The expression that darkened Patrick’s face was one I’d never seen on him, I’d never seen on anyone. It was one of hatred—the pure, unabashed kind. His hand tore off my shoulder as if my skin was burning him. an aYou’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he whispered, spewing his hate through his teeth. “I was wrong about you all along. You don’t deserve him.”
This, I’d always known.
“Get out of my sight,” he said, motioning me away with his hand. “You disgust me.”
I inhaled in an attempt to stall, racking my mind for something I could say to him. I should have anticipated it, but Patrick’s reaction was causing my already broken heart to shatter.
I shouldered my bag and stepped out of the cab, knowing I’d never be a passenger in it again. I shut the door behind me. “See you around, Patrick.”
He sniffed and I heard him shift into gear. “I certainly hope not.” The Bronco’s wheels squealed away from me, leaving me with nothing other than two streaks of black as a farewell.
I tried to pull my shoulders back and inhale a dose of bravery, but I’m sure my shoulders slumped lower than before and the only thing I breathed in was the bitterness of what-could-have-been. So this was how it was going to be. Oh what I had to look forward to in my eternity. Although I had one thing: the knowledge that he’d be safe. I had that and it would have to be enough.
The sliding doors whirred open as I entered the airport, making a beeline to the departure screen a couple hundred feet down the terminal. It was late and, although Missoula International was a long stretch from fitting a jet-setter, there was still a broken line of zombies streaming through the terminal from the just-arrived red-eyes.
I halted in front of the black screen, scanning down the list of departures that would be boarding in a few hours when the early morning flights commenced. Letting fate have its way with me, I employed a technique I’d used months ago and a lifetime back.
I closed my eyes and circled my index finger in the air. My erratic circle making stopped and I pointed at some location in the world that would become home sweet home, or at least home sweet now. When I opened my eyes, a laugh escaped my throat, although it sounded everything but benign. “Paris,” I muttered, shaking my head. Perfect, I thought The city of love . . .
Score: Fate—1, Bryn—Zippo.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PARIS
It took five weeks and three days to deplete my roll of cash. Pretty sad considering the wad of ones, fives and a few twenties were my life savings. A one-way ticket from Missoula to Paris hadn’t been a bargain and my apartment—if that’s what you’d call a structure with walls consisting more of patch plaster than the original drywall—on the Rue St. Denis had blown through the rest of my cash.
Knowing Rue St. Denis’ reputation—and it wasn’t for its croissants or berets— from a vacation I’d taken with my parents when I was sixteen, I’d expected to find a space to rent for next to nothing.
Like most things, I was immensely mistaken.
I couldn’t comprehend how an eighteen by twenty square foot studio with a mouse hole for a bathroom in the red light district of Paris could go for as much as one of those zippy little Cessna’s I dodged on a daily basis. Given what I paid, one would have expected they’d found the sole mansion on the Rue St. Denis, but as the cobwebs and cracked window in my apartment’s one and only room proved, my living quarters were a wrecking ball’s dream.
Being Immortal, I could have saved myself the Clorox and money and moved from street-bench to street-bench, not having to worry about inclement weather or hooligans. I pitied the person who put an unwanted hand on me, not knowing if I’d kill them with the same ease as I had the last one.
Here was the thing though, roaming in a foreign land, alone and feeling exiled made me feel more animal than human at times. Having nowhere to call my own other than the park or bench I rested my head on would have sent me into the world of barbarianism.
So that’s why I couldn’t lose my apartment—dilapidated in the extreme, its existence threatened by a strong windstorm. It was the last fiber weaving me into the world of warm-blooded beings. And maybe I felt such an affinity for it because, just like me, the apartment was trying to make it, one day at a time.
However, all nostalgia aside, I was going to lose it if I didn’t find a way to scrounge up some money. Soon.
The door of the café chimed, announcing my arrival. I’d only taken a year and a half of French, but it was enough so I could make out the sign in the window that loosely translated to, Help Wanted.
“Bonjour,” the woman behind the counter called out, continuing to layer chocolate-dipped biscotti into the display case.
“Bonjour,” I greeted back, trying to sound cheery, hoping it would bode well when she discovered I wasn’t a paying customer but a job applicant. I didn’t even have one euro to buy a shortbread cookie. “Je m’appelle Bryn,” I began, approaching the woman.
She looked up at me, a note of impatience in her expression. My brain shut down, losing purchase of the phrase I’d memorized weeks back when I’d first gone hunting for a job. I attempted to reboot it, but it sputtered short and shut down again. “Je . . . need,” I stuttered, cursing myself for throwing in an English word. “Je—Je voudrais . . .” I tried again, sounding like I had a stuttering problem. The impatience on her face grew pronounced, so I pointed at the sign in the front window and blurted out, “I’m here about the job.”