Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

can’t change the past, but what I thought I could do was make it up to you by being there for you going forward.”

I want to scream at her, but the fury is stuck in my throat.

Instead, the words come out a whisper. “What makes you think I need you now? You think you can fall into my life because you’re finally ready and we can pick up like nothing ever happened? I’m a grown woman. This whole bonding exercise has been an interesting experiment, but I have my own life that I’ve designed without you. I don’t have room for you, and I certainly don’t need you.”

I hate myself—not for saying I don’t need her, but for feeling bad for saying it.

As I walk into the foyer, I shrug into my coat and pull my gloves out of the pockets.

“Hannah, we are all the family you and I have left. I realized this after Gram died. I didn’t get a chance to make amends with her. But there’s still a chance for us. I’m sorry I was a horrible mother. There are a lot of things you don’t know. I wish we could start over and you would give me a chance to make it up to you.”

“What don’t I know?”

She doesn’t answer me.

A moment ago, she sounded so earnest. So serious. As if it would be that easy to let go of all the hurt and betrayal. When really, it’s more of a fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me for hitching my life to the Marla carnival train when I knew better. Because I know exactly what she’s all about.

I should let it go. Yet I hear myself saying, “If you think it will help, tell me what I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

She does that thing where she opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and clams up.

“What if it wouldn’t necessarily make everything better?” she finally says.

“What does that even mean? Why do you always talk in riddles?”

“I don’t mean to confuse you, Hannah. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“Well, don’t say anything, then. I’m going for a walk.”

“No, Hannah; I’ll go. You were working. The only reason you were going out was to get away from me. Let me go.”

She reaches for her purse, which is on the table in the foyer. The strap buckles, spilling the contents onto the floor.

“That’s my hairbrush! Why is it in your purse?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I was in such a hurry to catch the train that I grabbed it by mistake.”

“I texted you and asked if you had it. Why didn’t you tell me you did? Would you happen to have my toothbrush and lipstick, too?”

She drops down onto the floor and picks up her purse, then pulls out a plastic bag with a zip closure and hands it to me.

My toothbrush.

“Well, that’s gross,” I say. “How could you mistake my toothbrush for yours?”

She digs deeper into her bag and pulls out my missing lipstick.

“Really?”

“I’m sorry.”

I’m close to boiling again. “I really need to take a walk before I say something I’ll regret. When I get back, we need to have a talk.”

We need to set some boundaries, put up some metaphorical walls in this one-bedroom. Because our future depends on it.

I STAY OUT LONG enough to put things into perspective and cool off.

I’m irritated that Marla helped herself to my things and went to Emma behind my back, but the rational part of me also feels bad about not giving her a chance.

The bottom line is she needs a job or all the expenses will fall to me.

It would be selfish if I stood in her way.

On the other hand, I know how Marla is. I haven’t even hired her and she already steamrolled me to get to Emma. I worry that if she worked for me, she wouldn’t respect my authority.

An idea hits me. What if we put her in charge of sales? It would give me more time to focus on the tour content and operations. Marla would be good at sales. Look at how she has me questioning my better judgment right now.

As further incentive, we could make the pay commission based. That way she has to work.

I sit on the bench in the courtyard of our apartment and call Emma. I’m relieved when she answers.

“Is there room in the budget for a small office?” I ask. Because there is no way I can live and work with Marla in the confines of this small apartment.

“We can probably swing it,” Emma says.

“If we can lease that separate space, I’ll hire Marla on a probationary basis. What would you think of putting her in charge of sales? She could work on commission and receive a percentage for each seat she books.”

Emma loves the idea. I promise her I will supervise Marla and keep on top of the bookings to make sure we’re running in the black. With that, it’s done. The only thing left is to tell Marla.

I let myself into the apartment. Marla is in the kitchen running water. She shuts off the tap and sings, “Hellooo? Hannah, is that you?”

Her voice sounds perfectly normal. Like a mother in the kitchen making her child an after-school snack. At least that’s what I imagine it would be like.

Gram was always working at the library when I got out of school. I would go there and hang out and do my homework and eat the snack I packed for myself in my lunch box that morning.

But sometimes I’d go to my friend Marcy’s house after school. Her mom didn’t work and always had some kind of food ready for us—like pizza rolls or cheese and crackers or PB&J sandwiches. It was such a foreign world, and I loved it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I say.

Marla comes into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“You okay?” she asks tentatively.

I nod.

Silence hangs between us