Chapter 1 Taylor
Taylor
Now
Sometimes Paris is a terrible idea.
The shiny gray taxi spits me out onto the narrow street, then continues on before disappearing around the corner.
This is the Paris of postcards or, rather, of Instagram.
The cobblestones are charmingly uneven, a centuries-old church peeks above leafy trees, and ornate lampposts line the sidewalk.
The air smells sweet and damp, the asphalt still wet from rain, but the sky is bright and cloudless.
It’s early afternoon on an otherwise lovely summer day.
I’ve so often dreamed of this trip, but I never imagined it would happen like this, with my mind in disarray and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The few passersby pay no attention to me, or at least see nothing wrong with me. So I approach the hotel, take in the SONNEZ SVP sign, and ring the bell as instructed. I listen to the drum of my heartbeat until it’s replaced by the buzz of the door clicking open.
The floor is tiled in a faded geometric pattern, drawing the eye from the lobby to the small café area behind it, which is lit up by a skylight.
There are (probably fake) plants in corners, a bench with stained cushions lining the wall in front of round metal tables, and wiry lights dangling from the ceiling.
It’s plain but modern and looks clean enough.
There weren’t many places still available in Paris—it’s late July, a perfect time to visit—so I booked the first hotel that seemed reasonably priced, expecting the worst, as I always do. As I always have to. But this is…fine. Almost nice even.
There’s a short line to check in, and I go stand behind a bald man in a dark-blue blazer.
He keeps rubbing his hand against his forehead with a handkerchief, which makes me realize I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion.
I’m wearing skinny black jeans, a gray V-neck T-shirt with tiny holes at the seams from being washed too many times, my trusty lace-up boots, and the leather jacket I found in the trunk of my car after I parked at the airport.
Not summer attire. Not Paris chic. A few minutes later, the bald man pockets his key card and rolls his flimsy suitcase toward the tiny elevator I’m only now noticing.
It’s my turn.
I step forward, meeting the eyes of the attendant behind the counter.
“Madame,” he says softly, warmly.
He’s about my age, late twenties, with sharp features: a crooked nose, a thick mane of dark hair, pitch-black eyes, and tan skin that contrasts with the white of his perfectly ironed shirt. He’s tall and lanky, his fingers so long and delicate that I fixate on them for a moment.
“Checking in?” he says, assuming that I don’t speak French.
I think about correcting him, but I don’t want to attract attention to myself. I can be your average American tourist. Unremarkable, clueless. That’s what I’ve been most of my life. It’s not hard.
“Oui.” The word catches in my throat.
His face brightens with a soft glow as he smiles. I shouldn’t be noticing this.
“May I have your name?”
He’s asking but it’s not really a question. It’s a thing men do, making you feel like you have a choice, like you’re in control, when in fact, they’re the ones pulling the strings. By the time you realize you’ve been played, it’s too late to stop the game.
“Taylor Quinn,” I say, staring him in the eyes.
Amir—that’s the name on the tag pinned to his shirt—raises an eyebrow as he checks his computer. “I don’t see a reservation.” His tone is apologetic. Kind. “May I ask when you booked with us?”
I take a deep breath. It’s an innocent question. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t.
“Last night,” I say. “Though I guess it was early morning Paris time. It was a little…spur of the moment.”
If he sees the tension on my face, he doesn’t show it. “Ah, yes! The system can be…how do you say…buggy with last-minute reservations. Here you are. I see you now.”
There’s something about the way he says it—with his thick, singing accent, that makes my spine tingle. He sees me. I am being seen.
Then something changes in his face. His smile widens and his eyes fill with surprise. “Oh, um…congratulations!”
He looks behind me and scans the small lobby, his expression turning more into a question mark with every passing second.
“I’m sorry?” I say, following his gaze.
There’s a couple behind me, loaded up with two small children and double the amount of suitcases. They looked pained, showing more than a hint of impatience at all the time this is taking. I don’t disagree.
Amir shoots another glance at the front door, but whatever he’s looking for, it’s not there. “It says on your booking”—he points at his screen, frowning—“that this is your honeymoon.” He lowers his voice on the last word, as if sharing a dirty secret.
Oh, that.
It had sounded like such a wonderful idea: a Paris honeymoon.
A lifelong dream of visiting the City of Lights, the real love I’d been waiting for finally coming along, fantasies shared in the dead of the night.
And then…I see myself pounding the steering wheel of my car with a rage I often suspected was inside me but had never let out.
Looking over my shoulder as I marched into JFK airport.
Heading to the ticket counter and asking if there was space on the next flight to Paris.
There was! There was. And how did I want to pay?
Cash. Cash? The airline representative’s curious tone when she asked; my eyes struggling to meet hers when I confirmed.
Yes, cash. The words resonated between my temples, because they couldn’t have come out of my mouth, could they?
I wasn’t really going to Paris right then and there, was I?
The question circled in my head in an endless loop as I sat straight in 37E, while all around me screens lit up with the latest superhero movies or old episodes of Friends.
And then they closed the door. We were about to take off, and the voice on the PA system was asking all passengers to switch off their phones.
My mind scrambled as I tried to think ahead to what I needed: somewhere to sleep.
I typed in the keywords frantically, half hiding my phone under the leather jacket on my lap as a flight attendant, with a bun so tight I could see the shape of her skull, moved through the cabin.
After I selected a hotel and room type, there was a question: What is the purpose of your trip? I wrote the truth.
Amir keeps staring past me, but if he’s looking for the husband part of this honeymoon, he’ll be waiting a long time.
I’m not prepared to share that information, so, when the silence has gone on too long, he clears his throat. “If there’s anything we can do to make this special trip even more memorable, please let us know.”
“Well, um, thank you,” I say, pretending not to notice the amused look on his face. “Merci beaucoup,” I correct myself, as if it’s going to make me look any less like a sad excuse for a newlywed.
He moves along gracefully. “I’ll need your passport and a credit card.”
I hang on to my bag tighter, my fingers gripping around the worn cross-body strap. “Excuse me?”
The young family shifts behind me, mumbling a little louder. Their children have started to roam around the lobby, and the boy is attempting to climb inside a cleaning cart parked by the wall.
“It’s something we have to do,” Amir says. “For safety. And it’s the law. We have to record everyone who comes through here.”
The law. It makes me shiver.
Of course hotels require identification. I knew that. But I hadn’t thought about leaving a trace. No one can know I’m here. Now I have no choice. I carefully unzip my bag and slip my hand inside to retrieve my passport. It’s crisp and clean. Never used before. I hand it over.
“Will you take cash?” I say.
Cash is the one thing I happen to have plenty of.
“Absolutely, madame,” he says as he turns around to face the small copier on which he flattens my passport, cracking the spine open.
While he’s not looking, I open my bag a little more.
Wads of bills threaten to spill out, dollars mixed with the euros I changed at the airport, all fighting for space.
I never actually counted the money. I saw it and took it, like it was mine.
Ten or maybe twenty thousand dollars, that’s my guess.
More money than I’d ever held in my hands.
“Did you have a nice trip over?” Amir says, taking the bills I pushed his way.
“Yes, very nice, merci.”
“And will you need help with your luggage?”
I don’t know what comes over me. The exhaustion, maybe, or the dreadful realization that my life has been slipping away from me, the spiral going downward faster and faster, the end an inevitable crash.
“It was stolen. We… My… It’s just me for now.” The words come out in a whisper, and then it’s too late to take them back.
Another attendant arrives then, a woman with long red hair, also wearing a crisp white shirt. The parents behind me let out an audible sigh of relief at finally getting help.
Amir smiles back at me, like I’m the only one here.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Then, he leans over and lowers his voice.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Paris is not always safe.
I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time, but it can be…
Well, I would watch yourself.” He glances at my bag. “And your belongings.”
So he saw the money. Great. And there I thought I could go unnoticed.
He types on his keyboard for a few more seconds before adding, “I upgraded you to our honeymoon room.”
“Oh,” I say, ready to protest. I’m not used to random acts of kindness.
“It’s on a higher floor, overlooking the courtyard. Not much of a view, but it’s quieter. And there’s a bathtub, too.”
“I won’t need that.” It comes out harsher than I intended, and the confused look on his face makes me think twice. “I mean, merci beaucoup. That all sounds lovely.”
He smiles back. “This way you can relax after everything that happened to you.”
He has no idea how right he is.
“Here you go, Madame Quinn,” Amir says now, giving me the key card.
He doesn’t take his hand back right away and our fingers touch for a brief moment. I hate how that makes me feel. I hate that it makes me feel anything at all.
“And if there’s something we can do to make your stay with us more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to ask. My name is Amir.”
He watches me look at his badge again, an excuse to linger.
I thank him once more—always that need to please, good old Taylor that I am—then make my way to the elevator, clutching the key to my honeymoon room, still not quite believing that I’m doing this.
As the metal doors close in front of me, trapping me inside this tiny box propelling me upward, a cold fact dawns on me.
I’m alone in a foreign city. If anything happens to me, it could be days before I’m found.
But I couldn’t stay home.
I had to get away.
And Paris was my only possible destination.