FORTY-EIGHT ARABELLA

FORTY-EIGHT

Arabella

THE FLIGHT IS UNEVENTFUL. We take off on time and the trip is smooth. I try to fall asleep but it’s not easy. My thoughts are too chaotic, too full of a sad Rowan watching me leave. We texted for the last hour of me waiting in the airline lounge, after he arrived back at Lancaster Prep. He is supposed to leave for his parents’ house early Saturday morning, and he told me that the campus was quiet. Downright ominous. No one was really there, save for him and Beau, and he was contemplating leaving that night after all.

I told him he should and he agreed. And then I lost all connection with him while I flew to another country to start my new life. Without him. Without any of my friends. Dependent on my parents.

Talk about taking a risk.

Once the plane touches ground, I send him a text letting him know that I landed, and he responds, saying he’s at home, already in bed.

I’m jealous. His house is my favorite place to go.

I’m grateful my mother arranged for an escort to take care of me at the airport when I arrive in Paris, because I feel helpless. Even a little scared. The man greets me within seconds of my leaving the plane and he helps me through customs, picking up my luggage and escorting me outside to the driver that’s waiting to take me to the hotel.

It’s a long drive, made worse by traffic. The car is a sleek, newer model Mercedes and the driver is silent, listening to the radio, which plays nothing but songs sung in French. I stare outside the window, watching the city rush past me, the sky gloomy and dark. The streets are wet and everyone is bundled up, and I’m thankful I wore my favorite coat that feels like being embraced by a real-life teddy bear. It’s cozy and warm and a little bit of a comfort, though not nearly enough.

By the time we arrive at the hotel, I’m exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. I don’t care if my mother told me I should try to stay up and get through the day to adjust to the time. I didn’t get much rest on the plane and all I can think about is falling into a deep, dreamless sleep for hours.

I texted my mother to let her know I was on my way, and she greets me inside the hotel lobby, gliding across the marble floor and sweeping me into her arms while I just stand there and take it.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you! It’s been too long. Let me look at you.” She pulls away from me, her hands still on my arms as her gaze sweeps over me. “You look tired.”

“Gee thanks. Nice seeing you too.” I look around the opulent lobby, my gaze snagging on the stairwell with the intricate iron railing. “Please tell me that leads up to our room.”

“What?” She turns to examine what I’m staring at. “No, darling. Our elevator is over here.”

I let her take my hand and lead me to this other mysterious elevator while she’s telling the bellman in French where to take my luggage. I don’t say anything. I’m too tired, like she said. Mentally spent and in desperate need of sleep.

We ride up in the narrow elevator with the bench seat and I settle on top of it, leaning against the wall and closing my eyes. Mother is talking nonstop about our beautiful suite and how I have my own room, and by the time we’re exiting the elevator and she’s dragging me down the hall, I’m ready to beg her to please stop talking.

Maybe that’s where I get it from.

The room is ridiculously extravagant because of course it is, and I come to a stop to look at the sketches that are framed in gold that hang on the wall.

“Karl Lagerfeld drew those,” Mom informs me, referring to the former designer of Chanel who died a few years ago. “They’re of Coco Chanel.”

“Wow.” I love them. I love fashion but it’s like I can’t focus right now. I’m literally swaying on my feet, reminding myself of Hadley last weekend when she got drunk.

“This is the Coco Chanel suite. You saw the sign on the door, no?” Mother’s delicate brows shoot up, her expression almost … condescending?

“I didn’t notice.” I try to smile. “I’m so tired, Mother. I’d like to sleep for a bit.”

“You shouldn’t, my darling. Try and stay up for a while, don’t you think? Maybe you should take a nice shower.”

“That will only make me sleepier.” I glance around the neutral-toned living area. “Where’s Father?”

“He’s still in Hong Kong. Working.” The brittle smile on her face is surprising. She doesn’t seem pleased. “He hopes to be here in the next few days.”

“The next few days?” I’m frowning so hard my forehead hurts. “Why are we here so early then? Christmas isn’t for another two weeks!”

“More like ten days, but who’s counting? And doesn’t it sound like fun, going Christmas shopping here? We can wander around the Rue Cambon or perhaps the Avenue Montaigne? The Dior store is to die for there, and I notice you’re wearing your loafers. Perhaps we could pick you up some new shoes. A bag or some clothes.” Mother beams, her hands clasped in front of her, and I try to smile in return but it feels too forced. Too fake.

I let it drop.

“Please just let me sleep for a bit and then we can go shopping?” I fight the yawn that wants to come but give in at the last second, hoping she’ll take it as a hint. “A few hours are all I ask for.”

“All right, darling.” She guides me to the bedroom that will be mine for the next two weeks. “Get some rest. I won’t let you sleep for too long though. You need to get adjusted to the clock here.”

“I have plenty of time for that. Good night.” I practically shut the door in her face, breathing a sigh of relief once she’s out of sight.

I’m disappointed that my father isn’t here, but I’m also not surprised. This is how he operates. Consumed with work, always putting it above his family no matter what. I’ve maybe had two conversations with the man in the past four years, no joke. I’m not even sure he’d recognize me on the street if I walked past him. For that matter, I’m not sure if I’d recognize him, it’s been that long since I’ve spent time in his presence.

Banishing all thoughts of my father out of my mind, I take a quick shower and then dry myself off with the thick, peach-colored towels The Ritz is known for. I wrap myself in a hotel robe and run a brush through my hair before I exit the bathroom.

I come to a stop when I hear the low tones of my mother’s voice. Without thought, I whip open my bedroom door to find my mother pacing around the living area, her phone pressed to her ear.

“… I can’t get away right now. No, she just arrived, but she’s sleeping.” She pauses and I can hear a man’s voice. My father’s? I can’t tell. “What if she wakes up and discovers I’m not here?”

More talking from the other person on the phone while my mother goes to the window that overlooks the Vendome, pushing back the curtains and staring outside. I can practically feel the nervous energy emanating from her and I retreat, carefully closing the door so she doesn’t hear me.

Who is she talking to? I don’t think it’s my father.

I don’t know who it is.

W HEN I CRACK my eyes open, the room is dark, the drapes pulled tightly closed, not allowing even a sliver of light in. I sit up in bed, shoving my hair out of my face, looking around. Completely disoriented.

Real life dawns slowly. I’m in Paris. At The Ritz.

Reaching toward the nightstand, I grab my phone and tap the screen to check the time. It’s past five o’clock, closer to five thirty.

I slide out of bed and peek through the curtains to see it’s dark outside and the street lamps are on. The sun has already set. I slept the entire day away and my mother let me.

Odd.

I flop back into bed and check my phone, smiling when I see how many texts I have from Row.

Rowan: I bet you’re sleeping.

Rowan: I miss you.

Rowan: Text me when you wake up. My mom says hi.

Rowan: She misses you. Everyone does.

This text is accompanied by a photo of his beautiful mom in the kitchen, waving at the camera, a frowning Beau right behind her.

I miss her. I miss all of them. I’m in an unfamiliar place with my mother who feels like a stranger and I’d rather be with Rowan’s family. When I was there, I felt like I was home and I barely knew them.

Well, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. I know them. I know Rowan especially. And I miss him terribly.

Me: I’m awake. I slept all day. I can’t believe my mother let me.

Rowan: Why wouldn’t she let you? I’m sure you’re exhausted. You didn’t sleep on the plane?

Me: I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking too much.

Rowan: About what?

Me: You.

My eyes fill with tears and I wipe them away, frustrated. I can’t keep this up. All the crying isn’t good for me.

Rowan: I love you.

Seeing those three words just makes me cry more.

Me: I love you too.

My phone rings in my hands and I gasp, dropping it onto the duvet. It’s my mother and I pick my phone back up, answering her call.

“You’re awake!” is how she greets me. I can hear the murmurs of conversation in the background, the clinking of glasses. Music. “You should come down here and have drinks with us.”

“Where are you?”

“At Bar Hemingway, in the hotel. It’s marvelous here. And you can drink legally since you’re eighteen now.” Her voice warms. “Come down, darling. You’ll love it. We’ll save you a seat.”

“Who are you with—” She ends the call before I can finish my sentence.

What is going on?

I receive another text from Rowan as I’m crawling out of bed.

Rowan: Are you going out to dinner tonight?

Me: My mother is currently in the Hemingway Bar and basically demanded I go down and join her.

Rowan: Is your father with her?

Me: No. He’s still in Hong Kong. He’s a workaholic and won’t be here for another few days. I’m sure he’ll drop dead at his desk someday.

I’m rifling through my suitcase and trying to come up with an outfit when he texts me back.

Rowan: You should take this opportunity to talk to your mom. Try to catch up with her. Make amends. Whatever it is you think you need to do.

I stare at what he just sent me, realizing that he’s right. It would probably help if we had a heart-to-heart. Not that I need to clear the air with her or anything, but I would love to get to know the woman who gave birth to me.

Me: That’s a good idea. I think I’ll try and do that.

Rowan: Text me later and let me know how everything goes.

Me: I will.

I send him a string of red heart emojis and he sends me a bunch of kissy face emojis in return.

Smiling, for the first time in days, I feel confident. Maybe everything is going to work out after all.