Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

I suppose the remedy to that is to get her to Paris to check out this apartment as soon as possible. Maybe this has all been some sick exercise in reverse psychology. I wouldn’t put it past her.

As I’m heading toward the kitchen, she startles me with an exuberant “Good morning,” and I almost scream.

I press my finger to my lips to silence her and say, “Shhhhh, Cressida and T are still sleeping.”

Her mouth forms a perfect O and she covers it with her hand. “Sorry,” she stage-whispers.

“You didn’t come home last night. How did you get in the flat this morning?”

“The front door was unlocked.”

“What? Why was it unlocked?” I demand.

“Shhhh,” she says. “People are sleeping. I wasn’t the one who left it unlocked. Don’t yell at me.”

I make a mental note to remind C and T to be more careful.

Marla opens the refrigerator and peruses the contents. “Do you have any cream?”

She’s wearing those ridiculous glasses again this morning. I can’t see her eyes, and her curly auburn hair is frizzy. She looks rumpled and pale after her walk of shame.

I imagine it’s a snapshot into her Squelching Wellies days.

“Cream? In the little blue-and-yellow pitcher.”

“It’s empty.”

“Well, then we must be out. There might be some skim milk in there.”

She tsks her disappointment. “Why bother? All skim does is water down your coffee.” She makes herself a cup and leaves it black, then opens the cupboard and helps herself to the rest of Cressida’s Biscoff cookies.

I’m not even trying to hide how annoyed I am that she doesn’t have the good grace to look contrite about sleeping with Jesse.

Per usual, she’s oblivious.

“Do you have to wear your sunglasses in the house?”

“Why does it bother you so much?” She pulls them off and flings them onto the island. “You are cranky this morning. Did things not work out with that guy?”

I blink at her non sequitur, though I know she’s talking about Aiden.

“What are you talking about?”

“The guy you were with last night. The one you kissed at midnight.”

She saw us kiss?

I don’t want to share details about Aiden with Marla.

Right now, it still feels magical, full of possibility, and I want to savor that feeling for as long as it lasts. Because with my dating history, it usually doesn’t.

It would probably be wise for me to get through this Paris ordeal with my mother before I even think of seeing him again.

If he was serious about seeing me again. All I know about him at this point is that he was born and raised in Edinburgh and came to London to attend culinary school.

If I put off calling him, I hope time doesn’t turn him into The Ghoster.

Or would that make me The Ghoster since I’d be the one who didn’t call?

I don’t know.

Should dating be this complicated?

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with him,” Marla says as she pulls out a stool and sits at the island. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It wasn’t a date.”

“But you kissed him! Oh God—was he bad in bed? Because life is too short for—”

“No! I didn’t sleep with him. Unlike you, I don’t sleep with every man I meet.”

She flinches like I’ve slapped her in the face, and I’m glad for it. A woman who was sleeping with so many men that she doesn’t even know who fathered her child has no right to act injured. I turn my back on her and put another pod in the Nespresso machine.

“I’m not like that anymore, Hannah.”

I turn around and face her. For once, she looks me in the eyes. Her bruise is fading, but it still overrides my common sense and makes me feel sorry for her.

“I made a vow when I left for Paris—when I left Don—that this would be a time for me. A brand-new start. You know, a chance to get my life together. And maybe even right a few wrongs.”

I wonder if she’s talking about our relationship, but I don’t ask. I’m not that needy. She should know. It’s one of the few things she taught me. Don’t make yourself vulnerable and you won’t get hurt.

“And you lasted, what? Twenty-four hours?” I say. “Or was it even that long? Let’s see—what time did your flight leave Orlando?”

“That’s rude.” She looks offended, but I know her game.

“Marla, I want to believe that you’re serious about making a fresh start in Paris, but it’s hard when you spend the night with a guy you met on your first night in London.”

She’s staring into her coffee like it’s whiskey and she’s drowning her sorrows.

Good. She should look remorseful. What kind of a mother shows up unannounced, invites herself to a party with her daughter’s friends, and then stays out all night with a guy who is half her age?

My mother—that’s who. She will never change.

Marla laughs, but it’s dry and humorless. “You think I slept with Jesse, don’t you? Is that what this is all about?” She clucks and rolls her eyes. “Oh, Hannah. Give me a little credit. Jesse could be my son.”

“Look, I don’t care. You do you, Marla, but don’t look me in the eyes and tell me you’re changing your ways when you’re doing exactly what you’ve always done.”

“It must be nice to be so perfect,” Marla mutters.

“I never claimed to be perfect. I just don’t put on pretenses and turn around and do exactly what I swore off.”

Marla sits up ramrod straight in her chair, lifts her chin a notch, and purses her lips, which are rimmed with the stain of last night’s lipstick and liner.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

This is another one of Marla’s go-to tactics. If you can’t snow them, guilt them.

“Jesse just broke up with his girlfriend,” she says.

I laugh. “Is that what he told you? Jesse doesn’t have girlfriends. He’s a player, Marla. He sold you a load of BS to get you into bed.”

“Nope. He was hurting. His girlfriend