KING: A Daddy's Best Friend Romance

“Here you are, deux Euro, s’il-vous-plait,” she says.

I hand over a bill and she looks at it with scorn.

“Nothing smaller?” she asks, and shares a look with her fellow barista who is waiting to ring in his customer. I shake my head quickly. If Kelsey were here, I’d have someone to share a look with, myself. If Kelsey were here, she’d be the one ordering for both of us. It’s probably why I’m so fucking useless, because she used to do everything for me.

Kelsey was the one who, when we were just kids, pulled me out onto the playground and made sure I was friends with the others. Sure, she didn’t like it much when I got too close to this one or that one. Then I’d pay for it. But for the most part, being with Kelsey was like having a ticket to the popular kids, to birthday parties and later, to boys. She was always a bridge to other people, but sometimes she blocked that bridge when she got angry or felt like I might be getting too independent. I realize that now. I thought she was opening me up to new experiences, but I realize she was just providing herself with some kind of safety net.

“Merci,” I choke out.

Don’t see this a failure, Jordan, I tell myself sternly, but inside I’m cringing. Hard.

“De rien,” she says but she’s already turned away. I resist the habit to count my change. I don’t know anything about this currency and the people behind me are grumbling.

I stuff the money in my pocket, grab my coffee, and go.

Once I’m out in the bright sunlight, I lean against a wall and take a sip of what is the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

It’s only then that I realize in my embarrassment I forgot to get any breakfast. My stomach growls and turns a little, the acidity of the coffee harsh on my empty belly.

Oh well, I say brightly, in my mind. There are other shops.

I’m uneasy.

My stomach grumbles as I walk down the wide street. Maybe I’m not in the best area but Paris sure doesn’t seem like it does in the movies. The signs said I was in the Marais section, and it looked good online—filled with culture and excitement, they said. But that’s not what it is, I figure, as I avert my eyes from the sight of someone shooting up in a closed storefront.

Some hippie types are sitting with their dog. One of them is rolling a joint, and the other is playing a stringed instrument that I haven’t seen before. It’s kind of like a ukulele but different. More strings. A small guitar? Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound quite in tune.

The sumptuous pictures I saw online of my room are nothing like the reality either. Clicking through the site, the place seemed so modern, clean, and fresh; almost a miniature apartment with lots of space. In person, it’s funny-shaped. Not square or rectangular. More like a closet. It’s small, and I can only wedge the tiny window open with the door stopper. Otherwise it crashes down.

When the concierge shuffled ahead of me with his key, I was so looking forward to sinking into a tub, or a bed, but all that flew away when he let me in. I could feel my face fall, and I know he saw it. I tried to ask him for a different room, but he said he didn’t speak English. I’m not sure I believe him.

No, this Paris is not like any movies I’ve seen. It’s full of graffiti, people doing drugs in the street. The only thing that seems authentic is the cranky barista. Well, that and the proverbial dog shit covering the sidewalk.

I am starting to wonder if everything is like that once you scratch the surface.

The sun is bright and hurts my eyes a bit as I rush toward the area that contains the Louvre and some other attractions: Eiffel Tower, a grand Ferris wheel overlooking the city, and large parks.

It strikes me that it’s not only the look of the place. Paris doesn’t feel the way I expected being here would feel, either. I rub my stomach to stop its complaining, and consider doing my best to muster up the courage to buy a pastry from a shop, but I’m not quite hungry enough to face humiliation again.

There has to be some kind of cart around the tourist traps that would have English speakers. The food might be questionable, but I’ll grab something there and devour it. Not exactly the Parisian breakfast that I was imagining I’d have. Which I would have, if I weren’t so shy.

Damn you, Kelsey.

I remember sitting on her bed with her in college, and her playing with her globe.

“Look, there,” she said, pointing to a little spot. “That’s Paris. And here’s where we are. We would just have to go all the way around to... here, and we would be in the most beautiful city on earth. The city of love.”

“Can’t I just look on my phone?” I groaned. It wasn’t a question but a complaint. I didn’t really want to follow her across the globe. I was, frankly, getting sick of following her everywhere else.

Who knew I would follow her ghost?

At this point I’m so hungry I can’t wait to walk to the Louvre. I need food now. Chatelet-Les Halles metro station is in front of me, and I decide, that’s it. Who cares if it’s one stop, it’s worth a damn Euro. After all, it’s Kelsey’s money from the will that will be paying for this trip. Might as well spend it, as I’m starting to feel like I earned every cent from living with her.

Louvre-Rivoli is the next station and I wait on the platform, its sharp architecture with its dated browns and creams looking a little sad under the grime of the day.

I notice with a grin that the subway tube is encased in some kind of metal sheath. Mr. King comes into my mind unbidden as the train penetrates the track.

I feel someone hit me in the arm, and there’s a huge, ragged face in mine. He’s speaking French, but roughly, and laughing. It’s partly the shock and partly his demeanor, but I can’t concentrate on what the words are. Suddenly his hands are on my breasts, and at the same time the subway stops.