Chapter 18

If you were considering blindly storming through a country that you’d had never been to, where a little over twenty percent of the population spoke fluent English; penniless, and with nothing but your own righteous anger for company (believe me, it would fizzle out at the first stirrings of hunger you’d realize you were fucked), not even a phone—then I was here to let you know that it was a bad idea.

Zero stars. One hundred percent would not recommend. You’re welcome.

Two hours later, clearheaded and lost, with every last remnant of the breakfast I’d had thoroughly burned off; a kind French gentleman took pity on me and gave me directions to the Hotel Du Pont, just in time really, as I’d started to give serious thought to laying out my jacket for passersby to drop change while I tap danced in my heels.

It would’ve been enough, but he went the extra mile by hailing a taxi down for me and covering the fee despite my many protests. Usually I was wary of the kindness of strangers, but under the current circumstances it didn’t feel I had a lot of choice in the matter, and after thanking him profusely I got in, though I didn’t let my guard down until we rounded a street corner and I saw the hotel.

The world wasn’t such a terrible place after all.

Ignoring the question in the concierge’s eyes, letting my imagination run wild at all the possible combinations of microwaved meals I would soon be shoving down my gullet. As soon as I stepped into the penthouse to the sight of Elijah pacing, however, my appetite dimmed, and I grimaced.

It looked like he’d been running his hands through his hair, and when he whirled around I saw on his face an expression of naked relief. He opened his mouth to say something, ask where I’d been perhaps, and then paused.

In the silence that followed I was assaulted by the memory of his hands on my thighs from just a few hours ago, and I cleared my throat, giving him a brief and awkward nod before wordlessly making a beeline for my room even as my stomach cried out in angry protest.

I’d eat when Elijah retired for the night, and upon getting to my room, I shut the door behind me, turning the bolt and pausing to lean my head against the sturdy frame of the door. A moment passed and then I felt tears begin to prickle at the corner of my eyes, which didn’t surprise me as I’d had a long day.

I was exhausted, hungry, and reeling from the fact that despite everything I’d told myself it’d taken only a moment with my guard down to find myself dry humping Elijah. I was pathetic, and the fact that if I concentrated hard enough I could still feel the ghost of his fingers over my skin didn’t help matters so I decided to take matters into my own hands and stripped, letting my clothes pool around me as I padded to the bathroom, where I let my tears fall freely as high-pressured jets of hot water battered me until my skin felt tender, red, and wrinkled.

I toweled myself dry, crawling beneath the white duvets after I was finished to drift into a light nap that I woke up from as soon as I heard a series of soft knocks. I didn’t know how long I’d been out for, but my eyes cracked open, and for a second I thought I’d misheard but then they came again, three knocks in quick succession.

It was Elijah, and with this realization I froze, making no sudden movements. Let him think that I had drifted off to sleep. He knocked a third time, and when I didn’t answer I heard a soft plink as he gently placed something down the marble floors in front of my bedroom door. He remained there for a moment for a moment, and then I heard him shuffle around the apartment for a whole ten minutes after that and didn’t move a muscle until I heard the soft click of his door as he shut it behind him.

I remained on my bed for twenty minutes after just in case before shuffling out of it, blankets wrapped around me toga style as I marveled at how quietly the locks turned, how quietly the doors slid open.

My eyes landed on a tray, and from the aromas that wafted up I knew as soon as I saw it that Elijah had thought of the fact that I hadn’t had a bite to eat since that morning. This was a peace offering.

I paused to make sure that he wasn’t about to open the door before picking it up and nudging the door closed behind me. A note fluttered out of the tray, and when I’d deposited the load on my bedside table I doubled back to pick up the piece of paper, then turned it up to see what’d been scribbled onto it.

Three words. Eight letters. It read: I am sorry.

•

In the days that followed we developed a tense but comfortable enough routine, taking our meals separately and speaking only when we needed to, usually after a conference meeting, when we’d go over the notes I’d taken and try to piece it into something new, something to get him more money than he already had. Capitalism at its finest.

It was stifling and I could tell that it baffled Elijah, but he didn’t challenge it so for that at least I was grateful, and to show it I didn’t kick up a fuss when my seats got changed, so I sat one table away from him, next to a serious little South African woman that’d introduced herself to me as Lerato.

Having to walk on eggshells around Elijah chafed at me, and so by the time the weekend finally rolled around I practically itched with a need to get out of our suite and see Paris like I’d planned to, explore.

Saturday, I stayed in to plan, and by Sunday I’d made my decision and I was ready.

I was game for anything that didn’t involve staying cooped up in the apartment, and my subconscious must’ve noticed this as I woke up at a little past six a.m. Even though I’d turned in early for the night I found that I was unable to get back to sleep and after a couple of minutes of trying I got up, squeezing myself into the same pair of tights I’d used to touch down in Paris while I brushed my teeth.

Pressing an ear up against my door revealed that the rest of the apartment was silent, which meant that Elijah was probably still in bed, and I unbarred my door, surreptitiously glancing about to make sure the coast was clear before shuffling to the kitchen, where a quick scan through the fridge revealed that it’d been stuffed full of a fresh batch of readymade room service.

Today was my day, I decided, looking inwards. I would go out and seize the day, ignore the niggling voices at the back of my head—an offshoot of the anxiety—and conquer Paris. I would eat a breakfast of queens, and somehow I imagined that it did not look like microwaved coleslaw. Luckily, even though we hadn’t had cause to use any of it the pantry was stocked full of groceries and within moments I was able to locate some loaves of bread, a row of eggs, and some butter.

I figured that since Elijah was still sleeping a quick bite before I dashed out wouldn’t hurt anyone, and because I was feeling so optimistic I rushed back to my room, rummaging through my handbag until I pulled out my ear buds. Connecting them to my phone, which I left to charge as my Wicked Sexy playlist blared in only my ears I was ready, and within moments I’d cracked open a couple of eggs and was happily whisking away as I busted moves, feeling lighter than I had in, well, days.

I must’ve been fluttering around in my own little bubble of joy for an eternity because once I turned to deposit my second batch of omelets into the plates I’d been stacking them on my eyes landed on Elijah, who stood leaning against the wall opposite the corridor where our rooms were situated.