Authors: Stacey Wiedower
The two of them had arrived in France two days earlier. They'd been traveling with their band in the U.K., and at the end of the tour they'd stayed on to visit a few countries on the continent. Their hotel was near the Arc de Triomphe, and they were jealous of Erin and Sherri's cool Left Bank apartment. They were also jealous of how cheap it was—another brilliant part of Sherri's planning. Now that her employment status for next year was uncertain, Erin was terrified by how much money she was spending on this trip. It seemed like she was pulling her credit card out of her bag every ten minutes.
* * *
It was 2:30 a.m. when she and Sherri finally pulled up in front of their building after a second night spent with Travis and Alex. Erin couldn't remember the last time she'd been this exhausted—probably the last time she'd covered this many miles in one week was while training for the Dallas Half Marathon two years earlier. Thanks to her list, she planned to run a full next, which meant she'd need to capitalize on the workout the Paris streets were giving her when she got back home.
Erin followed Sherri out of the cab and waited as Sherri waved the electronic key fob in front of the pad outside the nondescript, street-level doorway that led to their apartment. The heavy wooden door opened with a click, and the two of them stepped inside a dark, narrow hallway. Erin touched a button embedded in the wall to their left and lights snapped on, casting a dim orange glow on the gray stone walls.
After they twisted around five flights of steps, Sherri keyed into the apartment and shushed Erin, who had a case of the giggles. The American apartment owner had told them Parisians were private and protective of their homes lives, and she'd asked them to be quiet and respectful when entering and exiting the building. They also weren't allowed to use the apartment's combined washer and dryer at night because it made a lot of noise. Sherri had turned it on that morning to see how it worked, and sure enough, it clunked and churned in a foreign way, moving noisily from wash cycle to rinse to heated dry. It shrank Sherri's favorite T-shirt, and Erin was glad she'd packed more than enough clothes to last the week.
Inside the narrow studio, a beamed ceiling and wrought iron balcony outside the casement window offered the only hints of the building's seventeenth-century origins. Flat white walls set off sleek, modern Italian furniture. The place was comfy despite its minimal décor, and worth much more than the 120-Euro-a-night price tag.
Erin looked around, already feeling nostalgic for the place. She could barely stand to think they only had two more nights here before they flew home. If her school didn't take her back the next year, maybe she'd try to figure a way into a field where she could travel, she thought. She loved this life.
"So do you think they'll really call us when we're back home?" Sherri asked.
They'd left Alex and Travis in a wine bar in the Bastille, where they'd landed after checking out a nightclub they were way too underdressed for and a salsa bar that Erin nixed immediately—the idea of salsa dancing made her a little queasy. Around 2, Sherri had finally suggested they hail a cab. Alex and Travis were leaving Paris the next afternoon and traveling north through France and into Belgium and Germany before heading back to the States the next week. They wouldn't meet up with them again, but they'd exchanged numbers the night before, and both guys said they'd call when they were back in Texas. Erin wasn't holding her breath.
"Who knows?" she said, breathing in the heavy cloak of cigarette smoke she'd been wearing since they'd left the club. Parisians sure loved their cigarettes. It was kind of shocking, actually—weren't Europeans supposed to be progressive? "But it was fun while it lasted."
"I hope Alex calls," Sherri said, and Erin gave her a sidelong glance. She had that sappy look on her face she got when she was crushing on somebody new. Erin could just imagine how she'd be downloading every alt-country song she could find on iTunes. She'd probably start wearing cowgirl boots, too. She stifled another giggle, and it came out as a choking sound.
"You okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Erin said and smiled. "Have I told you how much I love you?" She stood up and walked the three steps to where Sherri stood and impulsively threw her arms around her. "Thanks for doing all this work to make our trip so awesome. I don't know how I'd have done this without you."
Sherri smiled, and there was a smudge of chocolate on her lower lip. She'd dipped into the greasy brown bag left over from their trip to the
patisserie
that afternoon and was nibbling at the remains of a pastry. She held the arm with the pastry out to one side and returned Erin's hug.
"Girl, thank
you
," she said. "I didn't even know how badly I needed this, but I needed it bad. I don't want to wake up in fifteen years and realize all I've done with my life is work as an
accountant
in a
cube farm
." She shuddered, and Erin smiled again. It seemed like Sherri was coming around to her way of thinking.
She sighed. How would she ever go back to a normal life after this?
Summer Lovin' & a Timely Post
July: eleven months to thirty
July 11: Date 8
Name:
Mark*
Age:
32
Job:
Stockbroker
List:
Picture myself as Pretty Woman (aka No. 13: Attend the opera)**
I'll be straight-up here and let you know tonight's date came from an online dating service. I'd never done that until recently, but my roommate convinced me it was a good idea. She's met several men that way. That should've been my first warning sign. (You know I love ya, babe.)
I went with this man, Mark*, to see Puccini's Tosca at Bass Performance Hall in downtown Fort Worth. First, let me say I love Fort Worth, and I don't drive in that direction nearly enough. It's so much more laid back than Dallas. (There's a reason the D comes first in DFW, and it's not alphabetical. It's more that Dallas is the alpha male in the relationship.)
I digress. This one's a little tough to write about, simply because (I'm very sorry, Mark*, if you read this) the date was just
boring
. You'd think it was because I don't really know how to appreciate the opera, but that couldn't have been it because I really enjoyed the performance. The problem was more that Mark and I didn't click. He loves the opera, which is how we came to decide to go there on our date. I threw out some ideas, he latched on to that one, bada boom, bada bing, and that was that. So, OK, he
said
he loves the opera, but while we were actually sitting there at the performance, he didn't seem to love it at all. He wasn't paying any attention whatsoever to what was happening on stage, he shifted around in his chair so much it was distracting, and he yawned A LOT. I swear once when I looked over at him he was asleep. I think Mark says he likes the opera because he thinks he's supposed to like the opera. And I could tell he wasn't very into
me
, either.
Suffice it to say, this date wasn't one for the record books. (Or maybe it was, in the category of Most Dull Dud of a Date.) Anyway, after the opera, he looked at me all awkwardly, like he was trying to figure out what he should do next. I took care of it by giving him a kiss on the cheek, saying thanks, and pulling out my keys. He said, "I'll call you," which we all know means he won't, and I got into my car and drove home. Bada boom, bada bing.
So much for being "pre-screened for compatibility." Oh, well. Thirty is a lot of dates. Every connection can't be perfect. There's always next time
.
Erin glanced at the clock on her nightstand and sighed. She'd finally followed Sherri's advice and created a profile on an online dating site to speed progress on her list. She hadn't found a love match, but at least Mark, whose real name was Mitchell, wasn't a crazed lunatic. He was pleasant, if a bit bland, and he actually looked like the photo posted in his online profile—dark brown hair, deep-set dark eyes that were a little too small and a little too close together, and the long, straight nose of a Classic sculpture. He'd grown up in Plano, his mother a pediatrician and his father a financial analyst. Typical suburban childhood, like hers. Honestly, they
should
have been compatible, but she got the vibe he was as bored as she was, even before the opera.
She didn't know what in Mitchell's past had led him to an online dating site, and she hadn't asked. It was just as well, Erin thought. She had a particular talent for sniffing out the guys with the worst baggage. Maybe he had an ex-wife. Maybe he had three.
It's probably me who's the problem, anyway.
Ever since she'd returned from Paris she'd been feeling restless, like something great was out there, just beyond her grasp—but she had no idea what it was.
She was pouring all that restless energy into the blog. In the past three weeks 30 First Dates had picked up even more followers, and so many readers were leaving comments now that screening and responding to them felt like a full-time job. Erin was posting every day, and not just about her dates or her list. That morning she'd posted an entry about Noah, and already it had enough comments (1,162 and counting!) to make her head swim—though she knew that was because of him, not her. He'd gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend, which was exactly what Erin had told him to do when she'd broken up with him in the fall.
Noah's ex, Amelia Wright, was the author of a
New York Times
number one bestselling book series, and she'd been engaged to the actor, Colin Marks, who was starring in the movies based on her books. The two of them together were pretty much America's sweethearts. News of their breakup had hit tabloids the day before yesterday, after photos of Amelia and Noah embracing next to his car in an airport parking lot had shown up on the TMZ website. It was clear they hadn't known they were being photographed.
Erin tried to imagine what it must be like to be tailed by photographers at all hours of the day and night, but she couldn't fathom it. She figured it had to be hitting Noah as swift and hard as a late-spring Texas tornado.
Noah, an architect, was well-known in his own right for designing a chain of high-end boutique hotels. Now he looked like some big home-wrecker and was being slaughtered by the tabloids
and
the mainstream press. Even though Erin didn't know the circumstances surrounding it all, she was pretty sure he was innocent of the charges being brought against him. He was one of the most upstanding guys she'd ever met.
But at any rate, he was why her blog post had blown up. Everybody in the world was Googling Noah's name right now. And she was profiting from his shame.
Erin shook her head. If Noah saw the post, he'd know that wasn't why she'd written it.
She sighed and shifted her position on top of her bed, moving her laptop onto the bedspread and adjusting her body into a cross-legged pose before pulling the computer back onto her legs. With all this writing she was now doing, she needed to buy a laptop tray.
Maybe I can make an Ikea run this weekend.
Sherri would be all-in—she loved nothing more than an hours-long trip to Six Flags over Shopping.
She closed her website, pulled up Google, and entered "Noah Bradley" in the search field. Her mouth fell open at the number of hits that came up. She began scrolling through them—
Huffington Post
,
Perez Hilton
,
Gossip Cop
,
People. Holy crap, he even has a Wikipedia page
. She was shocked to see that her blog post was on just the second page of Google entries, between a celeb gossip site and a weeks-old
Washington Post
article about eco-friendly hotel design. Even though she'd checked the comments page before she'd posted the new entry to her site, she clicked on the post.
Whoa!
In the last thirty-five minutes she'd gained almost 1,000 more followers and received 315 new comments.
Her new readers were going to be disappointed when they realized her blog wasn't actually
about
Noah, she thought.
"Erin!"
The front door slammed shut, and Erin heard quick footsteps pounding through the living room and down the hall. "Erin, are you here?"
Sherri pushed through her bedroom door with enough force to send the doorknob crashing against the white wall, leaving a visible indentation in the sheet rock. She stopped and stared at the dent for a second as if somebody else had shoved past her and done it.
"Whoops, there goes the deposit," she said, and then laughed. She swung her head back to Erin. "God! There you are. Have you seen what's going on with your blog?"
She kept walking and kicked off her flip-flops before crawling onto Erin's bed and peeking around her open laptop screen.
"Obviously you have." She leaned in closer to see what Erin was looking at and read one of the article headlines out loud. "
Amelia Wright Wedding Rumors:
People
Reports Colin Out, Noah In
. Holy shit, he didn't waste any time."
Erin guffawed. "C'mon! You don't think you can believe any of this crap, do you? Man, I'd love to talk to Noah right now and find out the real story." She stared thoughtfully at the computer screen, continuing to scroll through the Google feed. "Good for him," she murmured.
"Good for him?" Sherri said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "I'm not so sure about that. He's getting eaten alive."
"He's with Amelia," Erin answered. "Trust me when I tell you he doesn't give a damn about the press right now."
Sherri stared at her for a few seconds, wide-eyed. "Ohmigod, you're a romantic! Why, Erin Crawford, I never would have guessed it." She paused, and Erin could hear the smile in her voice. "Love cynic and man-eating blogger extraordinaire has a heart after all. Now
there's
a headline."