and we head to the entrance.
As it turns out, there are six hundred and seventy steps, and we don’t even have to count them, because every tenth one is conveniently painted with a number. The higher we go, the more frequently Anna stops, saying she has to catch her breath. But I notice she’s refusing to look around, and whenever I point out the sites, she just nods and keeps climbing. She looks relieved when we finally reach the second platform.
Down on the ground, it was already much colder here in Paris than it was in Evanston, but up on the tower, it feels like the middle of winter. Anna’s trying to play it off like she isn’t cold, but I can see her shivering as we stand here, leaning against the railing, staring out over the city. I suddenly remember that I brought my sweater, so I take it out of my backpack and hand it to her. She pulls it over her head. It hangs almost to the edge of her skirt and the sleeves go past her fingers and she looks completely adorable.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to find a woman grinning wide and holding a camera out in my direction. She says something in a language that’s not English or French as she gestures between herself and the man standing to her right. I take the camera from her and hand it to Anna.
“You’re the photographer,” I say, and Anna looks grateful as she brings the camera to her face. She snaps a few pictures and hands it back to them.
“I hope one of those pictures turns out,” Anna says when they’re out of earshot. “They probably won’t have another night on the Eiffel Tower again.” I’m about to tell her that they’re probably checking the pictures right now when I remember that cameras don’t work that way yet. Then I realize that Anna’s staring out at the view and not talking. I wish I’d thought to go to her house and get her camera for her.
“Stay here,” I say, and without giving her any time to reply, I double back toward the elevator bank, past the people in line, and into the crowded gift shop. Right behind the counter, I find what I’m looking for. I convince the cashier to accept an American twenty in exchange for a ten-franc item, and less than ten minutes later I’m heading back to Anna with a plastic bag swinging by my side.
But when I return to the spot where I left her, she’s gone. I walk all the way around the deck, but she’s nowhere to be found. I head back toward the center of the platform and see her there, pacing back and forth in front of the elevators.
“Hey.” I come up behind her and grab her by the waist. She jumps. “You okay?”
She flips around, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You left me on the Eiffel Tower?”
“Just for a minute,” I say, and her eyes grow wide. I’m clearly not supposed to find this amusing, but I can’t help it. She’s just standing there, looking small and pissed off and adorable in my sweater.
“You’re laughing at me?” Her eyes grow even wider and I think she’s going to start yelling at me or something, but instead she steps forward and takes my face in her hands. “What if something happened to you? What if you got knocked back?” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know what date it is,” she practically whispers.
I’m still finding this amusing, even though I’m clearly not supposed to. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I kiss her and I’m relieved when she lets me. “I’m not going to get knocked back. And besides, you know I never take you out of your time. Never. You’re always a really awkward phone call and an outrageously expensive plane ride away from your parents, but that’s it. Okay?”
She presses her lips together and nods.
“I just wanted to get you this.” I hand her the plastic gift-shop bag, and she peeks inside. Her whole expression relaxes as the grin spreads across her face.
“You bought a disposable camera?”
I shrug. “You looked a little sad about taking that couple’s picture.” I guide her over to the railing. “Smile,” I say, holding the camera out in front of us. I press the button and the shutter snaps, but when I press it again, nothing happens. I’m turning it around in my hands, looking at it from all angles and trying to figure out what to do next, when Anna takes it from me, chuckling as she runs her thumb along a little wheel that must advance the film. She holds her arm out and presses the button.
After she’s taken four or five shots, she stops and looks at the camera. I can tell by the way she’s staring at it, running her finger along its edges, that this small cardboard box contains so much more than a few images of the two of us on an undeveloped strip of film. It’s not a memory or a postcard, it’s more than she’s ever had— tangible proof that we exist together, outside both her world and mine.
“Bennett?” she says, still looking down at the camera.
“Yeah.”
“Are we going back home tonight?” When her eyes find mine, I shake my head no.
Her gaze travels up to the brightly lit iron beams above us, and a grin spreads across her face. “I never thought I’d be standing on the Eiffel Tower and saying this but…can we get out of here?”
16
Clouds are filtering the morning sun but it’s still bright enough to stir me from sleep. I rub my eyes as I take in the unfamiliar room, remembering little by little where I am right now. In Paris. With Anna.
She’s sitting in the window ledge, her bare legs bent and visible below the hem of one of my T-shirts. Her chin is resting on her knees and she’s staring out the window at the city below.
I kick off the covers and cross the room. “What are you doing way over here?” I pull her hair to one side and kiss the back of her neck.
“I couldn’t sleep.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then she says, “I keep having to remind myself that this is all happening. That I’m actually here.”
“Then we should get going. We have a whole day in Paris and we still won’t come close to seeing everything.”
Anna turns her head and gives me the biggest smile. And then she sits up straighter and spins in place, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. “I didn’t mean Paris. I meant here, with you.”
We grab coffees at the cafe downstairs and make a game plan. We decide to skip the obvious sights, the museums and cathedrals and monuments, but agree that we can’t miss the Seine, so we order our
“God, that’s incredible. Why can’t we make bread that tastes like this?”
“You and me?” I joke and she stares at me.
“Americans.”
“Oh. Because we aren’t French,” I say matter-of-factly.
She tears off another chunk of bread and pops it into my mouth, presumably to shut me up.
We spend the rest of the morning wandering around aimlessly, meandering down the smallest alleys we can find, popping into bakeries when they smell too good to simply walk past. Anna stops at a corner store that appears to sell everything from drinks to cheesy Parisian trinkets, and heads for the cooler. She grabs two bottles of water and tosses one to me.
The clerk is ringing us up when Anna sees a display on the counter. “Ah, here you go.” She hands me a laminated map. “This is what we need,” she says, tapping the surface.
I take it from her hand and slip it back into the rack where it was. “We don’t need a map.”
“Why not?” She looks confused at first, but then her face falls. “How many times have you been to Paris?”
“Twice. Both times for concerts, and I barely even walked around the city.” Anna waits patiently for a better explanation. “I just prefer to get lost.”
She raises her eyebrows and stares at me. “You want to get lost? In Paris?”
“It’ll be fun.”
She looks unconvinced. She might also look a bit terrified. So I grab the map from the rack and set it down
