Chapter 18
I lead us back toward the grand lobby, my heart racing with nerves. Tyler doesn’t say anything but looks intrigued.
A man with shiny, slicked-back hair, giving fancy butler vibes, sits at the concierge desk, ready to help. I work up the courage to step forward.
“Bonsoir,” I say. “We’re good friends of Monsieur Calloway of Dallas, who’s staying in the Coco Chanel Suite.”
Sure enough, the concierge sits up a little straighter, looking me up and down.
Tyler shoots me a questioning glance. I hold my breath; I’m wearing an Old Navy blazer and a beret—I’m sure the concierge knows I have no business in this bougie hotel.
But I think about what Tyler said: You just need to walk into a place knowing that you belong there.
I lift my chin and try my best to strike a confident pose.
I totally belong here. At the Hotel Ritz. I am RITZ-y.
“Yes, of course, monsieur,” the concierge says.
I feel a flicker of excitement. It worked!
“Mr. Calloway sent us to inquire what our transportation options are to the Marais this evening,” I continue, half making everything up as I go along. “He won’t be joining us, but he graciously offered to charge the accommodations to his room.”
The concierge man squints at me. I feel Tyler squeezing my wrist in a mix of disbelief and admiration. My pulse is pounding.
Then the concierge flashes a cheerful smile. “Certainly, monsieur. It would be my pleasure.” He taps away at his laptop. “We can call you a limousine … or we can call you a Mercedes rental scooter to drive yourself, which might be more exciting. The option is yours.”
I turn to Tyler. “What do you think, Marcel?” I ask. “A scooter sounds fun, right?”
Tyler is staring at me in total amazement.
I know. I don’t recognize myself, either.
* * *
Not only does the concierge summon a scooter for us, he also lets Tyler charge his phone behind the desk while we wait.
Once the scooter arrives outside the hotel, we thank the concierge and Tyler gets his (barely charged) phone back. He checks the directions to the club on his phone, and we see that it’s not too far.
We exit the grand hotel and find the scooter waiting for us, complete with two helmets. The scooter is Mercedes-branded and looks to me exactly like a fancy silver motorcycle. Tyler sits in front, thankfully, and I climb on behind him. I wouldn’t know how to drive this thing.
“Ready?” Tyler asks, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I laugh nervously, putting on my own helmet.
He revs the engine. I assume it’ll make a loud roar, but instead, it makes a soft purring sound—it sounds rich.
The streetlight turns green, and suddenly we’re whizzing down Rue Sainte-Honoré. I tighten my grip on Tyler’s shoulders as the amber lights of Paris streak past like shooting stars. My heart is in my throat.
This whole night is a ride, and we’re taking it.
Tyler makes a sharp turn onto another street. I’m surprised and terrified by how steeply we have to lean to the left—I move my hands from his shoulders and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling only a little embarrassed. The scooter returns upright as soon as we straighten out.
“Have you ever driven one of these before?” I shout over the wind whipping past.
“No,” Tyler shouts back. “But it’s just like riding a bike, right?”
I’m about to shout back that that phrase doesn’t work in this context, but I’m stunned into silence by the sight of the Opéra Garnier, lit up in the darkness.
It’s another grand, cream-colored palace-like building, topped with gold statues.
That’s where The Phantom of the Opera was set!
I gawk at the gorgeous structure as we zip past, imagining the magic that takes place inside.
Since it’s so late, the streets are relatively empty. I realize Tyler is taking unnecessary swerves to make the trip last longer, which I’m starting not to mind.
But at one point, Tyler turns onto a street with a surprising amount of traffic.
We weave among the taxis and cars, getting so close sometimes that Tyler’s knee narrowly misses grazing a bumper.
“Careful!” I tell him.
“Sorry!” he calls back to me.
Then I see it.
“The Arc de Triomphe!” I yell to Tyler, as if he could miss it.
“She’s definitely triumphant!” he yells back.
I laugh. “Are we getting any closer to the Marais?”
“I’m taking the scenic route!”
It’s like we’re gliding on air as we speed through the roundabout and get a three-sixty view of the shining white arch.
It stands tall and broad, with its intricate carvings—larger than life.
I let out a whoop. I’m on the back of a scooter, holding on to my childhood friend, and I’m feeling like maybe I’m falling in love—with this city and with this boy, so familiar but so mysterious at the same time.