Chapter 7
7
FOSTER
Before…
The tip of my pen taps on the paper, leaving little dots and lines. Evidence I’m trying and failing to perfect these lyrics. The ones I’ve been working on the entire trip.
An entire month of scribbling shit words only to cross them out. The last few pages of my notebook have seen more ink than a tattoo artist.
Flinging the pen to the floor, I fall backward on the pillow. I’m prepared to stare at the ceiling for a while. Truly brood over my failed artistic endeavors.
I only get a few minutes, though, before my phone buzzes. I swipe it off the mattress and crack a smile.
SaintR has signed in.
I roll out of bed and grab my jacket off the floor. Pocketing my phone, I snag the black-rimmed glasses off the desk on my way out.
The room’s technically an office with a mattress tucked in. Not that I’ll complain. The fact we have a place to sleep that’s not a park bench is more than enough for me while on this insane trip.
Reaching the kitchen, I’m unsurprised to see it’s standing room only. People are piled on chairs around the table with extra stools and boxes dragged around for more seating. The group all has a glass in hand, drinking their way to drunk while playing poker.
I get a few raised glasses when I enter, a shouted “Foster,” and a head turn. I nod in greeting, but it’s the dude in the Cowboys jersey with a chick planted on his lap I slap on the shoulder.
Chase looks back with a buzzed gleam in his eyes and the girl’s fingers in his dark hair. He gives me a cool once-over, noticing the jacket.
“Where are you going?” he drawls, hitting the Texan accent heavy.
“Where do you think?”
“Dude,” he says.
“Dude.”
“Brother,” he tries.
“Brother.” I give him a tight-lipped smile as I back away. “Someone has to pay for your ass to gallivant.”
He glares at me as I reach the flat’s door. Then my best friend dismisses me with a wave of his hand before using the same hand to grip the chick’s ass, making her squeal.
The jackass makes a kissy face at me over her head while she slaps at him, and I wink back. A chorus of my name and byes follows me out, all cutting off when I shut the door behind me.
I shake my head on my way down the hall.
The last thing I expected when we ended up in Paris two weeks ago was crashing with a bunch of American college students. We ran into them the first day, and Chase latched onto the familiar.
In hindsight, his half-assed plan to take off first semester this year and randomly traipse around Europe was just as terrible as it sounded when he first came up with it. But once Chase gets an idea in his head, you either run away or hold the fuck on tight for the ride.
Plus, it pissed off the old man to hear the tuition he paid was nonrefundable.
Oops.
I grab a taxi and take it to one of my favorite places in the city. Small shops and galleries, a museum, and a park all within a few blocks of each other.
As I climb out of the car, I open the app and mark myself as available for a tour.
By the time I wound up in Paris, Wanderer already had permission to stream the exhibits in quite a few museums and galleries. They really know their shit and made sure to not only include the major tourist attractions but also more intimate places for tours. The quiet ones, where it feels like just you and the art.
Those are the places I take Remi.
I’m sliding on the glasses when the request comes through.
SaintR wants to wander!
She picked the little art gallery across the street, and I smirk. She always chooses something nearby as if she’s afraid to be a bother. Which is why I waited to sign in until I got here.
Her profile might not give much away, but I have Remi Saint pegged as a college student in the Midwest. She’s bored and looking for a little adventure she can’t have. Adventure I can provide, thanks to the cash Wanderer pays per tour in their beta program.
The fall breeze kicks up around me. I breathe it in while crossing the street. It only takes until I walk through the door to the gallery for Wanderer to transfer funds onto my pay card, and I hand it to the guy behind the counter to swipe.
I lean on the counter and scan the large, open space. Empty. Perfect.
“Merci,” he says, and I throw him a smile.
Then I press the button, flush against the frame of the glasses, and they connect to my phone seamlessly. The video pops up before dropping to just the corner of the screen, letting me see if chat lights up. Not that it does with her.
Not often anyway. I’ll admit, though, I wasn’t being very subtle about the brunette last week. Some art just deserves more screen time.
Since that day, we’ve been back to the silent tours we both seem to prefer. It’s the main reason I catch as many with her as I can. She isn’t constantly messaging, demanding to see something she saw on the website or complaining if I spend too much time on one piece.
It takes a few paintings before I pause, drawn in by the artwork. This one’s different from the previous artists’ works, something more delicate and thoughtful behind the strokes of the ballerina in front of me. She has her arms over her head, toe shoes pointed perfectly. But it’s so much more.
It’s the details that make the piece mark a small bit of the soul. The worn spot on the left shoe, her tights threadbare at the knee.
“She’s crying,” I say out loud, not even thinking.
I have no idea if the chick on the other end even has her sound on, but it needs to be said because I’m unsure if the well of tears in the girl’s eyes will come across on the screen. And it’s the most mesmerizing part, the slight uptilt of her mouth and the tears in her eyes. The rest of her life might be shit, but she’s doing the one thing that makes her feel alive.
My phone buzzes. The chat bubble lights up, and I tap the screen.
SaintR: It’s perfect.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “She is.”
A few minutes later, I’m circling a water feature set off to the side. Broken pieces of metal curved and shaped to have the water running from one piece to the next.
My phone goes off again, the chat icon with a red dot.
SaintR: I can’t see anything. The video is black.
I take off the glasses, knowing I charged them last night, and turn them around, shoving my face at the camera like that will somehow fix the problem.
“See me?” I ask.
SaintR: Nothing.
I shut them off and hang them off the front of my shirt before switching to my phone camera. The box in the corner shows the framed portrait the camera’s pointed at.
“Better?” I ask.
SaintR: I’m still not seeing anything.
“Shit.”
SaintR: I can hear you just fine though.
“Good to know.” I drag a hand through my hair and glance around, not even through the first room of the gallery. Such a waste.
The bubbles pop up to indicate she’s typing.
SaintR: They’ve been having trouble with video cutting out lately. I’ll report it.
SaintR: Thanks anyway.
“Wait.” The word is out before I even think it through. “I’m already here and paid. Give me your number, and we’ll finish the tour.”
There’s nothing for a while.
“Seriously. The exhibit in the next room is closing today. It would be a pity to miss it.”
SaintR: You want me to give my number to a stranger in another country?
I walk over to a bench and drop down on it, stretching out my legs and leaning back against the wall behind me. “A stranger who had to pass a background check for this job. Plus, if you think I could find you with just a name and phone number, you’re giving me far too much credit.”
She types then stops, and I can’t help but push a little.
“Come on, live a little. If it makes you feel better, I have no interest in anything but the cash and the art. Strictly business on my end.”
SaintR: Just art?
“Just art,” I agree. “You won’t even see my face.”
Another pause, then typing.
A number comes through.
I slip in my earbuds before I video chat her. Being a man of my word, I keep my phone down, and when she answers, I flip the camera around so the fountain shows. I break into a smile, seeing her camera pointed to a white ceiling.
“Beautiful view,” I say.
The bubbles pop up on the chat, and I chuckle, not opening it when the dot appears.
“Nah, baby. Use your words.”
A soft sigh comes over the line, and then, “Baby, huh? So much for strictly business.”
Her voice is quiet and raspy, like she’s keeping it between the two of us. I lower mine even though no one else is around me in the empty room.
“Maybe I’m a liar,” I tell her.
She lets out a huff. “This was such a bad idea.”
I get to my feet and move back to the fountain. “Right. Let’s start over.”
She’s quiet on the other end. So quiet I almost fall into the silence before I hear her breathe again.
“Hey, Remi,” I say, my lips turned up even though she can’t see me.
A few more seconds pass. “Hey, Foster.”
I smile the rest of the way.