Chapter 14
“This is a bad idea,” I tell Tyler as we race across the street, following London Boy and his brother. They’re headed toward an entrance to the Metro, Paris’s subway. “What if they’re dangerous?” I whisper.
“You’re saying I can’t take them?” Tyler says, squaring his shoulders.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need rescuing,” I say.
“Your phone does,” Tyler points out.
“True.” With Tyler’s phone about to die, we could really use mine.
London Boy and his brother are descending the steps that lead down into the subway. I look up at the sign above the entrance that reads METRO. Its pretty Art Nouveau font makes it look like we’re being welcomed into a mythical mushroom forest.
“Okay, so we’re doing this,” I say, a little nervous about taking the subway in a foreign city.
I realize Tyler has come to an abrupt stop. The staircase down into the Metro is extremely steep. As he looks down, he takes in a sharp breath and clutches the handrail.
“Wow, you really are afraid of heights,” I say. “It must be hard being so tall. Are you afraid just from existing?”
“I’m not afraid of heights; I’m afraid of falling to my death,” Tyler says in a tight voice.
He starts slowly descending the stairs, cautious like an old man. This basketball star is afraid of tripping over his own feet—I find it absurdly cute. Finally, Tyler is giving vulnerability.
I join him on the stairs. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “If you start falling, I’ll catch you.”
Tyler smirks. “Um, I’m pretty sure I’m about forty pounds heavier than you are. If I fall, you’re coming down with me.”
Happily, I think, then push that thought away.
Then I remember how, as kids, talking helped to keep Tyler distracted when we climbed the rope ladder to his tree house.
“So,” I say as I take each step next to him. “Watch any good movies lately?”
“Mmm,” Tyler says noncommittally, still focused on the steep steps.
“The movie I watched on the plane,” I tell him, “was called The Princess and the Blog.”
That gets his attention. “No it was not,” Tyler says.
“I swear,” I say. “It was about this woman in her early twenties who moves to Paris to become a fashion blogger.”
“I can tell this is right up my alley,” Tyler says sarcastically.
“Just wait. She works for this awful, evil editor by day, but at night, she puts on couture clothes that she borrows from the high-end brands she writes about and goes to fancy places.”
“That doesn’t sound great,” says Tyler. “I think you’re right, Ben—Hollywood needs you.”
“Anyway,” I continue, “her favorite place to go at night is the Hotel Ritz. Coco Chanel used to live there.”
“I know what the Hotel Ritz is,” Tyler says through gritted teeth.
Of course he does.
“Well, on one of these nights when she’s at the gorgeous hotel bar, she meets a tall, dark stranger who’s staying at the hotel.
They get to flirting and have all this witty banter, and then of course, she later learns he’s a billionaire prince from Dubai.
They fall in love, and the blogger becomes a princess. ”
We’ve come to the bottom of the stairs. Tyler visibly relaxes, stands taller, and laughs.
“Did you just make all that up?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s a real movie, I swear. If your phone wasn’t about to die, I’d tell you to google The Princess and the Blog and watch it for yourself.”
“I’ll pass for now, thanks,” Tyler says.
I glance around the cavernous Metro tunnel and see no sign of London Boy or his brother. My stomach sinks.
“We lost them,” I say.
“I thought you didn’t want to find them,” Tyler says, calling my bluff.
Hmm. “I have mixed feelings,” I say.
“Sorry. If it wasn’t for me, we might have had a chance to catch them.”
“It’s for the best, probably. I mean, what would we have done if we caught them? Fought them?”
“If our negotiations failed, maybe.”
I snicker. I would never start a physical fight with a stranger, but Tyler shrugs his wide shoulders. Reflexively, he makes fists with both hands.
“Well, we’re here in the Metro,” Tyler says, gesturing to the ticket machines. “Let’s take the train someplace.”
“Like where?” I ask, reaching inside my tote bag for my list.
“I have an idea,” Tyler says. “Just follow me.”
“Fine,” I say, surprised that I trust him now. Almost without thinking about it.
Tyler buys our Metro tickets and we wait on the platform for the next train. The platform is empty; no sign of London Boy or his brother here, either.
“So now that you’re not frozen in fear, what movie did you watch on the plane?” I ask Tyler.
“Don’t laugh,” he warns me. “I watched Star Wars. I love Star Wars.”
I know, I think. But I say, “Why would I laugh? Everyone loves Star Wars.”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. I love the prequels.”
I feign surprise, widening my eyes and leaning away from him. “Okay, now that is a hot take. Say more.”
Tyler laughs. On the platform, it’s the first time all night I’ve seen him under lights so bright. His eyes are kind of tired, but if anything, he looks even more handsome when he’s a little raggedy.
It feels vaguely unethical to delve into childhood memories that Tyler doesn’t realize I already know—it’s almost like traveling back in time to the 90s and convincing the whole world I wrote Taylor Swift’s entire catalog of songs (which happens to be the premise for a movie idea I’ve spent a lot of time developing in my head).
But now that I’m convinced Tyler has genuinely lost all memories of me, I want to get him to remember me on his own.
Maybe he’ll remember all those hours we reenacted the Star Wars prequels, with me usually playing the role of Padmé Amidala.
Tyler goes serious. “Something about the whole aesthetic of the prequels appeals to me. It was before the fall of the Empire, so the planets were lush and clean. Society and culture of the galaxy were more complex.”
I pretend to fall asleep and start snoring. “Okay, no shade, but you’re making Star Wars sound like a three-thousand-page book.”
Tyler jabs at my chest playfully. “No, no, hear me out,” he insists.
“The aesthetics of the prequel trilogy were so vibrant, really gay, and super … frivolous. Which is probably what most of the hardcore geek-bros hated about it. The original Star Wars was grungy, and all the ships were dirty and grimy. But the world of the prequels was so colorful. There were even pink and purple lightsabers.”
Gay, frivolous, and pink: my favorite adjectives—but ones I assumed Tyler wasn’t interested in anymore. It’s a relief that he’s not always fixating on that “masc” energy that Topher Willis and his army of Kens think is the most valuable gay trait.
“I mean, Queen Amidala’s outfits and hair did serve,” I say.
“Right? And Naboo is the gayest planet in the galaxy … the babbling brooks, the marble architecture, avant-garde fashions, gondolas, giant armadillos, shiny starfighters. And don’t even get me started on Coruscant.”
The way his eyes are lighting up and he’s getting a little breathless as he talks faster and faster tugs at my heart.
Oh no.
If there was any question about whether I was falling for Tyler tonight, I’m worried it’s vanished into thin air like a dead Jedi becoming one with the Force.
I tell myself to think rationally, to remind myself that I hate Tyler. HATE. Unfortunately, he looks so cute right now—so open and vulnerable and real. My face flushes and my heart races.
“Oh, and my favorite part,” he goes on, unaware of the crisis I’m having in front of him. “And this is going to expose me as a real geek—is that for about two minutes in Attack of the Clones, we meet the Chief Jedi Librarian.”
“Oh, you mean Jocasta Nu?” I say without hesitation.
The train comes barreling into the Metro station. Its speed blows our hair in all directions.
“Yes!” Tyler yells over the cacophony of wheels on tracks.
He has an awed, euphoric expression on his face, his hair windblown.
I recognize it as the face you make when you feel totally seen for the first time in a long time; he looks how I felt when he showed me that sentence by Proust at the café.
I feel nervous and giddy and my stomach is in knots, but I don’t know what to think.
All I can do is try to act like everything is the same and I’m not sort of maybe developing a crush on this boy.
“She’s one of my favorite Star Wars characters, too,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, as we step onto the train car.
We manage to find seats, but I’m surprised how many people are out so late at night.
The air is thick with the smell of armpit sweat.
“I mean, why does a librarian even need to have Jedi powers?”
“Right?!” laughs Tyler. “I just love that librarian Jocasta Nu exists in the canon. She even has a lightsaber.”
“No way.” I am genuinely distracted and intrigued by this fact. “What color is it?”
“Kind of a steely purplish-blue? Why would a librarian need a lightsaber?”
“Hmm,” I say, tapping my chin. “Maybe she needs it as a really intense bookmark—even if it might burn some of the pages. It’s also a pretty sick reading light.”
Tyler cracks up. “How do you come up with this stuff?”
I’m reminded of when we used to come up with games when we were little, and he was content to listen while I let my imagination run wild; he was always the most appreciative audience. I almost say something about that, but then think the better of it.
“Or maybe she needs a lightsaber to bisect Padawans who return their books past their due date,” I say. “And she needs the power of the Force to keep track of the Jedi equivalent of the Dewey Decimal system—it’s that complicated.”
I expect a big laugh for that one, but suddenly, Tyler knits his brows together.
“Is something wrong?”
Tyler shakes his head, like there’s a fly buzzing around his ear. “No. You just made me remember something.”
“What is it?” I ask hopefully, holding my breath.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tyler says, looking at the floor as the train rattles along. Then his eyes light up. I follow his gaze downward. There’s a flyer on the floor showing a photo of a gorgeous Asian drag queen, face dripping with mascara, standing behind a microphone.
Someone must have dropped this advertisement for a drag show. The bejeweled pink font above the photo spells out:
Je Suis La Drag Chanteuse Extraordinaire, Tsui Ennui! Et Je Joue Ce Soir Dans Le Marais.
I manage to translate in my head: I Am the Drag Singer Extraordinaire, Tsui Ennui! And I’m Playing Tonight in Le Marais. The address for the club is printed below the photo, along with the date—which I realize is already today—and the start time—three thirty a.m.
“Hey,” Tyler says, gesturing to the flyer. “Experiencing gay Paris in Le Marais is on your list! We should go to this. Are you a fan of drag?”
I wince. I can’t believe that’s even a question. Ashley, Lucas, Mom, and I have probably ingested a thousand hours’ worth of RuPaul’s Drag Race. For a while, Lucas and I even planned to start our own Drag Race podcast.
“Do I like drag? Are C-3PO and R2-D2 a gay couple?” I crack.
Tyler gives me a puzzled look.
I roll my eyes. “That means ‘Hell yes.’ ”