Chapter 3
After surviving the elevator ride, Tyler, Gaston, and I go into our sparse, nearly bare room: just three twin beds in a row and a sad-looking wooden dresser.
Ugh.
But who cares? I’m here to see Paris, not hang out in my hostel.
I claim the bed closest to the small window, where I can see a tiny sliver of cloudy sky and a few gorgeous Parisian rooftops.
It looks like something out of the Beauty and the Beast live-action movie.
Tyler drops his duffel bag on the middle bed, and Gaston gets the one closest to the tiny bathroom.
I immediately take out my phone to call Mom to assure her I’ve arrived safely.
She answers on the first ring. The sound of her voice sends a warmth through me that makes me realize I might be the tiniest bit homesick, below all the anticipation.
Mom tells me she loves me and that I should be careful.
I tell her not to worry, and that I love her, too, and then I hang up, eager to get ready for the Louvre.
I hear Gaston talking to his parents, but interestingly, Tyler isn’t calling anyone. Unless he’s busy sending heartfelt text messages back home on his Apple Watch.
I unzip my roll-y bag and grab what I need for the evening, stashing it all in my I HEART PARIS tote bag. (Is the tote bag, like the beret, a bit too much? Maybe. But I’m going with it.)
Finally, Gaston, Tyler, and I head back down in the rickety elevator to meet the rest of the French Club and Mademoiselle Alvarez in the lobby. At long last, it’s time for the Louvre.
I can’t wait.
* * *
“Bonjour, y’all, it’s Nneka and Cody, aka Belle and Gaston, coming at you live from the heart of Paris!
And oh my God, I cannot with how cute this city is.
It’s legit like a movie. And look what’s right behind me.
See that glass pyramid? Yep, we’re at the Louvre!
Well, we’re waiting outside to get in. You know what they say, the Louvre is for loo-vers! ”
Nneka holds her selfie hand remarkably steady as she and Gaston kiss for their thousands of followers.
I try to stay out of their livestream, but I also don’t want to risk taking a step out of the queue and getting yelled at by Mademoiselle Alvarez, who’s currently arguing animatedly with a museum employee who can’t find our five p.m. entrance reservations.
Not that anything can put a damper on my excitement right now. Our French Club has lined up in the courtyard outside the shimmering glass pyramid that leads into the Louvre. This moment doesn’t even feel real: I’ll get to see the Mona Lisa in a few minutes!
“There’s actually nothing special about the Mona Lisa,” I overhear Tyler saying to Malia and Jenna “Hélène” Hawthorne. “I mean, it’s definitely a good painting, but it’s only super famous because it was stolen once …”
Seriously, is there nothing Tyler can’t ruin for me? I’m convinced he might be doing this on purpose, as if he came on this trip solely to be a saboteur of joy.
Rolling my eyes, I tune out Tyler and look into my tote bag.
I brought my phone, my printed-out to-do list, a pen to check off the items on the list (it’s one of those fun pens filled with water with a tiny Eiffel Tower that swims up and down it—Ashley gave it to me), and my copy of The Paris Wife, which is the monthly pick for Mom’s Single Mamas Wine and Book Club.
The paperback also happens to be an important prop I’ll need in order to achieve item number two on my list: Sit and read a book at a charming outdoor café.
I take out my phone, even though it’s a personal policy to look at my phone as little as possible on this trip—what if I miss something perfectly and magically Parisian? But I need some help staying positive. I tap out a few texts to Ashley:
ME: About to go into the Louvre for real!!!!!!!!
Je t’aime! Wish you were here.
Btw Tyler Travers is being as big of an asshat as expected.
I delete that last one without sending it. I know that Ashley, who’s always reasonable, will remind me that Tyler didn’t actually steal Lucas, that in fact, he probably doesn’t even know that Lucas and I were ever a thing—especially since Tyler doesn’t recall that we used to be friends.
But it still doesn’t change the fact that Tyler’s return to Sandy Springs was the reason Lucas dumped me.
I shake the thought away. No wallowing in Paris.
I wait a few seconds for a reply from Ashley. Since Paris is six hours ahead of Georgia, I figure she’s busy at her debate tournament, killing it as usual.
Before I put my phone away, I pause to look at my home screen.
It never fails to make me smile, in a sad-happy way.
It’s my favorite old photo: young Mom and Dad on their honeymoon, sitting on a bench on the Pont Alexandre III with the Eiffel Tower soaring in the background.
Dad looks so much like me—pale, his thin shoulders hunched up, flashing a shy grin as he looks at Mom, who’s so wholesome and pretty in her scarf and beret, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders.
They’re so in love. They might not be the stars of a rom-com, but what they had was just as passionate—and way more real.
Will I ever find a love that real?
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you …” someone says in a charming British accent.
I look up from my phone. Staring back at me is a boy around my age, a little shorter than me. He has short, buzzed brown hair and wide, disarming brown eyes. And he’s smiling at me.
I look behind me. No one but hordes of other tourist groups. I look to my right. Nneka and Gaston are still filming themselves. I look to my left. The rest of my classmates are all chatting or poking at their phones as they wait in line.
I look back at British Boy and point to myself, as if to ask, Are you talking to me?
“I know this is terribly random and a bit cheeky,” says British Boy, “but … I love your bracelet.” He gestures to my wrist.
OMG.
“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart speed up. I drop my phone back into my tote bag and look down at my ENCHANTED friendship bracelet. Reflexively, I clamp my other hand over it, as if trying to hide it from him. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I take a compliment from a gorgeous stranger?
“Thank you,” I manage to croak out.
Suddenly, a realization hits me like a Vespa running over a pedestrian.
The possibility that I hadn’t let myself even hope for is actually, truly happening: I’ve met a cute guy who will change my life!
True, British Boy isn’t French, but who cares?
Maybe this is even better! We speak the same language, after all.
British Boy smiles at me again.
Cold pinpricks of sweat form at my armpits, and then I start rambling: “It says ‘enchanted’ and my friend Ashley gave it to me, but she couldn’t come to Paris because she’s at a debate tournament.
My name is Remy, kind of like the rat, but that’s only my name in France. At home my name is Ben. Ben Lim.”
I hear myself and cringe. Slow down, Ben.
“Right, so you’re here with your school’s French Club?” asks British Boy, raising his eyebrow. He has notably pink cheeks, as if he has tiny allergic rashes on both sides of his face, but in the cutest way imaginable. “Me too.”
He nods over his shoulder at a group of students, around the same age as my French Club group, but infinitely more sophisticated. More British.
“I have a French class name, too,” says British Boy. “It’s Maximilien. But my at-home name is Clark.”
“Clark,” I repeat, loving the sound of it; I definitely like it better than Maximilien, which sounds vaguely villainous to me.
Ben and Clark. Clark and Ben. Blark. I could get used to any of those. I clear my throat. “Enchanté, Clark.”
“Enchanté, Ben,” he replies. “Just like your bracelet.”
Confused, I look down at my wrist, and for a second, it looks as if it belongs to someone else. Then I get what he’s saying and grin. “Oh, because enchanté means ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘enchanted.’ Just like my bracelet.”
I start laughing a little too hard. I really need to work on my bantering skills. In my peripheral vision, I see Nneka put down her phone as she and Gaston stop to watch me completely fail at flirting.
But Clark doesn’t seem to think I’m bad at this. Miraculously, he looks intrigued.
“Just like your friendship bracelet,” he agrees, chuckling. “I have a few myself.” He shows me the many sparkly friendship bracelets he has stacked on his arm in every color of the rainbow.
“Oh, nice!” I say. “You must have a lot of friends.”
“Well, I’d love to make one more,” says Clark, biting his lower lip as if building up his courage … to talk to me. “Can I give you a bracelet?”
My heart is thudding. I feel like I’m bungeeing off the Eiffel Tower (in a good way). But all I can force out of my mouth is “Umm, sure.”
Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.
Even falling in love with Lucas at our job at HomeGoods last summer was a slow burn that required weeks of bonding over nightmare customers who were fighting over the latest viral water bottle (I still have PTSD from the drop of the lime-green TANK Cup) or Hello Kitty oven mitt, and our shared hatred of towel-folding duty.
This meet-cute with Clark, on the other hand, is like winning the gay American-in-Paris lottery.
Clark takes off one of his friendship bracelets—a red, white, and blue beaded one that spells out the words LONDON BOY. Which is kind of on the nose, but honestly, amazing. I reach out to grab it, but he asks, “May I?”
“Oh. Oui.”
Next to me, I hear Nneka trying to contain her squeals, and Gaston cheers under his breath, “Go, Ben!”
I put out my hand. I study Clark’s face as he smiles at me bashfully.
His eyes have a shiny, trustworthy glow to them—they’re a bit far apart, which gives him an especially sweet look, like Charmander.
He’s totally gorgeous, but something about the slight flaw keeps him relatable, which makes him even more perfect.
I can never get behind the square-jawed, jock-type love interests they cast in movies—guys who look like Tyler Travers.
You’re not serving vulnerability if you’re lacking any goofy or not-quite-right features.
How can you root for a guy who looks like he’s never known what it’s like to be overlooked?
Clark, on the other hand, is exactly the love interest I could root for.
I instantly picture the next four days in Paris.
I can spend all my independent exploration time with my new London Boy.
We’ll eat freshly baked chocolate croissants and sip from giant cups of rich hot cocoa.
We’ll climb to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and go shopping at used bookstores and vintage flea markets.
Maybe we’ll find more friendship bracelets to add to our stacks, like souvenirs.
Oh, and I guess I’ll squeeze my to-do list somewhere in there, too.
I’m admiring how well the new bracelet goes with ENCHANTED when someone knocks into me from behind, hard. I stumble forward. I clamp my hand on my head to keep my beret from toppling off. The breath escapes my lungs as Clark catches me.
“Oh goodness,” Clark stammers, concerned. “Ben, are you all right?”
“Yeah, thank you,” I say, getting back to my feet, disoriented.
I look behind me to see who or what did that to me.
A broad guy with a shaved head is walking away from me as fast as he can.
He peers over his shoulder and shouts, “Sorry, mate!” He also has a British accent—and bizarrely, looks a whole lot like Clark, only bigger and meaner.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, mate!” Gaston yells after the guy.
“You wanker!” shouts Nneka, shaking her fist.
I turn back to Clark to thank him for catching me.
But he’s gone.
I scan the plaza all around the glass pyramid. The rest of his British school group is still there. But no Clark.
“Where did London Boy go?” I ask dumbly.
“I don’t know,” says Nneka, searching the scene. “We need to find him. He was cute and super, super into you, Ben.”
“Right?” I say, my heart racing. “I wasn’t just imagining him?”
“No, unless I was imagining him at the same time,” says Gaston.
Events have taken an unexpected twist. This is turning into one of those movies where the timeline is all out of sequence and I’ll have to spend the rest of my trip tracking down this mysterious love of my life.
It’s not ideal, but I’m willing to search the city high and low for Clark.
Fate brought us together, and fate will bring us back together.
“Hey, Ben, you dropped this,” says Gaston.
He’s holding a cream-colored sheet of paper. My list! I wonder how it got out of my tote bag and onto the ground. And now Gaston’s reading it. My stomach tightens.
“Gaston, can I have that back, please?” I demand, but he holds it away from me.
Gaston’s face breaks out into a delighted grin. “Babe, you gotta read this,” he laughs, passing it to Nneka.
“No, I need that back, that’s private,” I insist, my stomach tightening. Out of context, the list probably makes me look beyond cringe to the point of being straight-up delusional. No one knows of its existence outside me and Ashley, and that’s for good reason.
“This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, Ben,” says Nneka, beaming at me.
“Dude, this is cute as hell,” Gaston coos. “Our man Ben is a romantic. Just like me.”
“My favorite is number seven,” says Nneka. “ ‘Believe in love—’ ”
I finally snatch the sheet of paper away from Nneka and Gaston. My cheeks are hot. I drop my list back in my tote bag, next to my book and my …
“Where is my phone?” I wonder aloud.
Dread seeps through me.
I paw through my tote bag, but the phone is absolutely not there. I pat the empty pockets of my blazer and my jeans, and frantically search the ground around me.
But the phone is gone.
And that’s when I realize, with a huge wave of horrified embarrassment:
London Boy was a thief.