Better

by Carey Heywood

  He’s not as tall as the man I danced with before, and he speaks broken English. His name is Cedric. To speak over the music, he brings his face really close to mine. I give him a confused look when he asks if I can rap.

  “Like sing?” I ask.

  He bobs his head up and down, smiling widely.

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t rap.”

  He looks so disappointed that I almost feel bad.

  Then, he asks if Adam is my boyfriend. I glance back to where Adam is sitting. A stunning brunette woman is now occupying my seat. Adam’s eyes flash to mine before I quickly turn my head back to Cedric.

  “No, he isn’t.”

  When the song ends, I start to leave the dance floor in search of water when an arm circles my waist. I start to turn to decline whoever it is, and I freeze when I see it’s Adam. I should have known. A moment’s reflection is all it takes to recognize his scent around me. My eyes flick to his hand. His palm is flat against my stomach with my back to his chest.

  He lifts one of my hands and wraps it around his neck, pulling me closer to him. I lean back on him, my hips matching the sway of his. His breath is hot on my neck as his other hand drifts down my side to grip my hip. Instinctively, my fingers thread their way into his hair and tug.

  “Careful,” he growls in my ear.

  I ignore him and rest my head on his shoulder as his hips grind against me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been this turned-on. There is something about him, even when I feel like kicking him, that pulls me to him.

  The song ends before I’m ready for it to. I start to pull away, more for the sake of pride than anything else. His grip briefly tightens around my waist before he lets me go.

  “I need water,” I explain, turning to face him, my fingers gesturing toward my throat in case he couldn’t hear me over the music.

  He nods and walks with me, his hand scorching me through the thin material of my dress as he rests it on the small of my back. He orders for me and gets a beer for himself. Then, he laughs when I drain my water and ask for another.

  “We leave tomorrow. You haven’t had a Belgian beer yet.”

  I shake my head. “I had one earlier when I got cold and came inside.”

  “So?” He tilts his head.

  I shrug. “It was good. I’m just more of a water girl. I haven’t been dancing in…” I trail off.

  “Come on, you’re young. I bet you’re out partying every weekend.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t seem like he’ll believe me either way.

  We find the bride and groom to congratulate them, and then we thank the bride’s father for inviting us before we leave. We could have stayed longer, but the plan is to drive to Paris in the morning.

  I’ve just changed out of my dress when Adam knocks on my door.

  “Yes?” I ask, opening the door.

  He holds up a bar of chocolate with an elephant on a red wrapper. “Belgian chocolate time.”

  I follow him out to the living room and sit next to him on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. He breaks a piece off for each of us and passes one to me.

  “Côte-d’Or,” I say out loud, reading it off of the piece.

  “My favorite,” he replies solemnly.

  “There’s an elephant on it.” I look back at him. “How is that Belgian?”

  He slowly chews his piece before answering me. “I think the cocoa comes from Africa.”

  I take a bite and let it melt on my tongue. My eyes close, and my head falls back as the most perfect piece of chocolate crashes my senses like a tidal wave. It’s smooth and rich without being overly sweet.

  “You look like you might need a private moment,” Adam jokes.

  I stare at the piece still in my hand and look back at him. “This is the best piece of chocolate I’ve ever had.”

  He almost smiles before popping another piece into his mouth.

  I sleep most of the way to Paris. I awake to Adam shaking my shoulder. I blink my eyes open and glance around. We’re in a parking garage. When I don’t immediately move to get out of the car, Adam shakes my shoulder again.

  “Mmmkay,” I grumble, getting out.

  “It’s Paris. Aren’t you excited?”

  I raise one arm above my head and stretch. “There’s only so much excitement I can muster within five minutes of waking up.”

  He opens the trunk and pulls out his camera case. “Should we go to a café first?”

  I have always wanted to sit at a sidewalk café in Paris with a coffee and some french bread. I grin as I nod, already feeling more awake.

  As we walk out of the underground parking lot, my jaw drops. In front of us is the Arc de Triomphe. I can see people standing around and underneath it, but it’s in the center of a busy roundabout.

  “How do we get over there?” I ask, eyeing the traffic.

  He laughs and points to what looks like an underground subway entrance. “No need to run across the street. There’s a tunnel.”

  “What’s that line for?” I ask, looking at the swell of people queued up for something.

  “To stand on top.”

  My mouth drops. “No way! I didn’t know you could do that.”

  Our flight to Africa leaves in the morning. We decided ahead of time that we would skip some things if the lines were long.

  I pout and look back at the line. I didn’t know you could stand on top of the Arc de Triomphe.

  When we exit the tunnel, we are right under it. From up close, the stonework is amazing.

  “What are all the names for?” I ask, tilting my head and shading my eyes from the sun.

  “To commemorate those who fought in a battle.”

  I’m not hip on French history. “Which one?”

  He pauses his camera raised just halfway to his face before he shrugs. “Not sure.”

  I laugh and follow him as he takes shot after shot. I pull out my phone and take a couple for myself.

  “Did you want to go up top?”

  I shake my head. “The line is too long. Since we parked near here, can we check it out again before we head to the hotel?”

  “Sure.”

  We go back into the tunnel and take the underground pathway to the other side of the street, away from where we came, and we sit down at a sidewalk café.

  “Once the food is out, will you take my picture?”

  Adam nods as he glances at the menu. The tables are tiny and set stadium-style, facing the sidewalk. After he reads the menu to me, I tell him what I’d like, and he orders.

  Once our food comes, he has to push our table forward and slide past me to take my picture. I feel very Parisian once I put my sunglasses on and sip my coffee for the picture.

  As appealing as it would be, we don’t linger. There are too many things to see. We have tickets for a double-decker red tour bus that we can hop on and off of at each of its stops. When we’re ready to go to the next stop, we just board any available bus in its fleet.

  When we board, we’re given earbuds, so we can listen to an audio tour between each stop. Adam smirks at me when I offer to plug his in. Our first stop is the Paris Opera house. As pretty as it is, we decide to stay on the bus until the Eiffel Tower.

  “What? Too good for the audio tour?” I tease.

  He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Not my first go-around on the big red bus.”

  Part of me feels bad that he’s stuck with me, going to places he’s already seen. I know he’s excited about Africa. He’s never been to Victoria Falls or on a safari.

  We exit the bus at the Eiffel Tower. The line is awful, but this is one thing I am willing to wait for. There are gardens across the street that Adam explores while I hold our place in line. He isn’t gone long and seems happy with some of the pictures he was able to take of people sunbathing and strolling through the greenery. He clicks through them, holding his camera up, so I can see a few.

  We buy tickets and take the stairs to the first level. At first, I argue that I want to tak
e the lift, but Adam has done it before, and once I see the line difference, it makes sense.

  Standing there, holding on to the railing of the Eiffel Tower, is surreal, like something out of a movie. I glance back at Adam. He’s taking a picture of the bottom of the lift as it moves upward toward the next level. I’ve noticed he likes taking pictures of things more than people.

  He focuses his lens on the intersection of two pieces of metal. Behind him, I can see a couple kissing. I turn to look around and see two more couples embracing. I’m in the most romantic city in the world with a gorgeous man who doesn’t seem interested in me at all.

  I turn my back to him and walk away. I try to picture Ally here. Would she have taken her trip alone or gone with a boyfriend? I remember her always having a date for family barbeques. Would she be here right now, being kissed, if she had gotten better?

  I jump when someone taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to see a handsome blond man with his arm around a petite brunette woman.

  He holds his camera out toward me in the universally translatable gesture of, Will you take our picture?

  They don’t speak English. If I had to guess, I think they’re speaking Russian. I have them lined up in the viewfinder when the camera is plucked out of my hands.

  “Hey!”

  Adam shrugs and takes a few pictures of them from different angles rather than my boring straight-on stance. I’m annoyed. It was rude of him to just take the camera from me. As Adam returns the camera to the blond man, the look of sympathy in my direction from the petite woman embarrasses me.

  Adam picks up on my mood change. “What’s wrong?”

  I lie, “I’m just ready to go to the next place.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod, looking everywhere but in his eyes.

  Once we’re back on the bus, I put my earbuds back in. I’m being immature, and I know it. I should just tell him what he did to upset me. Instead, I give him the silent treatment. What’s worse is he can tell I’m annoyed, and he is now acting defensive and irked.

  I had this vision of Paris in my mind, maybe from movies or novels. Reality is not living up to the fantasy.

  Our next stop is the Louvre. Travel guides make it clear that you could spend days alone looking at all the artwork held there. Since we only have this one day in Paris, our plan is to go into the courtyard to see the glass pyramid and underground to see the rest of the pyramid.

  It’s crowded with people going in every direction. The closer we get to the line to go inside, the greater the feeling of awe I feel in my chest, knowing that the original works of the most famous artists reside within these walls. I’m having an emotional reaction to being near such greatness even though I’m not going to see them. Just knowing they’re there is enough. When Adam isn’t looking, I reach down, pick up a stone, and slip it into my pocket.

  We take some pictures and leave quickly. The crowds are overwhelming, and once the feeling of being near great art wears off, a feeling of claustrophobia sets in.

  We cross the street, and since a bus isn’t there for us to board, Adam leads me to a nearby bridge. The Louvre sits along the Seine. The bridge closest to it appears almost golden in the morning light. As we get closer, I can see that it isn’t the bridge but the brass padlocks covering its sides that are golden.

  I trail my fingers across one. There’s a date written on it in green marker. I’ve heard of these. I think I read a book that talked about them.

  Adam pulls out his camera to take a picture of a couple farther down the bridge as they attach a lock to it, and then they throw the key into the river. The lock symbolizes their union, their commitment to each other. It’s romantic, again reminding me of where I am and who I’m with.

  I take a few pictures of my own before we walk back to catch the bus. By the end of the day, we have seen the major attractions of Paris. I’m exhausted and still feeling sorry for myself, even with Adam by my side I am alone in a crowded city. I miss Ally.

  Our hotel is between the airport and Montmartre. We check in before driving closer to Montmartre to walk around and have dinner.

  It’s strange how we spent a good portion of the day sitting on the bus, but I’m still exhausted. Adam doesn’t seem as affected as I am. I wonder if he thinks I’m a dull companion.

  “Was Paris everything you imagined?” he asks over dinner.

  I think back to the couples we saw on the Eiffel Tower and on the bridge by the Louvre. “Seemed to be more of a city for couples.”

  He tilts his head and looks at me. “You’re probably right.”

  I doze off on the way back to the hotel.

  I wake up to Adam shifting me in his arms as he attempts to open the door to my room. I turn my face into his neck and inhale, filling my senses with his musk. If I were more awake, I would tell him to put me down, that I could walk. I don’t. I enjoy the feel of his arms around me.

  As he lowers me to my bed, I coil my arms around his neck and whisper, “Stay with me,” in his ear.

  He jerks his head back and looks at me with wide eyes. “What are you saying?”

  I groan, “Ugh. Never mind. I just thought you were comfy.”

  He moves toward me, but I shake my head. The way he reacted embarrasses me, and now, I just want him gone.

  Our rooms are separated by an interior door. He hesitates, looking back at me, before going into his room. I sit up and hurry across the room to lock my side of the door before collapsing back into bed and allowing my exhaustion to overtake me.

  His angry banging on the interior door is what awakes me the next morning.

  “What?” I yell, half awake, stumbling to the door.

  “Why did you lock the door? It’s time to wake up,” he snaps through the door.

  “I’m awake, and I locked the door because I wanted to,” I huff.

  There’s a pause. I turn to make my way to the bathroom when I hear him grumble, “You’re acting like a child, Aubrey.”

  My mouth drops open, and I storm back toward the door, unlocking it before I fling it open.

  “Locking a door makes me a child?” I fume, charging him.

  He shrugs. “Just because I didn’t want to sleep with you—”

  I cut him off. “Sleep with me?”

  He crosses his arms. “Yeah, ’cause I’m so comfy.”

  I blush, wishing I could disappear right then. “Trust me, I won’t make that mistake again.”

  I slam the door in his face.

  “We need to leave in thirty minutes,” he orders through the door.

  I contemplate ways of murdering him as I crouch under the too short ancient showerhead. I could push him in front of one of those big red buses, maybe drop-kick him into the Seine. After he suffers no fewer than ten deaths by my hand, I’m in a much better mood, and I beat him to the lobby.

  His hair looks strange. I have to stifle a laugh as I picture him trying to fit under his showerhead. Maybe he wasn’t able to wash out all of his shampoo.

  Our flight from Paris to Zambia has a layover in South Africa. It doesn’t really make sense to me that we’re flying past Zambia and will then backtrack. The Livingstone Airport is not as big as the O.R. Tambo Airport. It’s a ten-hour flight there, then a four-hour layover, followed by another two-hour flight to get to Zambia.

  Originally, I wanted to go see the pyramids, but my dad was nervous about the recent political unrest in the country, and he wanted me to avoid it. I can’t argue with his logic.

  While we were planning this trip, when Adam originally suggested a stop at Victoria Falls, I had to Google it to know for sure where it is. It rests on the borders of Zambia and Zimbabwe with national parks on both sides.

  We’re staying on the Zambia side at the Royal Chundu. The accommodations are on the expensive side, but the added security was important to my mom and dad.

  A shuttle takes us from the airport straight to the lodge. The pictures online do not do it justice. All milk chocolate wood with crisp whit
e accents. We’re sharing a suite, our rooms separated by a lounge.

  I trail my fingers across the mosquito netting draped over my king-sized bed. It’s both romantic and a reminder of the dangers that exist, even in paradise. I open the door to the balcony off my room. We’re on the second floor, overlooking a pool.

  “You’re lucky we’re in a hotel.”

  I look up to see Adam leaning against my doorway. “How come?”

  “It’s considered rude not to eat what you are served in Zambian households.”

  I pause. “What do they usually serve?”

  He almost smiles. “Grasshoppers are considered a delicacy in some parts of Zambia.”

  I wrinkle my nose. That does not sound appetizing. “That can’t be all they eat,” I argue.

  He pushes off the doorframe and crosses my room, walking in front of me. Moving the sheer fabric of the curtain aside, he looks out the window before looking back at me.

  “This close to the Zambezi River?” He makes it a question that he answers for me. “The most common dish is freshwater fish.”

  I shiver. “Do you think that’s all they serve here?”

  He reads my panicked expression and has had his fun. “I’m sure they’ll have something simple that you’ll like.”

  I nod hesitantly, not really believing him. We have both had a long day. I’m a bit hungry but sleep has the greater siren call. He reminds me to make sure my net is secure before retreating to his side of the suite.

  I wonder what he thinks of me. I cringe, remembering the night before when I asked him to stay with me.

  One part of traveling that is not growing on me is the sensation of waking up in a different bed every night. It seems adventurous in your head, but the actuality of those first few moments of waking before you remember where you are can be unsettling.

  I shower, knowing we’ll have our breakfast in the main dining room of the lodge. I want to make a good impression. I pad barefoot across the suite to check on Adam. I’m nervous about the idea of venturing off on my own, and I hope he’s up and ready for breakfast as well.

  His door is cracked. I gently push it open wider to peer inside. Other than that morning in London when he caught me watching him sleep, he usually wakes up before me.