“How can you be so crazy and yet so wise?”

  “Easy. Those two words mean the same thing. Also, Mads, you know he’s going to try to fix things again, right?”

  I think for a second before responding. Josh isn’t one to give up easily, but I was firm with him yesterday—definitely more than I’ve ever been.

  “Just prepare yourself for it,” she says. “Like, actually prepare how you’ll respond so that he doesn’t suck you back in with smooth promises and apologies.” She lets that sink in for a few seconds. “Okay, now to the good stuff! Tell me more about tonight.”

  When I hang up with Siena, I’m feeling a lot better. She’s right. There’s no sense in beating myself up over what I am or am not feeling. And I should be taking advantage of this time in Paris. Who knows if I’ll ever come again?

  Rémy’s face stares back at me from my phone screen, and the thought that our friendship will become some blip on the radar of my existence tweaks my heart.

  I tap out of the burst photos, feeling the fatigue start to set in. Just before I turn off my screen, a different photo in the app catches my eye. I didn’t even notice it before because my eyes were so focused on finding the ones the photo recycling lady took for us.

  But there are more recent photos than those—photos I don’t remember taking—so I open one of them. It’s me with Laura and Luke in front of me. Behind them is the Eiffel Tower, sparkling.

  I swipe through three more—one of me with my camera to my eye, one of me looking at the camera screen to check my settings, and a last one with my camera at my side and a laugh on my lips. Laura and Luke are laughing, too.

  Rémy must have sneaked these photos while he held my camera bag. And suddenly I’m blinking and swallowing a massive lump in my throat. It’s not a huge deal. They’re just iPhone photos.

  But it is a big deal. Rémy must have really been listening when I mentioned not having good photos of myself. Not only that, but he caught me doing what I love—and in the most magical place on earth (sorry, Disney World).

  I mean, no, these photos he took aren’t going to win an International Photography Award, but they’re a heckuva lot better than most of what I have. And it’s more than that. They say it’s the thought that counts, and guess what? I can’t even count high enough to tell you how much the thoughts these pictures represent are worth to me.

  I chew my lip for a second, then open the messaging app and choose the conversation thread with Rémy.

  Madi: What are you up to tomorrow?

  THIRTY

  MADI

  It’s still dark outside when I pull open the theater curtains next to my bed in the morning. My phone is lying beside me, dead. That’s what I get for sleeping with it next to me when it only had 3% battery. My legs and I were too tired to descend the ladder again to plug it into the only outlet in the room. Apparently French maids of yore were not in the habit of charging their electronics right next to them.

  It took me a while to fall asleep; I couldn’t stop thinking of how part of me was hoping Rémy would kiss me last night in the elevator.

  I have no idea what time it is. It could be 3 a.m., or it could be 7 a.m., but based on how I feel, I’m thinking it’s closer to the latter. I make my way down the ladder, wincing as the muscles in my legs protest, then use my hand as a charger detector since it’s too dark to see things clearly.

  It takes a minute for my phone to turn on once it’s plugged in. 7:09. Not bad, Madi. A text rolls in. It’s Siena, but it was sent almost half an hour ago based on the time stamp.

  Siena: This is your friendly BFF morning reminder to just. have. fun.

  Siena: *Treat yo self GIF*

  Siena: Don’t be weird. Don’t stress.

  I’m not sure if she’s still awake, but given that it’s Saturday night, the possibility is pretty high.

  Madi: *GIF of Monica Geller saying “I’m breezy!”*

  Siena: Oh dear heavens.

  Siena: I was just about to go to sleep, but I’m wide awake now, imagining all the terrible things you must be about to do.

  I laugh and head downstairs, wondering if my legs will ever not hurt again. Rémy’s door is still closed—he probably likes to sleep in on Sundays like most of civilization. But some of us are feeling a little too antsy—I mean breezy—about the day ahead to sleep more. Rémy and I are planning to spend it together.

  Not like that. This is for the city guide. Strictly business. But also fun.

  Fun business. But no funny business.

  I go to the kitchen and start making breakfast, grabbing as many slices of bread as my hand can grasp from the pre-sliced bread I bought my first night here. Not because I’m making enough French toast for Rémy, because that might be weird. It’s just because I’m so breezy I can’t be bothered to count the eight slices. And I’m hungry.

  I’ve only managed to make two slices—the stove is tiny, and so is the pan—when Rémy’s door opens. He’s got on black sweats and a shirt that’s still mussed, like his hair, from sleep. It’s a very good look on him. So good that I start to smell the toast burning.

  I hurry and flip it over. It’s probably salvageable with enough syrup. Maybe.

  “Did I wake you up with my clattering in here?” I ask.

  He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “I was summoned by the smell.” He comes up next to me and looks in the pan.

  “It’s an American classic,” I say, glancing up at him to see what he thinks.

  “An American classic called French toast.”

  “Ugh. Is there anything you don’t know about American culture? Also, for the record, Americans just call things French when they want to make them more appealing to people—French fries, French toast, French dressing, French kissi—” I stop. A breezy stop. Not a weird one.

  Okay, so it’s really weird. Would have been much less weird if I had just said the whole word.

  “French kissing?” Rémy supplies. “We’re flattered by the thought that something labeled French is instantly more appealing to you. But French toast really is French. We call it pain perdu.”

  My brows draw together as I slip the piece that’s done cooking onto the plate with the other two slices. “Lost bread?” I’ve been practicing my French on DuoLingo for a few minutes every day, and I’ve been surprised how much is coming back to me. I’ve wronged you, Madame Wilson. You did real good.

  Rémy nods and picks up the package of sliced bread, turning it in his hand to inspect it and gently squishing it. He looks at me with a smile. “‘Lost’ because we make it from old, stale bread.”

  “Very environmentally conscious of you. But not feasible for me, since I would never even consider letting bread go uneaten long enough to go stale. But now that I know that French toast really is French, this breakfast is even better. It’s France meets America. It’s basically you.”

  Rémy reluctantly concedes during breakfast that the American version of pain perdu is a force to be reckoned with.

  “Admit it,” I say. “You have an American palette. Finger Lickin’ Chicken, American French toast . . .”

  “I thought you said no self-respecting American would eat FLC.”

  I stab another piece of toast to put on my plate. “I guess that just means you’re part of the dregs of American society.”

  “Based on how much chicken we ate together last night, I’m confident that I’m in good company. Speaking of which, leave some room in your stomach. We’ll be eating quite a bit today.”

  Rémy and I agreed while texting last night that he would decide on today’s itinerary, and I feel like a kid who’s been promised Disneyland. I’m not sure how much of it is the prospect of seeing more of Paris and how much has to do with the time with Rémy. The combination of those two things is something else.

  We spend the morning finishing up the decorating process, most of which needs to happen in my room. It’s a small space, which makes for a lot of bumping and touching and apologetic glances that end in smiles that make my breath hitch. We switch out the duvet cover and pillowcase, hang new curtains on the window, and change out the old, red velvet curtains for the black and white ones we chose.

  I don’t remember the last time I did something so satisfying. Once everything is in place and the bed has a couple throw pillows, the room actually looks cute. Better even than I had imagined it would.

  “What do you think?” Rémy asks as we survey the tiny room, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Did we manage to make it aesthetically pleasing?”

  “Heck yes, we did. Tourists will eat this up. André should absolutely put maid’s quarters in the room description. If we can find some lurid history associated with the families who lived here, that would be the cherry on top.”

  Rémy chuckles. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Rémy and I go our separate ways, taking turns in the shower and bathroom. I have no idea where he’s taking us, which is very abnormal; I’m a planner. In the beginning, Josh planned our dates, and they were pretty amazing. But over time, things shifted, and I learned that, if I wanted to do anything more exciting than Netflix-and-chilling together, it was up to me to make it happen. Suffice it to say, it’s been a while since I faced a whole day ahead where I have no idea what I’ll be eating or seeing.

  As I’m pulling my hair half-up, my phone buzzes.

  Josh: Hey, Madi. Can we talk today? I’m free anytime, and I’m happy to meet you anywhere.

  Wow. Siena’s prediction ability is uncanny.

  I take in a deep breath and finish fixing my hair, reminding myself I don’t owe Josh anything. I’m already busy today. All day. And I’m looking forward to it way too much to change my plans for him. I’ve already decided what I want with us—or don’t want—so there’s no point anyway.

  Madi: I don’t think that’s necessary. I just need space, Josh. I hope you can understand that.

  Josh: Yeah, of course.

  I let out a breath. It feels good to set a boundary like that.

  I come down from my room with my camera bag over my shoulder just as Rémy emerges from his room.

  “Nice timing,” he says.

  It’s fine, Madi. He’s just a normal human boy. There’s no need to ogle him. It’s harder than it sounds. He’s wearing a double-breasted shawl-neck sweater that hugs his shoulders and chest. Who knew I could be jealous of clothing?

  By now, I’ve realized that Rémy looks magazine-worthy no matter what he wears or how his hair is styled. But since I’m being super breezy, I will take a Doctor Seuss vow not to admire him right now. Or ever.

  I would not, could not in a sweater.

  I will not, shall not in cold weather.

  I’ve been running under the assumption that we’ll be walking or maybe taking the metro wherever we’re going, but once we’re out of the building, Rémy leads us to a set of bike racks.

  He watches me as I look them over. “Don’t worry. Just follow me, and I promise to keep you safe. Ring the bell if you want me to stop, whether it’s for a site you want to see or because you don’t feel comfortable on the bike.”

  I take in a deep breath and nod, my chest buzzing with excitement and nerves. But Rémy’s given me every reason to trust him, so I’m going to do just that. Plus, yesterday was a great lesson in how much there is to gain living life right up against those fears of mine.

  It’s warm enough today that there’s no ice on the ground and sunny enough to heat my back as we cruise through the chill December air. At first, I’m a bundle of nerves, but once it becomes clear that the cars are aware of us and that Rémy is going at a leisurely pace, I begin to relax more and more. We follow the main road until we take a left behind the Hôtel de Ville and a right once we pass it.

  And then, it’s bliss. There’s a trail along the Seine, which means we don’t have to worry about cars at all. All I have to do is avoid clipping the pedestrians. Rémy uses his bell liberally, though, alerting them of our approach. My mouth is stretched in a huge smile, and it’s only partially voluntary, since the air rushing into my face has dried my teeth so that my lips refuse to close over them. I embrace it, knowing my cheeks will likely be as sore tomorrow as my thighs are today.

  Rémy takes us past the Obelisk and up the Champs-Elysées, both of which are decked out for the holidays. We saw the line of bright red and white lights from the Eiffel Tower last night. In the light of day, it’s almost as spectacular. We take a slow pace uphill, distracting ourselves from the complaints of our thighs with the shop windows, full of lavish Christmas displays.

  We drop off our bikes on one of the streets that intersects with the Champs-Elysées, leaving a quarter of a mile of the street to do on foot. At the top stands the massive Arc de Triomphe in all its glory.

  “What do you say?” Rémy asks as we lock the bikes up alongside the two dozen others. “Are you ready for a snack?”

  “Psht. Am I ready?” I say dismissively. “Americans invented snacking.”

  “Like you invented French toast?”

  “Like we invented, Rémy. You’re American too, and you will acknowledge that if it’s the last thing I do. But to answer your question, yes. I’m absolutely ready for a snack.”

  He leads us to Ladurée, a pastry shop straight out of my dreams. The windows are full of Christmas wreaths made of macarons and Christmas trees made of other decadent pastries. The overhang welcoming us inside is minty green and gold, its ornate design promising something impressive inside.

  It does not overpromise. Checkered tile floors, elaborate gold and green trim lining every wall and ceiling, and a black display case with gold-leafed carvings.

  As we wait in line, my eyes scan the rows of pastries. All I can think is what time they open and close and whether I can afford to eat here for every meal of every day until I leave.

  When it’s our turn to order, I’m relieved to discover that Rémy is taking charge, because I wouldn’t have the first idea how to choose amongst all of this. Based on what the lady starts gathering up, he’s ordered a variety of macarons. As I watch the woman carefully take one out with white and red swirls and a chocolatey (I hope) center, I’m salivating like I didn’t eat a supersized breakfast of French toast just a couple of hours ago.

  The box holding the macarons is so pretty it feels like a crime to open it. But given that I know what’s inside, I embrace a life of crime.

  Rémy and I sit down on a bench outside, and he opens the box, pointing to each macaron one by one. “Peppermint chocolate, raspberry ginger, pistachio, blackcurrant violet, orange blossom, and caramel.”

  I take a bite of the orange blossom macaron, then offer Rémy the rest, and we continue that routine. The whole situation is a pretty great approximation of heaven—soft, chewy macaron in my mouth, an (attractive) friend at my side, the nip of Christmas air counteracted by the mild warmth of the sun on my face, and the prettiest city in the world in every direction.

  I look at the sign in one of the windows of Ladurée and read it aloud in halting French. “Les meilleurs macarons de Paris.”

  Rémy looks over at me. “You have a good accent.”

  “And you’re a terrible liar,” I quip. “Is that true, though? Best macarons in Paris?”

  “The gospel truth,” Rémy says. “According to Ladurée, at least. Pierre Hermé is another place that makes the same claim.”

  “Hmm,” I say as he closes the empty box. “Sounds like we better verify for ourselves.”

  “I agree.” The way he smiles at me makes me feel very unbreezy. In fact, I might be having a hot flash.

  The next stop is the Arc de Triomphe, where Rémy insists we go to the top. I’m such a certified Parisian elevator pro now and my quads are burning so badly that I’m almost wishing there was one here, no matter how old and rickety. But the views from the top make me forget the panting, the dizziness from the spiral staircase, and the pain in my legs.

  Watching the crazy traffic surrounding the arch, seeing the streets fan out in every possible direction, admiring the view down the Champs Elysées and the one of the Eiffel Tower—I will never forget it. Partially because I have my camera.

  After spiraling back down the stairs, we head on foot for the opulent opera house and more macarons from Pierre Hermé. Those macarons are a completely different experience—creative flavor combinations I never would have thought to pair, like milk chocolate passion fruit—and Rémy and I agree that both stores deserve to tout themselves as having the best macarons in Paris.

  After that, we’re off to Galeries Lafayette, a shopping center where I stand with my jaw gaping open and my head tilted back for a full hundred and seventeen seconds. Rémy timed it. And filmed some of it.

  The Christmas tree in the middle of the shopping center stands almost seventy feet high and is covered from top to bottom in lights and glittering ornaments bigger than my head. Even without the tree, though, the shopping center is a feast for the eyes. With it, I’m speechless.

  So I pull out my camera. Because, when words don’t suffice, I just have to hope that maybe my camera can capture some of it.

  I take a couple shots and fiddle with the dials, trying to decide what will work best for the ambient lighting.

  “What are you doing?” Rémy asks, watching my hands with curiosity.

  “Adjusting my settings.”

  “What does that one do?” He points to the dial I just tweaked.

  “It’s called aperture. It changes how much light I let into the camera and how large the focus plane is.”