Chapter 15
When we emerge from the Metro, Tyler leads the way toward our mystery stop. I gawk when I see it: the Hotel Ritz!
“The Ritz?” I manage to say through my surprise. “That’s where you wanted us to go?”
Tyler grins. “I was inspired by your retelling of The Princess and the Blog,” he says. “Oh, and also, this is where I stayed with my parents when we came to Paris that time.”
“Aha,” I say.
Of course this is where Tyler stayed. I’ve heard that rooms here can cost tens of thousands of dollars per night.
“My dad’s company paid for it,” Tyler says, as if reading my mind. “But it was really nice. And if I remember correctly, there’s a bar in the lobby named after Hemingway and a lounge named after Proust.” He raises his eyebrow. “Pretty fitting for us, right?”
“Maybe,” I admit, feeling my cheeks get warm for no good reason. “But are we really going to go inside?” I ask as we approach the imposing entrance. “I bet it’s super bougie and glamorous.”
Tyler shrugs. “Fourteen-year-old me stayed there. How glamorous could it be?”
As soon as I climb the red-carpeted steps, it’s obvious to me that I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, belong in the Ritz Paris.
I imagine the whole palatial building coming to life just to eject riffraff like me from its premises: the marble columns shifting to block my path; the crystal chandeliers swinging right for my head; the ornate rugs pulling themselves out from under me and flinging me out onto the cobblestones of Paris where I actually belong.
Meanwhile, Tyler marches right up to a chic woman in a pristine white tuxedo jacket and asks, “Madame, où est le Salon Proust?”
Where is the Proust lounge?
She gives us a friendly, not-at-all snooty smile and explains in French I can understand that the Salon Proust is only open for afternoon tea, but the Bar Hemingway is open now. “Although it’s only for adults eighteen and over,” she adds in English with a skeptical glance at me.
I freeze.
Tyler lets out a laugh. “Madame, you flatter us! You make me feel young again.”
The tuxedo lady gives me a slightly suspicious look, but she seems convinced.
She points us down a long hallway that’s lined with tall windows and heavy drapes with thick gold tassels.
We head down the hall, passing men in sleek suits and women in elegant gowns.
I spot a sophisticated older woman with long, glistening gray hair wearing a full-on ball gown.
The air smells perfumed but not overly so—just the right amount of luxe.
“I guess we’re going to Bar Hemingway,” Tyler says happily.
“Tyler, I don’t have a fake ID,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says from the side of his mouth. “The legal age to drink wine and beer is sixteen in France.”
“Wine and beer?” I hiss. “I wasn’t even thinking about drinking!”
“Well, with a legal guardian,” chuckles Tyler. “But don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll get us in. That tuxedo lady believed we were at least eighteen. All you have to do is think adult thoughts.”
Think adult thoughts …
The first adult thought that comes up is me and Tyler making out in the hostel elevator, which is the literal last thought I need to be having right now.
To shake away the image, I shake my head so vehemently that my beret almost flies off. I catch it in time.
“Merde!” Tyler huffs when we arrive at the entrance to Bar Hemingway and find a line of extremely well-dressed people snaking all the way down the hallway. There’s a squat man in a white tuxedo jacket guarding the door. “We’ll never get in tonight.”
“Oh well!” I say, honestly relieved. I’m taking everyone’s designer outfits as a personal attack.
“We got a good look around, it’s been a vibe, and now we can go to the Marais for that drag show.
” Or back to the hostel, I think, still a little bit terrified about the threat of Mademoiselle Alvarez finding us gone.
Tyler apparently doesn’t hear me. “Wait here,” he says.
“Tyler, let’s—” I start, but he’s already striding to the front of the line with a swagger.
I find his confidence kinda hot but also arrogant.
I can’t stand the idea of cutting a line.
I don’t even like when someone holds a spot for me—I’d rather have to wait longer than for anyone to think that I think my time is more important than theirs.
The bouncer’s face goes all animated as Tyler chats him up.
Then the absurdly attractive couple at the front of the line, who don’t look much older than Tyler and me, join in on the conversation, and after about a minute, Tyler beckons me over with a radiant, triumphant smile.
I shake my head no, but he beckons again, so I duck my head and try to avoid the glares I’m undoubtedly getting as I mutter apologies.
I can feel the judgment from the crowd on my blazer, my T-shirt, my beret, my ratty sneakers, and the fact that I’m younger than eighteen.
“Here’s our fourth!” says Tyler loudly as I walk up.
The young guy at the head of the line is wearing lots of self-tanner, a peacock-blue velvet suit with no shirt under it, and has a goatee so perfectly manicured that it almost looks like it’s painted on.
The girl he’s with has long, shiny black hair that’s the perfect level of messy and is wearing a pink fur jacket that reaches the floor.
If Paris were Panem from The Hunger Games, we’re definitely in the Capitol now.
“Perfect, monsieur,” the host says to Tyler in a thick accent. “Please follow me.”
As the four of us follow the host into the dark bar, I ask Tyler, “What did you say?”
“Play it cool,” he says under his breath. “Trace and Sarita are best friends, visiting from Dallas. They’re letting me—I mean, us—crash their table.”
I swear, if Tyler could bottle whatever sorcery he possesses, he could buy ten of these hotels.
And whatever guilt I’m feeling about skipping the line evaporates as soon as the host shows us to our table.
I suddenly feel like I’ve entered an exclusive secret society.
There’s no music playing in this secluded, posh little room, just the clinking of forks and ice and the hum of sophisticated grown-up conversation—or repartee, should I say—in multiple languages.
We’re surrounded by leather-bound books, deer antlers, old typewriters, shark jaws, black-and-white photos of Hemingway on his hunting expeditions.
(I check for photos of Hadley but don’t see any.) It’s the most elegant, expensive man cave I could imagine.
Tyler looks downright giddy. He flashes me a can-you-believe-this?! look across the table.
“I adore this place,” drawls Trace in his Texas accent as a server arrives with four menus that look like newspapers called The Hemingway Star.
Each of the drinks listed has a paragraph-long story and description—not that I can order any of them, since most have hard liquor in them and they’re a ridiculous forty euros each.
As for food, they have surprisingly unfussy options, including mini hot dogs that are allegedly “the best hot dogs outside of an American ballpark.”
“We come to Bar Hemingway for a drinksy every time we’re in Paris,” says Sarita in a similarly thick Southern accent. “We were here last month when we saw Ariana Grande and Dua Lipa together over in that booth. Not that we care about celebrities.”
Tyler and I exchange a not-so-subtle glance, and even Mr. NYC Cool can’t hide his excitement. Ariana Grande and Dua Lipa? I would literally die if I saw just one of them in person, let alone together.
“That’s why we love coming here,” says Trace with the tone of someone who’s bragging about a personal accomplishment.
“Everyone here’s somebody, so no one cares who anyone is.
We can just enjoy the atmosphere without being bothered.
No one here cares that I’m a Calloway.” Then he adds with an airy laugh, “Other than the hotel staff, of course. They definitely care when they see Calloway on my credit card. That’s why I’m always guaranteed my room in the Coco Chanel Suite. That’s where we’re staying tonight.”
Sarita unleashes a high-pitched laugh. Tyler chuckles fakely. I try to force a laugh myself but it comes out like a cough instead.
Is this Trace guy for real? Of course, it’s obvious that he does care if anyone’s looking at him. His neck is swiveling around like an owl’s, his eyes scoping the room.
“Well, coming from a total nobody, thanks for letting me join you,” says Tyler through a fake smile. “This is really taking our trip to the next level.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Trace, giving Tyler’s forearm a quick squeeze. “We love picking up strays.”
“Especially American ones,” adds Sarita, batting her false eyelashes at Tyler. “Love the whole corn-fed look.”
Okay, they are both blatantly flirting with Tyler, who laughs uncomfortably. I bump his knee with mine, just to make sure we’re both on the same page. Tyler bumps my knee back and flashes our two tablemates his best smile.
“Trace, Sarita,” he says, making firm eye contact with both of them, “I just remembered … my friend Ben and I have a private matter to discuss. Thank you for letting us join you for even this short amount of time. Bonsoir—good evening to you both.”
Trace looks confused. “But we were just getting to know each other.”
Tyler has already stood up, and he’s heading toward two empty stools at the bar. I flash Trace and Sarita an apologetic look, although they still don’t seem to notice I’m there, before I join Tyler at the bar.
The bartender, a stunningly beautiful woman wearing an immaculate white tuxedo, greets us warmly and puts two menus in front of us.
“Tyler, what was that?” I ask through clenched teeth. I turn around. Trace and Sarita are glaring daggers at us. And it’s a tiny bar, so they’re not far away. “You totally used those people to cut in line.”
Tyler seems proud of himself. “So? They’re a couple of rich, socialite jerks.”
And you’re not? I almost blurt.
“And they were total creepers,” adds Tyler.
I can’t disagree with him there. “Still,” I say, a sick feeling forming in my stomach, “I never could have done that. Just charm my way to the front of the line, then ditch them like that.”
“Sure you could,” Tyler says, giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You just need to walk into a place knowing that you belong there.”
I narrow my eyes. I thought I was getting to know Tyler all over again. What happened to the sweet, earnest nerd who was talking about Proust and Star Wars?
I guess Paris at nighttime can play tricks on you.
I look at the menu but I can’t focus on it—I’m fuming. Was Tyler just pretending about everything all this time? Has he been using me to have his fun night out in Paris? Is this all a game to him, something he’ll laugh about with his popular jock friends when we get back home?
If we get back home. And, you know, not expelled.
Tyler looks up. “Ben, is something the matter?”
Before I can answer, the bartender comes back. “Gentlemen, can I get you anything to drink?”
Tyler looks at me. “Want anything, Ben?”
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I say, forcing a smile at the bartender. I don’t know anything about wine or beer, but I’m also not about to order a Dr Pepper at a place like this.
“We’ll have two Kate 76s,” says Tyler. “Vierge. And four hot dogs, please.”
“Absolutely,” says the bartender, bringing out a shiny silver tower of finger foods—warm toasted almonds and glistening olives. I steer clear of the olives (they taste like rubber tires to me), but I stuff a handful of sweet almonds in my mouth. Mmm.
Tyler turns to me again. He’s frowning slightly. “Did I do something to bother you?” he asks.
I swallow, then gather myself together. Tyler may have been pretending this whole night, but I’m done pretending. My frustration is suddenly bigger than my fear, and it lets me feel something close to bravery.
I throw back my shoulders, sit up tall on the bar stool, and tell myself it’s time to be honest.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” I say, turning to look at Tyler’s wide gray eyes, “that we can’t all just walk into a room and get whatever we want?” My voice is a little louder than I intended it to be. The woman sitting on the other side of Tyler turns to glare at me. Whatever.
“Umm … you’re talking about skipping the line to get into Bar Hemingway?” Tyler says with a small laugh in his voice. “Because we can totally give up our seats and leave.” He gestures to our bar stools, as if calling my bluff.
“That’s not all that I mean. That’s how you are with everything. Ever since you came back to Sandy Springs, you’ve gotten everything you wanted,” I say, my cheeks burning and my heart pounding.
“What are you talking about, Ben?” Tyler looks pale, his brows knitted together in confusion.
Am I really doing this now? I guess I’m doing this now.
“Do you remember your first day coming back to Sandy Springs?” I ask. I wish I could keep my voice from wobbling, but I can’t help it.
“Umm … yeahhh …” Tyler says slowly, as if he’s talking to an unhinged person—which I can’t exactly be sure that he’s not. “What about it?”
I don’t know why I’m so scared to ask this question—why I have been so scared to ask this question for months.
I make myself ask it.
“Did you remember me?” I ask. “From when we were kids? Before you moved to New York?”