Chapter 13 Taylor
Taylor
Now
Blood rushes to my brain the moment the newlyweds are out of sight.
It’s like there’s an invisible string between us that I can’t bring myself to break.
I’m in too deep now. I don’t know where this honeymoon ends, but I need to find out.
They, I mean we, wander through the streets of Paris for hours on end, stopping at ice cream shops on ?le Saint-Louis and designer stores on rue des Canettes in the fifth arrondissement.
Of course, I don’t get to buy my own cone with two scoops—the hazelnut flavor sounded pretty good—and I can’t see what’s in her shopping bag as she exits the glitzy Saint Laurent boutique, but I know this: life seems pretty sweet when you have a rich husband treating you all over this dreamy city.
For dinner, they have a reservation at a reservation somewhere in the tenth arrondissement, opposite a tree-lined square.
Google tells me the restaurant offers a surprise three-course menu, which means they’ll be there a while.
After watching them walk inside—her in brand-new block-heeled sandals, which turned out to be her purchase from this morning, per Instagram; his hand on the small of her back—I wander a few streets over to get a tomato and cheese crepe from a street stand.
My fingers burn through the greasy paper as I come back to eat it on a bench in full view of the restaurant.
The wife doesn’t post anything until dessert, and that’s only to rave about the lavender crème br?lée.
Not the kind of detail I’m interested in.
I’ve long finished my own meal when the newlyweds emerge, their faces shiny and their legs wobbly.
I spotted an empty bottle of champagne in the picture, and that may not have been the only one.
Nice for some. Suddenly, the wife trips on a cobblestone—she’s clearly the drunkest of the two—and he yanks her sharply, catching her before she falls. What a good man, a loving husband.
I walk them back to their hotel in Saint-Germain, even though that’s the opposite direction from mine.
I’m too far behind to listen in to their conversation, if they’re talking at all.
We did a lot of walking today and my feet are killing me, but I still manage to discover new things about them: he stands straighter when she’s looking, like he wants to be on his best behavior, and she’s not taking as many pictures anymore.
She only stops when we go over Pont Neuf to snap Notre-Dame all lit at night.
It shows up on her Instagram Stories a minute later, but that’s it.
Not willing to take any more chances, I drop them off on the corner before they arrive at their hotel. Of course, I already checked it out online. Two thousand dollars a night for the honeymoon suite, I nearly choked on my water when I saw that.
That night, I sleep in fits and turns, my mind buzzing with images of the happy couple and so many questions. Are they really happy or just good at pretending? Is it true love I saw or can anyone fake it that well?
When I wake up, my muscles sore and my eyelids still heavy with sleep, I’m tempted to sink into another long bath.
But curiosity gets the better of me, so I pick up the newlyweds after their breakfast. Lucky for me, her posting habits are regular enough that I could guess when they’d be heading out for the day.
Cassie can’t get enough of the flaky croissants and the smooth “café”—as she calls it—at the place down the street from their hotel.
Today, she is in a skin-tight heather gray dress she bought on this trip, along with her Chanel bag and matching logoed ballet flats.
He really is sparing no expense. I can’t imagine why he thinks she deserves that.
Who is she, really? A country girl who tries way too hard.
Meanwhile, he blends in among other well-dressed Parisians, as dapper as ever in skinny navy chinos rolled up at the ankles.
He wears them sockless with the same sneakers he’s had on all trip, which are curiously still bright white.
He’s that kind of guy. Always cool, always put together just so. Freakishly handsome.
To my surprise, our day begins with a trip to the Musée D’Orsay.
These two aren’t the museum-going type; I bet she read a list of places to visit in Paris and is dragging him there against his will.
Though of course he chose this. Chose to marry her, chose to go on the honeymoon.
No one forced him. At least the museum is crowded enough that I can follow them inside, after letting a group of Japanese tourists go between us.
I pause to admire the grand hall bathed in the sunlight shining through the large curved windows.
Black statues elevated on white pedestals line both sides, making me feel small and so much less sophisticated.
I find her first, sitting on a bench on the other side of the main hall, completely absorbed in her phone.
A few minutes later, I watch him browse the Impressionists wing on the top floor, where he glances at every painting, paying attention to none.
The fact that they split up is not enough to draw conclusions—even the happiest couples might want alone time.
An hour passes before we leave the museum and walk down the twisty streets of Saint-Germain. It’s a beautiful day out and there’re always a few people in between us. More than once I worry I’m pushing it, getting too close. Three’s a crowd; I’m well aware of that.
It’s not until they make a right onto a little alley that I feel the change of air between them.
He’s walking a little behind her now, hunched over his phone, which is new for him.
She doesn’t notice at first, but when she turns around a moment later, the look on her face is not only one of annoyance at him lagging behind.
Her jaw is tense, her eyes bulging. She stops and crosses her arms against her chest.
Something is off. I hide in a doorway just a few feet away from them, holding my breath as the bronze door knocker digs into my back. A quick glance tells me it’s shaped like a snake.
“I want to do what I want to do, okay?” I hear her saying. Screaming. “It’s my life! MY LIFE! And my money!”
The last part stuns me the most. Cassie doesn’t have any money.
Against my better judgment, I risk a look in their direction.
His chest rises and falls as he stands in front of her.
She moves her arms up in the air with wild gestures, so much so that her Chanel bag almost hits him in the face.
He flinches and steps back, but he seems oddly stoic in the face of her tantrum.
It takes all my willpower to peel my eyes away from them and lean back.
At least I can still hear her. I don’t make out all the words, mostly the fact that she’s real mad and he’s still taking it in silence.
When she stops grumbling, the distinct sound of steps coming from inside the building startles me.
Someone is about to open the door, and I’m going to have to walk onto the street.
I’m screwed. The only thing that might save me is a distraction.
Without thinking too much, I grab my phone, flick through my contacts, and press Call on the all-too-familiar name.
Strangely, she picks up immediately. “Hey,” Cassie says.
“Hi!” I say as quietly as I can, without raising her suspicion.
Crossing my fingers that neither of them is looking this way, I leave my hiding spot and walk quickly in the other direction.
Seconds later, I reach the corner and turn down the next street, out of sight. “How’s the honeymoon going?”
My heart is beating a million miles a minute, but there’s no way she saw me.
My sister has always complained about how I suffocate the air around her.
It wouldn’t take her that long to ask what the fuck I’m doing here.
Yes, okay. Cassie is not some random newlywed I discovered on Instagram.
But she so often feels like a stranger that it’s kind of all the same.
“Paris is just the most amazing place ever.” She sounds light and upbeat, nothing like she did a moment ago. “You know.”
I do. Growing up, Cassie would always tease me about my belief that my parents—my biological parents—had some sort of French connection.
I only cared about having something that might bring me closer to them: my mother was in prison and I knew so little about my dad, just a few vague memories, like those of French lullabies whispered in the dark.
All my hopes were cast onto him, this stranger.
But Cassie thought this was my way of feeling superior to her, more sophisticated.
We all knew what happened with her father.
He had every opportunity to see her if he wanted to.
But mine… He could be anywhere, from any place.
I could make all sorts of excuses for him, and I did.
One time—when she was nine and I was ten—Cassie stole my embroidered baby blanket, one of the only items I got to bring with me when her mother, Rae, took me in.
I cried for hours, feeling like Cassie had ripped a lung straight out of my chest, while Rae and I looked for my beloved heirloom.
We found it behind the toilet of one of the guest rooms on the top floor of the house.
Cassie had doused it in bleach and hidden it in the tight spot.
The smell never went away, the embroidery destroyed. It was ruined, forever.
“I love all of your pictures,” I say, cheerfully. I know what she wants and I give it to her, always.
“Well, yes,” Cassie says, like she’s so pleased with herself. “I saw your comments.”
Of course I left comments. I needed to pretend that everything was normal, that I hadn’t actually followed her and Olivier to Paris, right after dropping them off at the airport.
“It looks dreamy. I’m so happy for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Cassie sounds suspicious, but it won’t last long.