Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,61
snails, pig’s feet, beef tongue, or calf’s head—I did not care. That expression hungry enough to eat a bear? I was there.
“Bienvenue à Paris, Chelsea,” Zoe said. She kissed me once on each cheek and pressed the key to the apartment into my hand. “I will let you know if the airport calls about your luggage.”
“Thank you,” I said.
When the door closed after Zoe, I crossed to the window and watched as the sun began to set and the lights of the city blinked on one after another. I hugged myself tight. I wanted quite desperately to be brave, to be a better, stronger version of myself, but without a decent change of clothes or fresh underwear, it was hard to feel like anything other than a sad bedraggled waif. I could feel the DJ of the pity party starting to ramp up the “Why Me?” tune in my soul. I shut that shit right down.
Having met so many cancer survivors during my years with the ACC, I never allowed myself to whine over minor misfortunes, because the truth of it was “Why Not Me?” Bad things happened to everyone. Full stop. The only grace to be found was in how you handled it. And so I took in the amazing lights rolling out to the horizon and the blue strobe light sweeping across the cityscape from the peak of the Eiffel Tower, and I thought that of all the places I might find my old self, Paris seemed the most likely. At least, I hoped so.
chapter thirteen
I AWOKE TO the feel of downy feathers crunched under my cheek. The light was wrong for my apartment in Boston, which would be a dreary gray at best, given that my bedroom overlooked an alley and any incoming sun was blocked by the building next door. It was also wrong for Ireland. Mornings there began with a thick fog that had to be burned away layer by layer before the sun could light up the green hills.
This light was different. It was bright and stark, illuminating all the cobwebs in my mind and scaring the spiders away. Or maybe it was just that I’d been so stupid tired that I’d forgotten to draw the curtains and the light was blasting into the small apartment like God’s flashlight, waking me up at . . . I reached for my phone to check the time. Oh yeah.
The smell of fresh-baked bread was the final nudge I needed to get out of bed and face the day. Surely the café would be open and serving breakfast by now, no matter what time it was. Without a change of clothes, I’d had to rinse out my underthings and let them dry on the heated towel rack in the bathroom. The rest of my clothes, minus the T-shirt I’d slept in, I’d hung up so they could air out. This had taken the absolute final bit of my energy last night.
I climbed down from the loft and pulled on my mostly dry underthings and yesterday’s clothes. When I arrived downstairs, the café was already doing a brisk business. People were standing in line, voices were engaged in rapid-fire conversations that I couldn’t have followed with a translator at my elbow, and the smell of cinnamon pastries and coffee hung in the air like the most delectable perfume.
There was no sign of Zoe behind the counter, so I assumed she came in later. I ordered an espresso and a pain aux raisins, which melted in my mouth and made me long to eat four more. I resisted. The lure of Paris and a desperately needed change of clothes called to me like a siren to a sailor. The woman working at the counter—her name tag read Annalisse—had been there the night before, and I asked her if the airline had called about my missing luggage. Annalisse shook her head regretfully with a look of pained sympathy. At least, I hoped it was sympathy.
I wondered if she was merely reacting to me because my clothes appeared distressed, as if they’d arrived in Paris under their own power, swimming down the Seine, perhaps. Despite my overnight airing out, both my pants and shirt felt as if they had a lot of miles on them. I did the sly stretch and sniff to see if my top was offensive. I didn’t smell anything, but that didn’t necessarily mean I was okay. I had once heard that people become immune to their