, and the air is knocked out of me. I can suddenly hear screaming, car horns, more screaming (possibly my own), and the sound of a stream.

  I wince as more images begin to rise from the back of my mind: a car coming straight toward me; me falling straight down into water so smooth it reminds me of glass, right before I crash into it, shattering it to ripples; waking up panting and crying in the bed I sit on now, and the horrifying image of water rising around me, trapping me.

  Breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Air.

  I can’t breathe! my mind panics, just before I feel hands on either side of my face. I can hear someone saying my name. I blink, rising above the images—rising above the water before it can suffocate me; waking up before I hit the smooth water—to look up into a pair of gray-blue eyes.

  I blink again, realizing that the eyes aren’t a part of my horrifying recollections. The gray-blue eyes are staring at me intently with deep concern. Then, I can feel the full weight of the hands that are on either side of my face—feel the warmth and the contained strength of them as they hold my head in place.

  “Taylor,” the voice says my name again. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Breathe dammit!” I take in a breath as commanded, beginning to rise from the shock and sorrow of the images. The look in his eyes hardens as I come back to the present. “Are you okay? What was that?”

  I shake my head, wanting to dismiss the whole thing. I’m fine. I’m okay. I can breathe. Everything is fine. “I’m fine. It was nothing.” I push his hands away and slide off the bed.

  “That wasn’t nothing,” he objects. He obviously wasn’t going to just let this go, regardless of how much I want him to. I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk?” I suggest as I head for the door. He grabs my arm before I can leave the room. I whip around to face him, keeping my expression blank.

  “What was that, Taylor?” He pauses, staring me dead in the eyes. “Don’t shut me out.”

  “I don’t know you, why would I tell you anything?”

  “Because,”—his eyes don’t waver from mine, not even for a second as he says this with the utmost confidence and assurance—“you can trust me.”

  “Trust has to be earned. I don’t give it away easily.”

  His mouth presses into a thin line. I can see the wheels in his head working to come up with a comeback. But, as far as I’m concerned, his time is up. I pull away from him, trying for the door again.

  He yanks me back. I tense with surprise as I look back at him. He lets go just as quickly as he’d grabbed me, clearly surprised by his own forceful action. “Stop running away from me. You say I have to earn your trust, but you’re not giving me the chance.”

  “Why should I?” I see no reason to. I don’t need anyone—I don’t need him. Getting to know him won’t benefit me.

  “Because I can help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I snap. When he reaches for my arm, his action is slower this time, more hesitant and not as forceful. He pulls me closer to him, forcing me to look into his eyes.

  “Let’s make a deal. You don’t lie to me; I don’t lie to you. That way we both can begin to trust each other.” I stare up at him, expecting something snarky to follow, maybe even for him to chuckle to indicate that he isn’t serious, but he just stares down at me, waiting for my reply.

  “Fine,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek as my mind tells me that I’ll regret this later. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Twenty Questions

  “Come on,” he says, letting his hand fall from my arm. He heads for the door without another word. I stand frozen for a moment, wondering what I’m about to get myself into. Maybe agreeing to this was a bad idea. I might have just made a deal with the devil. I sigh heavily, before jogging to catch up with him. I match his pace as he practically sprints down the stairs. “Where are we going, and what’s your rush?”

  “To get something to eat. I’m famished!”

  I don’t object. However, I do roll my eyes at his word of choice. I follow him in silence as he makes a left out of the alley and strolls down the street. He doesn’t say anything either until we reach a coffee shop when he asks me what I want. I quickly reply, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  He stares at me with hard disbelief. “You have to be hungry.”

  I shrug. “I don’t have any money.” When he opens his mouth, I’m quick to add, “And I don’t want you to pay for me.”

  He stares down at me for a moment before dismissing the whole thing. “Why don’t you grab us a seat?” he suggests.

  I head for the back of the shop, away from the people. The shop is small, making me slightly claustrophobic. The line isn’t long, and there aren’t but a few peop
le taking a seat after receiving their drinks. Most of them leave with to-go cups.

  After the woman behind the counter hands Nathan his order—with an enthusiastic smile—he makes his way back to me. He sets a cup of coffee down on the table, along with a paper bag, before handing me the other small paper bag. “It’s a cookie,” he informs me as he takes the seat opposite of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, surprised. I’d told him not to get me anything, yet he’d gone ahead and bought me a cookie. I peek inside to find a chocolate chip cookie as big as my hand. My stomach rumbles as I reach inside, trying not to look as excited as I am.

  “So,” I say after taking a bite, “um, do you have an ulterior motive for bringing me here?”

  He takes a long gulp of his coffee before setting it back down on the table. He wraps both hands around the mug, looking down at the wood table. “Actually, I do. I thought this would be a good place to play twenty questions.”

  What have I gotten myself into? “Twenty questions?”

  “It’s a game where—”

  “I know how to play,” I jump in. “I just didn’t expect you to say that. Can we have a few off-limit questions?”

  He hesitates, making me tense with anticipation. I’m not going to let up about this. Telling him everything is out of the question. We can play all the games he wants, but we’d play my way. He eventually nods. “I have a feeling I know what subjects are off the table.”

  “Good. Then proceed,” I tell him as I take another bite of my cookie. It’s loaded with huge chocolate chips, allowing me to get a chunk of chocolatey goodness with every bite.

  “You’re letting me go first?” he asks with a brow raised in exaggerated surprise. I roll my eyes and tell him that it had been his idea in the first place and to ask a question already. “Let’s start simple. Favorite color?”

  “Violet.”

  He grimaces at that as if my answer is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “Wouldn’t it be less complicated just to say ‘purple’?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not complicated. It’s a shade of purple. It’s different than just plain old purple.”

  He shrugs with an, “If you say so,” before I ask him the same question.

  “Green,” is his answer.

  “What shade of green?”

  “Green,” he answers simply as if there is no other answer. He rests his elbows on the table, leaning in a little closer. I sit straight with my back stiff against the booth. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. You?”

  He grins. “Seventeen and a half. Favorite movie?”

  I haven’t watched a movie in a long time, but I could remember that my opinion changed a lot. I almost answered this question differently every time I was asked. I finally just tell him it varies and ask him to answer the same question. I feel kind of guilty for not coming up with my own questions, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “The Avengers,” he answers. I stare at him blankly, having no idea what that is. He stares back at me, expecting me to understand. But I don’t. I haven’t seen it—haven’t heard of it. It must be a newer movie. “You haven’t seen it?” I shake my head, causing his mouth to open slightly before I can ask him if I should. Regardless of the fact that I can’t afford to, I suddenly want to watch it. “You have to watch it! It’s my favorite!”

  I laugh. “I think we’ve established that.”

  He takes a few gulps of his coffee, taking his time as he thinks of his next question. He sets the mug back down, his eyes landing on my cookie. For a moment, I wonder if he wants a piece, and I’m about to offer him half when he asks, “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Spaghetti. Any Italian food really.”

  He chuckles. “Yet you’re in France.” I shrug with a small smile. “Since you seem to be letting me answer my own questions, my favorite food is pizza.”

  “I could’ve guessed that one. There isn’t a guy in existence who without answer ‘pizza.’”

  He smiles, leaning closer. I continue to sit stiffly in my seat, not daring to move an inch closer to him. I don’t know why, but he’s causing my stomach to flutter with nervousness. I can’t make the butterflies go away. Yet, the butterflies don’t distract me for a second as he talks. I hear every word. “Why don’t you try asking me a question this time?”

  I fight a smile. “Isn’t that a question?”

  He smirks. “Clever. At least you came up with your own this time.”

  “Does it count?”

  “No. Will you stop asking questions and ask me a question?”

  He has no idea how long I can keep this up. “Will you stop?”

  A wide, amused grin spreads across his face, and he shakes his head lightly. “Come on, seriously now.”

  “Okay, um…favorite song?” I try.

  “Hells Bells by AC/DC.”

  I nod in approval.

  “What’s your full name?” My posture stiffens even more. He grins again, pleased that he’s caught me with an uncomfortable question. “You have to answer.”

  He hadn’t asked anything off-limits. I just feel uncomfortable answering. I sigh heavily. “Taylor Catherin Clay. What about you?”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a ‘Catherin.’” I wouldn’t either. “My full name is Nathan Simon Parker.”

  My heart drops to the floor, nearly stopping altogether. My whole body has gone cold. Icicles run in my veins. I can’t move; can’t speak. I’m completely frozen in shock as the name Parker continuously echoes in my mind. Images flash as the memories take hold and play out in my mind like some sick movie. When my lungs finally can’t take it anymore, I suck in a sharp breath.

  “What is it?” Nathan asks, leaning closer. I bite the inside of my cheek, tense about how close he is now. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  I barely shake my head, but he catches the movement. “What is it?” he asks again, his voice coming out barely above a whisper.

  Can I speak? My jaw is set against the pain. I can hear the screams from that day. I can feel a scream trying to claw its way up my throat. I nearly gasp when I manage to get the words out. “My—my dad’s name was Parker.”

  Realization crosses his face before contorting into understanding. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s no big deal.” I have to lie through my teeth.

  Silence swells between us like a thick fog. Two excruciating minutes pass before he breaks it. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I try to shrug it off with, “There’s really nothing to say. Let’s just change the subject.”

  “Okay,” he says, unsure. He stares at me for a few moments longer, and the tension between us shatters when his gaze breaks. “Do you have any nicknames?”

  I shake my head no, pleased by the fact. Nicknames annoy me. Why would anyone want to be called Princess, or Sweetheart, or have their name shortened to something “cute”?

  “No nicknames?” he exclaims with surprise. “You have to have a nickname! Let’s see…Taylor…Taylor...”

  “I don’t need, nor want a nickname,” I tell him in panic. “Really, no.”

  His eyebrow cocks. “Are you sure, Tay-Tay?”

  I cringe, speaking through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare.”

  He chuckles with an amused/devious glint in his eyes. “Oh, I dare. What are you going to do about it, Tays?”

  I glare at him. “Cut it out. I mean it.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes,” I say strongly. “Let’s get back to playing the game.” I open my mouth to ask a question, but he jumps in before I can.

  “Did you play any sports or instruments before…?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. All I can do is draw.”

  “All you can do? Your drawings are amazing! Where did you learn to draw like that?”

  “No, no, no. It’s my turn to ask a question.” I pause, waiting to see if he’ll object. He doesn’t. “What do you like to do for fun?”

  He purs
es his lips, taking his sweet time as he thinks over his answer. He goes so far as to take a long sip of coffee. “I like to skateboard and play video games.”

  “Typical teenage boy.”

  “Typical? How dare you call me typical.”

  I can’t help it; his over dramatic, teasingly outraged tone makes me crack a smile. “Isn’t that what you are, though? What guy doesn’t like to play video games, or skateboard, or eat pizza? Those are typical guy things.”

  “I suppose I am typical compared to you.”

  “Compared to me?”

  His eyebrow cocks yet again. So far, he has raised his eyebrows four times since we’ve been sitting here. “You’re not exactly a normal seventeen-year-old girl, considering that you live alone in an abandoned apartment building. So, yeah, in comparison to you, I’m typical.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, worried that he’ll ask why I’m living there alone again. I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to go into the long explanation of why. I don’t want to tell him. “What about you? Do you have any nicknames?”

  He chuckles. “Getting original, are we?”

  “Gotta keep you on your toes,” I say as I take another chunk out of my cookie. He hesitates, and I know the answer he has is a good one. “Well?”

  “…Natty.”

  I fight a smile. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” I lean in closer for show, having heard him perfectly.

  “Nothing. I don’t have any nicknames.”

  “Whatever you say, Natty.”

  He frowns. “All right. Let’s get back to my question. How did you learn to draw so well?”

  “I used to take art classes after school, and I loved it so much I would sketch whenever I had time.”

  “What would you sketch?”

  “Everything.” I pause, thinking of the place I used to visit the most. “I used to go down to this creek that was by my house all the time. I’d draw the trees, the ripples in the creek, the birds that would perch on the branches and watch me…” My voice trails off in a daze. Right now, I’m there. I’m at the creek, sitting just out of reach of the water. I’m alone in this memory—just like I am now. My sketchpad is resting in my lap. I have a perfectly sharpened pencil in my hand, which is moving across the page with a coordinated quickness.