Twelve p.m.

"Watch out for that pile of garbage," Mira cautioned.

Her words of warning to Jake said it all, as they dragged their luggage up a sketchy street in the 18th arrondissement. Their flight had now been officially booked, and they were freshly back in Paris for another twenty-four hours.

"Is that a used diaper?" Jake wondered aloud as they passed by the trash.

"Why are there half-eaten chicken bones in the street? And why doesn't this feel like Montmartre? I thought the 18th arrondissement and Montmartre were one and the same." She wiped the sweat that was pooling at the edge of her forehead. "This is not what Amélie promised me!"

There was indeed no sign of whimsical charm anywhere in the vicinity, in this neighborhood east of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. Somewhere in the back of Mira's mind, she knew it was silly to base expectations off a film that contained literal elements of fantasy. When it came to it though, she was a Paris-bucket-list dreamer on a mission, and that was the side of her that would rule the day. She even had an intricate knowledge of the city's map, cultivated over years of imagining being in Paris. The trouble was, it only extended to the places she cared about, and it certainly didn't include this rough-and-tumble area with its train tracks, used electronic stores, rundown laundromat, and shattered dreams.

While sharing an airport taxi on their journey back to Paris—which had thankfully been reasonably priced—Mira had focused her energy on booking a hotel room online. Jake had simply watched without a care in the world, after informing Mira that Colette, his one-night stand, had been more than happy to make it a two-night affair. He'd even offered to ask Colette if Mira could crash on the floor of her studio apartment. As gallant as that was, Mira would've rather jumped into the Seine, and she didn't even know how to swim.

As for available hotel rooms, tourist season plus Haute Couture Fashion Week had made it nearly impossible to find a hotel that Mira could remotely afford. She'd eventually managed to find a place with one last twin room available, and while the reviews were sparse and the photos uninspiring, she was hardly in a position to complain.

"Is this the place?" Jake asked as they rounded the corner.

With squinted eyes, Mira managed to read the lettering on the faded, potentially pigeon shit–stained sign that read HÔTEL.

"This must be it." She stopped a few feet from the entrance and glanced back at Jake. "Thanks. You can go now."

He seemed surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You said you wanted to make sure this wasn't a human-trafficking trap, and . . ." she gestured to the sign, ". . . since it's clearly a hotel, and this clearly isn't the plot from the movie Taken, you can go." She cleared her throat. "But seriously, thank you; I appreciate the protective Liam Neeson vibes."

His look of surprise shifted to a salesman swagger. "Are you sure you don't need me? You don't even know what's in there." He approached the wooden door that was rotting at the edges. "Hmm . . ." He peered inside the dirty window and frowned. "It could still be a human-trafficking ring disguised as a hotel." He held open the door for Mira. "Once I know it's safe, I'll leave."

Mira stepped inside, and much to her relief it was a real hotel, despite the sorry state of the check-in desk.

"See?" she said assuredly. "You may go now."

"I'll leave once I know the room is safe."

Mira had trouble reconciling his chivalry with the extroverted salesman who only seemed to care about having fun. Except she didn't know him well enough to assess which version was true. "Okay,"—she decided— "you can quickly look at the room."

Instead of the clerk simply giving Mira the key, he led them to the room and even opened the door. "C'est bon?" he asked.

Mira struggled to restrain her disgust. "It's fine," she said, convincing no one. She turned to the clerk. "Merci." He handed her the key and scurried away, not unlike one of the rodents that was probably lurking in the room.

Jake was the first one to step inside, and a few paces later, he was already on the other end of the tiny room. He studied the faded floral blanket that was draped across the small twin bed. "Sixty percent chance of bedbugs."

"Shut up!" She grudgingly made her way in, forcing herself to get used to her temporary home. "And it's just for one night."

"Even so . . ."

"We can't all have booty calls to give us shelter, okay?" She dropped her carry-on onto the floor. "Anyway, I'll be fine. You can go."

Jake examined the dusty window, taking in the view of the adjacent building's wall. "Huh." He spun around. "Do you think we could've made the flight if we'd taken the car? Like I'd suggested?"

"I told you to take the car," she reminded him. "And you followed me to the métro anyway."

"Really? I think it went a little differently."

"No. Nuh-uh." Mira crossed her arms. "Your revisionist history bullshit won't work here." She gestured to the door. "You can go now." To her surprise, his expression transformed into the faux innocent look of someone who'd been holding back. "What's with the face?"

"The thing is . . ." he started, as he retrieved his luggage and rolled it to an empty corner of the room, "Colette has a couple of appointments this afternoon, and she won't be free for another few hours, so . . ."

She rolled her eyes. "Spare me the life story of your one-night stand."

"Two-night stand."

"Sure," she said. "Great. Now what was your point again?"

He folded his hands together like a boy in the Sunday school choir. "I was hoping I could kill some time with you until she's free."

"What do you need me for?" she asked. "You're not exactly lacking in the outgoing department."

He glanced back at the window. "True. But meeting people in broad daylight isn't as easy as meeting people in a bar."

She snorted. "Then go to a café and read a book or something."

"I didn't bring any books," he explained. "And sitting in a café for three whole hours might be lonely." He ran his fingers through his hair, a move that was breaking her down. "What do you say?"

Mira bit her lip. She wasn't convinced about Jake's fear of loneliness, nor was spending time with him any part of her Paris bucket list. Still, she liked the idea of having the upper hand and potentially making him beg, an unhealthy urge she would have to examine later. "You need some company, eh? I see, I see."

The innocent boyish expression returned. "And maybe after, you wouldn't mind coming back with me to open up the room so I can get all my stuff?" He gestured to his bags. "If it wouldn't be too inconvenient?"

She frowned. "Why don't you just leave your stuff with the concierge?"

"That guy? I'm not trusting him with my laptop."

She considered his plight. "You're right; Shirley would kill you if you lost it."

"Are we good then?" He conjured up a dazzling smile. "I'll make it worth your while."

She sneered. "Gross."

"I meant with my charm."

She sighed. "I don't know . . ."

"Please?"

Maybe she'd tortured him enough. "Sure, fine."

"Thank you!" He held out his arms. "Hug?"

Her eyes zeroed in on the sweat stains clearly visible through his shirt. "Nah, I'm good." She grabbed her carry-on and dragged it to the bathroom. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a quick shower."

"Of course, of course," he said beaming. "Whatever the lady wishes."

She studied his face. "I can really see how you bagged that waitress."

His mouth dropped open, just as she'd hoped. Maybe a few hours with Jake wouldn't be so bad.

Mira turned back to face the sliding bathroom door, its composition little more than a plywood-like panel. Weird. A small brass ring was the only door handle in sight, and when she gave it a tug, the panel slid back, revealing a tiny, mildew-encrusted setting. Inside, there was no visible barrier between the shower and the toilet, just the fleeting hope that water wouldn't wind up everywhere.

She wheeled her carry-on back out into the room. "Sure as hell not putting this in there."

Jake snuck a peek into the bathroom. "That bad?"

"That bad."

She unzipped the various pockets, pulling out whatever she needed. Finally, with an armful of items, she returned to the bathroom and slid the wooden panel shut. "Remind me to spend as little time in here as possible," she called out.

"Easy on the yelling," he said, in a voice that was perfectly audible from the other side of the panel. "I can hear you like you're standing right beside me."

"What?!" she whispered in a sudden panic. She glanced at the toilet and then back at the wooden panel. "You have got to be kidding me," she added, forgetting to whisper this time.

"Kidding you about what?"

She slapped a hand over her mouth and stood frozen for at least five seconds. When she regained her ability to move, she pulled out her phone and fired off a text to her best friend Sophie in New York:

Protocol re: going to the bathroom in full earshot of a
male coworker?

She added the poop emoji to make things clear.

Sophie answered back within seconds, a clear sign that her newborn was struggling to sleep on a schedule.

I demand full details later, but for now, abort. I repeat ABORT.

"But I can't abort!"

Mira couldn't believe this ridiculous dilemma was currently a thing that was happening. But was she really to blame? All her life, people and entertainment and advertising messaging had trained her to believe that the body's miraculous functions were embarrassing and gross. She made a quick mental note to write a strongly worded letter to society when all of this was over.

In the meantime, she gave Sophie a thumbs-up and stared at the cheap wooden panel in silence. After what felt like minutes, it came to her.

"Hey, Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that convenience store that was down the street from the hotel?" she asked, doing her best to sound as sweet as possible.

"Not really."

She suppressed the urge to punch a hole through the cheap panel. "It had a sign that said Tabac. Remember?"

"I dunno, maybe."

"It was definitely there," she said through gritted teeth. "When you exit the hotel it's across the street and to the left."

"If you say so."

"Yeah, anyway, could you go down there and grab a couple bottles of water? Because we're probably dehydrated from all that running around."

"I actually feel fine."

She was officially on the verge of ripping her hair out. Or his.

That stupid greasy mop.

"Okay well I feel extremely dehydrated," she said. "So could you get me a water?"

"Sure. All you had to do was ask."

Mira silently screamed at the thought of this maddening creature shaped like a man. Once she'd recovered, she slid open the panel and handed him the room key. "Thank youuu," she said sweetly.

Jake took the key and set about his task, with Mira watching his every move as he shuffled out of the room. When the door closed behind him, a flood of relief washed over her, but there wasn't any time to waste.

One small step for embarrassed womankind . . .

*

Not long after, Mira was refreshed, dressed—in jeans and a summery pink tee—and ready for a day of Paris bucket list fun. It was incredible that only a few hours ago, Mira had assumed she would only get to try some famous French toast before heading back to New York. Now though, with a missed flight and another twenty-four hours in Paris left to go, it was time to put her bucket list in the driver's seat. She wouldn't be able to get through it all—since there were multiple categories, pages, and enough items to keep her busy for at least a week—but she had every intention of crossing off some major items.

She brushed her hair in a few quick strokes, smeared on some lip gloss, and added the final touch of a fanny pack.

Feeling satisfied with her look, she slid the paneled door open. "I'm ready!"

Jake sat by the edge of the bed with two water bottles by his side.

When he saw Mira, he laughed. A lot. "Is that a fanny pack?"

Mira was not the least bit embarrassed and caressed the fanny pack fondly. "I didn't think I'd get a chance to use it on this trip, but now that I have a whole day of exploring ahead, it's definitely the right way to go."

"Is it, though?"

"And they're totally back in fashion," she went on. "Louis Vuitton even makes one."

He stood from the bed. "But that's not Louis Vuitton. That's . . ." He bent down and studied the tiny label on the fanny pack. "Pack 'n' Go?" He fell to his side and laughed some more.

While Mira still wasn't embarrassed, she started to remember her one visit to India nearly a decade before, when she and her cousin had been led through the bazaar by their bargain-hunting moms. They'd visited one garment shop after another that afternoon, aggressively in search of the perfect outfits for the weddings of the upcoming season. While no one had laughed at Mira that day, she'd been made to feel weird about how she looked, much in the way that Jake was making her feel right now. It may not have been a fanny pack in India, but every glittering lehenga she'd chosen had been met with frowns or tailoring suggestions, whereas everything her cousin slipped onto her frame had seemed perfect. Was it a crime to have prominent shoulders and an actual butt you could see from a distance? Apparently in India, it was. She should have found it funny and pitied the buttless girls, but instead, she'd felt like a stranger in her own skin.

And now, here in Paris, she was starting to feel like a stranger in her own fanny pack.

Not okay.

"Go ahead, laugh it up," she said, "but I'll be the one laughing when I don't get robbed, when I have easy access to all of my essentials, and when my feet don't hurt from walking thirty thousand steps." She thought about it for a second. "I guess that last one's more orthopedic-insole related than fanny-pack related."

"You're wearing orthopedic insoles?"

"Guess you've never heard of cobblestone."

He scratched his jaw. "Right; kudos on being so prepared."

"Thanks." She opened her carry-on. "I'm also bringing a cardigan and an umbrella."

"Sorry, can't allow that. The sky is blue and it's not going to rain; even the sweater's a bit much."

"It may be sunny, but the rain can come at any time."

"And next up," he said mockingly, "meteorologist Mira with the weather."

"It's actually a tip I discovered in a 'Live like a Local' blog. Here, I'll show you." She pulled out her phone and started scrolling.

"Stop," he said, both hands in the air. "There will be no more reviewing of the blogs." She scowled but he didn't seem to notice. "You can have the sweater if you must, but you won't need an umbrella for the next few hours. Trust me."

Mira felt tempted to live-tweet how she was being mansplained about the weather, but she didn't want to lose more time from her day of exploring. She also didn't want to agree with him, which made the whole thing a bit conflicting.

"Carrying an umbrella is not a big deal," she finally said. "And why can't men just say cardigan? It's not that hard."

Jake got up off the floor. "Mira, would you say that I know a few things about life?"

"I don't really know you, but no, I wouldn't say that."

"What I know," he continued, "is that ten minutes into holding that umbrella, you'll start whining about how annoying it is, and then you'll ask me to hold it for you."

"Wow. Theoretical me sounds horrible."

If this was genuinely Jake's assumption of how Mira would act, it gave her an idea of the high-maintenance women in his orbit.

"I'm just saving you from your worst self. You're welcome."

Mira scanned the room for something to throw at him, but everything seemed too gross to even touch. She glanced at her watch and realized this debate was wasting precious minutes. "You're really passionate about this, aren't you?"

"I am. Keep the sweater, lose the umbrella."

"Fine." She tossed the umbrella back into the carry-on. "But if it rains, you owe me a hundred euros for emotional damages." It wasn't much, but it would help to ease her current financial burden.

"Deal."

She made her way to the door. "Let's go. I've got things to see and no time to waste."

"Gimme ten," he said, reaching for his carry-on. "I need a shower."

Mira bristled at the sudden adjustment to her schedule. "You need to use my shower too?"

He opened the bag and pulled out some clothes. "If you didn't want me to shower, you shouldn't have said I smelled like vodka sweat."

He whistled on his way to the bathroom and slid the panel closed.

Mira spent the next few minutes texting Sophie every detail from her unexpected morning.

I'll probably have to sell some furniture to make back the money.

She sighed before concluding her harrowing account.

It's fine, though. I've heard sleeping on the floor is good for your back.

It didn't take long for Sophie to respond.

When you're back, I'm coming over with wine. Will leave the baby with Tom. Or a random neighbor.

Mira laughed as Sophie continued typing.

And you should still email Satan—I mean Shirley—and explain the sitch. Who knows, she might throw you a bone.

Sophie's words gave Mira a sense of hope, continuing her streak of giving great advice since they'd met in their freshman year of college.

Mira set to work on writing up the perfect professional and not-too-desperate email. All along, she couldn't help but wince whenever she heard Jake lathering up the soap, or rinsing, or whatever other visceral sound accompanied someone washing their body. She wondered if he'd gotten back from the store in time to hear her viscerally wash herself too. The thought of it made her shudder.

"Ready?" he called from behind the plywood panel.

She felt uncertain. "Ready for what?"

Jake slid open the panel and sauntered out. His outfit was a casual getup of a T-shirt and jeans, but somehow, he made it go the extra mile.

And Mira couldn't help but notice.

He spun around so she didn't miss a single angle. "So?" He ran his fingers through his sandy brown hair, which he mercifully hadn't drowned in too much product. "What do you think of
Mr. Vodka Sweat now?"

Mira was too busy staring to give him an audible answer.

"Are you really that taken aback by my beauty?" He put a hand on his chest. "I'm flattered."

"What? No." She chuckled, smirked, and shrugged, all to restore a feeble sense of nonchalance. "I think I just blacked out for a second," she added, before heading for the door.

"Blacked out from what?"

"I dunno; jet lag."

"But we didn't even go on a plane."

Shit.

They stood face to face now. There was no escape. "Actually," she said coolly, "we were at an airport, and studies have shown that simply being in an airport can cause varying degrees of jet lag."

"I've never heard that."

"It's true," she insisted, all the while scraping for more pathological lies. "It's like one of those sympathetic pregnancies, when a man gains weight and slowly grows boobs just from watching his partner be pregnant." She shook her head. "Science is strange."

"Right . . . science is strange."

The sound of buzzing coming from Jake's phone spared Mira from spewing more random verbal weirdness. She studied his face as he read the message, but his reaction was impossible to discern.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"Just a text from a buddy."

"At six a.m. New York time?"

Either his buddy—like Sophie— had a baby who wouldn't sleep, or Jake was lying for some unknown reason.

"He's a trader."

"Oh." Mira suddenly remembered that investment banking was very much a thing.

She shifted her attention to the rumbling feeling in her stomach. All the bag-lugging and stress from missing the flight had burned through the calories of the pain perdu, which made her next agenda item more pressing than ever. And, knowing that Jake would be tagging along, she'd specifically chosen a place that could use a little company. "Can I interest you in a bit of a walk for some very important food?"

He smiled. "Consider me interested."