55. Colton
fifty-five
Colton
T he Uber driver risks both of our lives, but I keep telling myself it’s worth it, even if it’s unnecessary. The drive from the airport is marred with traffic jams, despite the slalom and the profuse swearing. I don’t need to understand French to tell the guy is trying to get the cars to move by the power of his words.
Once inside Paris we get to the most gigantic roundabout I’ve ever seen, with a monument in the middle, influencers standing in line in the middle of traffic to get their shot, and scooters zigzagging on the wet cobblestones as if their life insurance was about to expire.
I’d take ice racing over that any day.
Then we take a side avenue, and he slows down in front of a stately building with a brass plaque. Institut Culinaire Pierre de Varanges. This is it.
Then he makes a right and drops me off in front of the hotel I booked.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back outside, the ingredients now all stuffed in the backpack, taking fast strides toward Kiara’s baking school.
Once in front of the building, I take out my phone and call Lazy’s, hoping the international plan works. Justin picks up.
“Hey,” I say, words escaping me. “Just made it there, and before I go in, I wanted to say thank you.”
Justin is weirdly quiet. I examine myself in the glass door. The cowboy hat Grace made me wear adds a couple inches to my stature, which is already out of norm here. I decided to add the cowboy boots she got me a long time ago, and of course I’m wearing the leather jacket that does unspeakable things to Kiara. Under that, a plaid flannel shirt from Noah’s shop. People do look at me as they pass me on the street, and I’m thinking that’s a good sign. Right? Personally, I think I look pretty fucking great, and that’s saying something. “You guys are the best, and I guess… I just wanted to say I love you guys. Thanks for everything. Keep your fingers crossed for Kiara.”
Justin clears his throat. “We love you too, dude,” he says, then the line goes dead.
I push the door open, and a receptionist materializes in front of me. He looks me up and down and smirks, then picks up a phone. “On a Indiana Jones à la réception. Ouais. ?a marche.”
“Mademoiselle Smeess will be here momentarily,” he says in a French accent, a fake smile on his face.
I nod my thanks. “How’d you know that’s who I’m here to see?”
“She talks about you all ze time,” he says. “Colt zis and Colt zat.” He mimics a cowboy twirling revolvers in both hands, and suddenly I feel like a side character in a B-movie. The cowboy boots are constricting my feet, I’m too warm under the hat, and I’m wondering if the stickiness seeping from the backpack is maple syrup or honey.
I look up at the grand marble staircase, then down the hallway. All is quiet—no sign of Kiara. I clear my throat. Check my watch. Check my phone. Look at the guy. He’s too busy doing nothing on his computer to worry about me.
Half an hour goes by, and I’m finally rewarded by hurried footsteps I’d recognize anywhere.
The footsteps stop.
Way down the hallway, Kiara gasps.