Chapter 2 Cassie
Cassie
Now
A squeal escapes my lips when we enter our suite, after I managed to hold myself back throughout the lobby.
The gilded lobby, I should say. It has floor-to-ceiling mirrors, glistening chandeliers so imposing they’d kill whomever was underneath if they collapsed, and thick black carpet, the kind that makes you feel like you’re stepping on clouds.
It’s all too much, too expensive, too fancy.
Everything I thought I’d never have. Most people only go on their honeymoon once, right?
It’s supposed to be the trip of a lifetime.
So of course I want to be here. I do. Yeah, I definitely do.
As I take in my home away from home for the next week, I’m glad I let Olivier book our accommodation.
There’s a king-sized bed made up in white linen with black trim, monogrammed with the B from the hotel’s name.
Fresh white flowers arranged in a tall vase give off a powdery scent that I wish I could capture on my phone.
The black velvet armchairs look deep enough to curl up in, and the wooden dresser is so polished I can see myself in it.
Hi, Cassie. Looking good! Maybe a little tired, too, but nothing a filter can’t fix.
On the right, I spot a walk-in closet that seems bigger than my bedroom at home.
Our bedroom, I guess. Nope, actually, it’s still my bedroom.
My space. But this, here, is something else.
On the left, the door to the bathroom is open enough for me to spot the claw-foot cast-iron tub and a whole lot of marble. Shiny, shiny, shiny.
And there’s more. I walk to the other side of the room, leaving my dear husband behind.
Olivier decided to carry both our bags up, even though a porter insisted he’d be happy to take them to our room.
I read that in luxury hotels like this, you don’t have to do anything.
They can wake you up at a certain hour, recommend and book restaurants, and even organize your whole stay if you want them to.
I might want them to, actually. Everything happened so fast and I haven’t had a chance to think about, well, anything.
Even before opening the French doors—is that what they call them over here?
—I can already see the Eiffel Tower standing tall in the distance.
Frankly, I don’t know why people fuss over a metal sculpture so much.
What am I not getting? But I do know this: staying in a hotel suite overlooking Paris’s most recognizable monument means something. Money, glamour, love in the air.
I’d drown in jealousy if I weren’t me. I step out onto the balcony, my phone at the ready. There’s a light breeze in the air, which wakes me up a little. I dozed off on the plane—thanks to the sleeping pills I got for the trip—but the taxi ride over put me back to sleep.
Sounds from the street travel up, mostly cars honking and the hum from the bus that just stopped.
Not so glamorous—I’ll mute the video. I record it all: the big phallic iron thing, of course, but also the perfectly lined-up slate roofs with their cute little chimneys, the creaminess of the facades, and the balconies decorated with perfectly groomed potted plants.
Then I turn around, catching my reflection in the spotless glass of the doors, and give a casual wave for the camera, like I feel so normal about being here.
Like I’m in my element, when everyone knows that…
Nope. They only know what I tell them. What I show them.
When I’m done filming, I immediately hit Play. Even though I’m here, experiencing it live, I can’t help but marvel at how it all looks: the pastel-blue sky above the roofs, the soft glow of Parisian summer, my fresh blond highlights catching the sun, my hair literally glowing.
I don’t overthink it on the caption. I think this two-thousand-dollar-a-night view will do all of the explaining.
Honeymoon Day One
Pinch me! ??????
Back inside the room, Olivier is slouched in one of the armchairs, staring at the wall. Not at his phone. At the wall. The bare one.
“You were right,” I say. “This place is perfect.”
Olivier slowly turns to me, like he forgot I was here. “Glad you like it.”
I’ll admit the honeymoon wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but things change. Sometimes you have to shake things up a little.
“Mind if I take a quick video?” I say, already pressing the red button.
“Why would I?”
I stop and frown at his sharp tone. Olivier straightens up. “I mean, of course,” he adds. “Do whatever you’d like.”
His tone is still a little cold and I almost want to say something.
Instead, I swivel my phone around, making sure to catch every fine detail: the delicate fabric lampshade, the chilled bottle of Dom Perignon waiting in a silver engraved bucket, and the flat, wall-mounted TV.
Little Cassie would have flipped her lid.
“Smile!” I say, as Olivier is about to enter the frame.
He does. It’s not one of his warm, charming smiles, but I don’t think you can tell through the screen.
I hit Share on this one as well, then decide it’s time for a break. If I post too much, it will start to look suspicious, like I’m not having fun because all I do is snap pictures of the fun I’m supposedly having. Plus, a little mystery is always good. Let them wonder.
“I think I’m going to lie down for a moment,” Olivier says, kicking off his shoes.
He goes to sit on the bed and rubs his eyes, then presses his palms against them.
A nap would do me good, too. I feel dehydrated enough that it hasn’t even occurred to me to pop that free champagne bottle open.
Free champagne! And the good stuff, too…
Dom Perignon is the good stuff, right? But I’m not sure I want to be next to Olivier right now.
He’s been acting weird since I sprang this surprise trip—nonrefundable flights and all—on him.
But he must have gotten over it, because we’re here now.
I leave him to it and head to the bathroom, where I start running the bath. The hotel provides free lavender-scented salts, which smell like summer in heaven when I open the glass jar. This is the life, I think, as I step into the steaming-hot water. This is my life.
I stay until my fingers are pruned, the bubbles are gone, and the water is cold.
When I come out, I feel like a new person.
Refreshed, reset. I may not have thought through this whole Paris affair, but now that I’m here, I might as well enjoy it.
The thick robe I wrap myself in feels like a man’s embrace.
Cozy and soft. Though I don’t think Olivier has ever hugged me like that.
Shaking the thought away, I open the door wide to get rid of the fog so I can better read my phone screen, but I’m distracted by the fact that the bed is empty, the sheets still tucked in.
He’s gone.
The comments have trickled in, fast and furious, during my bath. I got the latest iPhone a couple of weeks ago, and I didn’t want to take the risk of it falling in the water. I’m still not used to being able to spend over a thousand dollars like it’s a drop in the ocean.
Sooooo pretty
Oh em gee!
I’d kill to be you rn
It feels like everyone I know—well, almost everyone—is on their devices, ready to clock how wonderful my life is. How happy I am. How in love.
Where the fuck is my husband?
I head over to the door to peek out into the hallway, half expecting him to be out there. The man likes his privacy. Or maybe he just likes being alone; I don’t know which it is. I wonder if I should call or text him. But I’m not that kind of wife. We’re not that kind of couple.
He’ll be back soon enough. True fact: He can’t live without me.
I take more pictures of the room, the view, the bathwater before I let it out, and of me in the new dress, a mini black lace thing I bought for this trip.
I heard French girls wear a lot of black; it’s supposed to be chic.
Olivier told me I should wait to go shopping in the city, but waiting is not something I’m good at.
Anyway, the dress does look quite stylish, especially against the red Chanel lipstick I grabbed from duty-free at the airport, along with a new pair of sunglasses.
I’ve never been able to treat myself like this before.
Look at me. Turns out I am marriage material after all.
Every now and then I listen for any sounds, but there is no sign of my husband. My French husband. My disappearing act of a husband. It’s not the first time he has done this, but the fact that it bothers me is a new feeling. This is his city, his country, and I don’t even speak the language.
Now I’m starving. I pick up the room phone to dial the restaurant, browsing over the leather-bound menu as the ringtone beeps in my ear.
No answer. I’m about to try again when a buzzing sound comes from the door, the lock unlatching.
I don’t want Olivier to think I was looking for him, so I put the phone down.
“Hey,” he says, taking me in: dressed, made up, and ready to go. He changed, too. He’s wearing a pair of dark-blue jeans and a navy polo shirt. That’s when I notice that his suitcase is open. He looks freshly shaven and his hair is wet—he’s clearly showered. Where? How?
“Had a nice walk?” I ask casually.
He nods, giving me nothing. I’m not going to ask where he went.
Olivier has that detached air about him—he exudes confidence.
I was so impressed when I met him. This sophisticated French guy was interested in me.
He asked all these questions. He cared. He was prim and proper, and yet he didn’t look down on me.
Quite the opposite, actually. I notice the shopping bag he’s carrying, in a shade of mint green, with elaborate, all-caps lettering.
“Macarons,” he says, with an amused grin at the greedy look on my face, “from Ladurée. Do you know it?”
Is there a hint of arrogance in his tone, or am I just imagining it? The first time I heard his accent, I thought it was so perfect. Exactly what I needed. But now…
Well, now we’re here and I’ve never tried real French macarons. So.
“I thought you’d like them,” Olivier says, sitting on the bed next to me.
I can’t help but smile. The rectangular box inside the bag is mint green as well, and I open it to a festival of colors: round little pastries in shades of pink, blue, yellow, and brown. No wonder you see them all over Instagram. They’re so photogenic.
Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I grab the bottle of champagne, the melted ice dripping on my dress. I lay it on the bed next to the macarons, then wipe my hands on the sheets. Olivier watches as I snap a few pictures.
First Paris treat! Thank you, hubby! Don’t mind if I do.
My throat tightens as I hit Share. I’d never actually call Olivier “hubby.”
Still silent, he props down on one elbow as I polish off two of the macarons—a strawberry one and then a salted caramel.
They’re sweet, crunchy, and flavorful. Delicious.
I keep eyeing the box, debating about eating another one.
But then something strange happens. I feel bad.
I have put Olivier through the ringer lately.
Pushing the guilt out of my mind, I lift the box in his direction, a silent Want some?
He shakes his head. “No, you enjoy. This is for you. All of it.”
I bring another macaron to my lips—pistachio this time—my eyes never leaving his.
Olivier sits up, facing me, and sighs. His features soften—his jaw goes slack and his shoulders relax.
He is handsome; that has not changed. Not very tall but nicely proportioned, with broad shoulders.
I wasn’t sure about the goatee at first, but it does suit him, especially since he keeps it perfectly trimmed.
The package is nice; I wasn’t completely out of my mind when I decided to go to his place that night after we met three months ago.
I force a smile. “I was going to call the front desk and order room service, but maybe we could go down and eat at the restaurant?”
“Let’s not,” he says, so quickly it takes me aback.
“Well, um, I need to eat.”
Why do I sound like I’m justifying myself? I can go there and order whatever I want. I can. And maybe I will. Still, I don’t move.
“We’ll go out,” Olivier says. “Les Deux Magots is just around the corner.”
Should I know what that is? Actually, should he know that I don’t know?
He checks his watch. “If we leave now, we might beat the lunch rush and get a table.”
I feel my shoulders soften. Right, of course.
I may not know a lot about my husband, but I do have the bare bones facts.
He lived in Paris before moving to New York last year, which means he knows this city better than I ever could.
Besides, eating at the hotel restaurant is probably a tourist move.
“Right, sure. And then what?” Planning ahead isn’t really my thing, but I wish I’d at least googled the top Paris attractions. “What should we do this afternoon?”
Olivier gets up and looks down at me, his gaze unreadable. “It’s a surprise.”
A tiny voice tells me to beware.
“Come on, let’s go,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Will you at least give me a hint?” I try to sound lighthearted, but sometimes I feel like he can read through me, like he’s always two steps ahead no matter what I do.
“Nope.”
He walks over to the door, ready to leave. I snap a pouty selfie before following him.
Hubby has a surprise planned for our first day in Paris. Am I lucky or what?
But the truth is, none of this has to do with luck. You know when people say they met the right person at the right time? That the stars aligned and it was all meant to be? We were the wrong people coming together at the worst time, and the sky must have been pitch-black.