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Jordan
When I wake up in the morning, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. The high ceilings, the ornate plaster moulding, the billowing sheer curtains filtering the
early morning light.
I sit up, startled, in bed and glance around until it makes sense. This is R’s room. The penthouse. We spent the night together.
And now he's… gone?
I slide from the tall bed, my bare feet plunging into the thick pile of a luxurious rug. My head is still a little bit filled with cotton wool after all that wine I drank last night. What was that, three glasses? More? Is it possible that the wine in Paris is stronger than the wine in the United States?
I’ll bet it is. I bet it's just all part of this Disneyland fantasy of the weird European experience they've put together. Of course it is. How much more lurid can all this get? Of course they spike the wine with roofies or hallucinogens or something. That is so like the French.
Tiptoeing around the perimeter of the room, I look for signs of R. What am I supposed to do now? What does spending the night together mean, exactly?
But when I see the tented note card near the window, glowing softly as the morning light hits the thick, creamy paper, I already have my answer. It doesn't mean anything. He's gone, and I know it.
The note is handwritten, and I can't help notice that his handwriting is a luxurious scrawl, with long flowing lines and a bit of a flourish. It reads simply: “Urgent business. I'll return. Please stay as long as you like. – King.”
The note trembles in my hand until I finally drop it back on the mirrored silver tray. Please stay as long as I like? He can’t believe that I would stay. In fact, I told him I needed to leave. What am I supposed to do, just linger in his suite, propping myself up in the various locations like some tragic silent film figure, longing for her absent lover? Seriously?
Should I lean against the antique dresser and gaze at the ceiling? Fling myself across the bed and weep? Lean out the window and stare longingly into the street below while soft accordion music plays?
Given my slight hangover, all of those things actually don't sound too far from possibility. I could use a bit of a lie down.
But instead, I shake my head and clench my jaw. I have things to do, business of my own. I have a lot of details to work out, I and might as well get started.
I’m headed back to America, and I’ll have to do it on my own.
I’ll have to do this on my own. It’s going to become a mantra.
Kelsey, I pray. Kelsey, I need you. Help me get out of here. You’re the catalyst for this. I flew all the way across the ocean so that I could learn whatever it is I could from this experience, and now it’s time for me to learn it, and get the fuck out of here.
In the second elevator, I rake my fingers through my hair and put my sandals on, straightening my dress. It’s nothing compared to the Rodarte that King bought me, and for a moment I wish I still had that gorgeous piece, almost wanted to go back to get it. But it’s not me anyway. Where else would I wear such a thing, and besides the ten thousand in price, what’s the cost to me? To not even be able to have my own autonomy? I rubbed my head. Or even safety? Who the fuck is R, and why is he able to do all of this?
Is it just because I let him?
My mind wanders to his stiff cock, that blunt instrument that I had given all the power over me. Or is it the grief that had that power? If it weren’t for my grief, there’s no way I would have sunk myself into this situation. No way I would be on the plane in the first place. And even Kelsey herself—she was the one who originally had power over me.
She never wanted me to develop.
The doors to the elevator open soundlessly, with just a small tinkling bell announcing my arrival in the lobby. I slip out, heading toward the door.
“May I help you?” I hear in a polite voice, but the timbre of the sound makes me feel uneasy. Looking over my shoulder, I see the owner of the voice with a phone cradled at her neck, typing into the computer. She wasn’t even talking to me.
I emerge onto the streets of Paris. How many centuries have women been escaping from their circumstances on this pavement? The light is cold, vacant. The Eiffel Tower, the massive Louvre, the apartment buildings loom down on me. The advertisements, with their familiar images of popular movies but their taglines distorted into French are at once comforting and discomfiting. I take a breath.
You know what? Fuck you, Kelsey, I think. Fuck you for putting me in this situation. If you hadn’t controlled everything about my life I wouldn’t be in this position, running from some man. An engine rolls up beside me, breaking my thoughts. Is it King?
No. Once it passes, I clutch my bag to me and head off to the nearest main intersection. There are shouts of delivery people in the streets as the city wakes up, and my stomach, despite its knots, growls.
Fuck this, I need food. I go into the nearest cafe, anger and hunger taking over my apprehension and finally mobilizing me.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, to the man behind the counter in what I’m sure is heavily accented French. “Cafe s’il-vous plait, et une baguette.” I point to the pastry behind the glass.
He looks at me funny—a smirk in his lips, eyebrow arched. Freaking French. “Baguette?” he repeats.
“Oui,” I say.
