Never or Forever (Year of the Chick series)

  Never or Forever

  (Book three in the Year of the Chick Series)

  Published by Romi Moondi at Smashwords

  Copyright 2013 Romi Moondi

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is dedicated to all the dreamers and believers out there; the ones with unyielding faith, but also the ones who need a little help from time to time. It’s a journey.

  Chapter One

  Please don’t let me die.

  Not here.

  Not like this.

  I gripped the armrests, hoping the plane would survive this “turbulence gone wild.”

  Next time I’m taking a boat.

  We were somewhere over the Atlantic in the middle of the night, still hours away from Paris and the start of my new existence.

  When the plane did its latest dramatic drop, a lady in the back screamed, which made someone else vomit, which made a small child cry out; it was a chain reaction of horror, that ended with my nails digging into the armrests.

  Now was the time to clutch the strong hand of the burly man seated beside me. He would save me from this aircraft catastrophe, of course he would.

  In reality there was no man, nor any person at all I could use as a human shield. Instead the seat beside me was the one and only empty spot on the entire plane. This one vacant seat clearly symbolized my journey of leaving behind everything to move to a continent I’d never been to.

  Paris, the city of love, where I, for one, would be totally alone.

  Who even does things like that?! Twenty-two-year-olds, that’s who.

  If age was just a number, I felt myself aging far beyond my thirty-one years as the plane kept bumping along.

  I shifted my attention to the flight attendant across from me, safely buckled up in her special pull-down chair. Her plastered-on smile was the very same one she’d used when explaining how to convert the bottom of the seat into a flotation device, in the seconds before the plane crashed into the ocean.

  The plane bumped aggressively now, but her smile didn’t crack a single bit.

  What a pro.

  She was a rather attractive flight attendant, probably in her thirties. Her alleged age made the absence of a wedding ring all the more noticeable, while her face showed signs of fatigue she’d tried to hide with cheery blush and mascara. I wondered if she was lonely. Correction: I hoped that she was lonely, so I didn’t have to be the only one without a welcome wagon in Paris, or even a single soul to say hello to.

  Just as my brain started over-analyzing what the tightness of her ponytail must mean in terms of her sense of adventure, I realized the plane wasn’t shaking anymore. Moments later the seatbelt sign turned off, and the attractive but potentially lonely flight attendant quickly disappeared into the back.

  “Thank god,” I muttered, my hands now dislodged from the armrests at last.

  A woman two seats over clapped her hands. “Now I can finally read again!” She was an older lady, and her voice carried the distinctive crackle that comes from a life of chain-smoking. The voice however was not her biggest offense; neither were her hollowed out eyes, yellowed teeth, or the loud smacking sounds she’d made an hour earlier, when devouring the airplane version of “chicken parmesan.” Even her tiny shorts weren’t the most horrid thing of all (though the forecasted weather in Paris was only twelve degrees Celsius).

  She could’ve been wearing a thong bikini for all I cared, but how she spent her time on the plane was unfathomable, illogical, and just plain disturbing.

  She rooted around in her tote bag now, creating quite the noise of rustling papers. Moments later she pulled out the stack, and the sickening activity recommenced.

  Oh god.

  Here she was, reading weekly flyers from all of Canada’s biggest retailers, and circling all the deals with genuine interest.

  Except the deals had all expired months ago.

  First she nodded with interest at a promotional price for ground beef…a price that would’ve expired seven weeks ago.

  WHY?

  Now she was checking out a power drill promotion for Father’s Day...which had come and gone two months ago. She switched over to the men’s underwear page, and I noticed her eyes flutter with something resembling arousal. She gazed at this array of male junk tightly-packaged in white briefs, all for her enjoyment it seemed. I continued to watch in fascinated horror.

  This surely had to be a weird joke delivered by the universe; how else could I explain being faced with this crazy lady after quitting a corporate job where all I’d done was plan flyer promotions?! Would I be here some day? Clinging to a past career by obsessing over old flyers?

  I shuddered.

  I realized then that between this crazy old lady and that businessman who’d scribbled madly on the Wall Street journal when I’d flown to New York, I really didn’t have good luck when it came to meeting people on airplanes.

  Please let Parisians be less crazy…

  ***

  This is not Paris.

  My friends had warned me of this. No fresh baguettes and double-kisses as you step off the plane, no Eiffel Tower outside the Charles de Gaulle terminal window, and a sad-looking airport that feels like it hasn’t been updated since the seventies.

  Despite the warnings, I hadn’t quite known it would actually be this bleak. I stared out the window of the taxi, as the driver berated some poor person on his cellphone, in a pace that was far too quick for my mediocre knowledge of French. The highway reminded me of Toronto for the grassy hills on either side, but it didn’t remind me of Toronto for the dirty, dented RVs on those very hills, the fires burning for warmth, the cardboard boxes of “stuff,” and the clothes hanging to dry between one RV to another. It looked like a gypsy colony on the side of the highway, and it sure didn’t feel like Paris. As we slowed amidst the traffic, I locked eyes with one of the hillside residents, and offered her a look of understanding and concern. She glared at me with dark slanted eyes and gave me the finger.

  Is flipping the bird universal?

  This is not Paris.

  ***

  I’d been in this cab for at least half an hour now, but everything still looked ugly and plain and un-Paris like. Meanwhile the meter continued to rack up the Euros…was he taking the scenic route to charge me more? And by scenic route I definitely meant the “ugly route.” I immediately felt the uneasiness of being scammed, and as a first-timer in Europe it was probably unavoidable.

  The driver turned the car onto a two-lane off-ramp, and suddenly we were at a standstill. Up goes the taxi meter, tick-tick-tick, and there goes today’s allowance for a café crème on a terrace. The meter was driving me crazy, so I looked out the window instead; it wasn’t a gypsy colony out there anymore, but a man in a beat-up little car, picking his nose with fierce determination. He was literally half a finger deep, and with commitment like that he’d never surrender now, not until he had his gooey prize. With twisted fascination I stared at him shamelessly, wondering what he’d find in that cavernous left nostril.

  But the traffic broke and the taxi sped off so I’d never know.

  After that, the only safe place to look at was my hands, and so I turned my attention to the grime beneath my fingernails. Grime? I t
ook a shower ten hours ago, goddammit. Airplanes and digging into armrests and accidentally brushing up against that old lady in summer shorts...the filth had really added up fast.

  DING…DING.

  I’d never heard church bells with such “Dolby Digital” surround sound before, and as I looked out my passenger window, I was now face-to-face with one of the biggest and most famous cathedrals known to man.

  Notre Dame.

  “What the…” My voice trailed off, and in a matter of moments my surroundings had changed from gypsy colonies and nose-pickers to the Seine River, beautiful old buildings, café terraces, and bridges heavy with pedestrians on a sunny Friday morning.

  And I cried.

  This is Paris.

  ***

  “Please mademoiselle, when you are having all your sexes in the night, do not flush the condoms in the toilet.”

  In a tiny blue-tiled bathroom, I faced the worried expression of a French man in his forties.

  I let my landlord’s assumption of all the “sexes” I’d be having sink in. You obviously don’t know a lot about me. And why can I only have “my sexes” at night?

  “You understand this mademoiselle, yes?”

  I slowly nodded up and down.

  “Because the condoms make the toilet get stuck. This is no good.”

  “No good,” I agreed.

  “Okay then; any more questions for today?”

  In true North American dependent-on-technology form my question was simple: “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

  ***

  “Hmm...”

  With my landlord now gone, I surveyed the single room plus bathroom I’d call home for the next twelve months. It was actually spacious compared to the closet-sized dwellings and maid’s quarters I’d read about. For this very reason, I’d likely be totally broke by the time I got home.

  Behind me was a long counter with everything I’d need for a kitchen, to my left was a big comfy bed, to my right were two large closets and two large mirrors (this apartment was made for a girl), in front of me were two colossal windows facing out to a gothic-style church, and finally...a writing desk.

  According to the online apartment description the “writing desk” was actually a small wooden foldable kitchen table, but as someone who had just moved to Paris to write her next book, the desk screamed “writing central!”

  I pushed the desk against the wall between the two windows. Then, in a frenzy, I tossed everything out of one suitcase and onto the floor. At the bottom of the suitcase, laid flat so they wouldn’t get bent, were my two favourite Van Gogh prints, “Starry Night” and “Café at Night.” I plastered them onto the wall and stood back. “Hmm...what else.” I grabbed the notebooks and pens out of my carry-on and placed them on the left side of the desk. Next I took my laptop out of its case, placing it carefully on the right. I stood back again and squinted my eyes. What was missing?

  It was the empty spot on the wall beside the Van Gogh prints that bothered me most, but my eyes lit up when I finally found the solution. I ripped out a page from my largest notebook, and on the top of it wrote an all-important heading: “GOALS FOR A YEAR IN PARIS:”

  The first one was easy: “1. Be a writer in Paris, and publish book two in the series.”

  The next one sounded silly, but as a thirty-one-year-old who’d been living at home with strict Indian parents, it made a lot of sense: “2. Be a fully-functioning grown up.”

  After that came the goal that would be hardest to achieve: “3. Get over ‘what’s-his-face.’”

  I shuddered at the thought and quickly added item number four, which would hopefully help with item number three: “4. Fall in love in Paris.” I added a disclaimer in the finest print: “This one’s totally optional, but you know...it’s Paris.”

  I promised myself to write an “x” next to a goal if I did something to screw it up, and a checkmark every time I made progress. I quickly added two checkmarks under “Be a fully-functioning grown-up,” for A: not fainting on the plane from sheer terror, and B: for getting the keys to my apartment without incident. As a final step I pasted the yearlong goals beside the famous works of Van Gogh, and suddenly I had a plan for how to deal with Paris...

  ***

  The start of any plan for moving to a brand new city is to actually step outside and experience it.

  Step outside. How hard could that be?

  I wondered about this concept as I stood behind the safety of the closed door to my building, while staring at the sinister-looking man outside.

  The man had black greasy hair tied back into a ponytail, and by far the most frightening set of eyes I’d ever seen; dark, bulging eyes, with large puffy circles underneath. He reminded me of Javier Bardem in the movie “No Country For Old Men,” in which Javier Bardem plays the scariest silent killer ever portrayed on film.

  The man in real life was pacing back and forth in front of my building’s door; ten steps one way, ten steps back...all while staring at the cobblestoned ground beneath him. Was he waiting for me to open the door and come out? Would he rush inside before I could close it, then go on a robbery/killing spree and murder everyone in my building? Even my neighbour who’d been playing the violin rather terribly? Well maybe the neighbour can be sacrificed.

  In the thirty seconds that followed, I realized that not having eaten anything for ten hours was a far greater motivator than saving everybody in my building.

  So I opened the door a crack.

  Almost instantly, the man’s scary head turned and his horrifying eyes looked up. He stopped pacing and waited for me to make a move, but I was frozen.

  While all this was happening, couples and families with strollers walked by happily, soaking up the late morning sun on a chilly day. Couldn’t they tell I was seconds away from a grizzly death? Was Paris the kind of city where people only looked out for themselves as you bled to death in the street?

  I heard footsteps hurrying down the carpeted stairs to my building, and moments later a skinny woman appeared, her brown hair twisted into a bun.

  “Bonjour,” she said without smiling.

  “Oh, bonjour!” I gave her a big smile, but the same blank face was all I got in return.

  I waited for her to notice the horrifying man who was staring; maybe we could call the police together, wait here to be rescued, eventually become friends...then laugh about it all over a bottle of nice red wine.

  Instead she said “Pardon” in her French accent, pulled the door wide open, and walked right past the man without even looking.

  I watched her in awe as she turned the corner and disappeared. This was my first exposure to everything you always hear about Parisian women: her nose is in the air and she just don’t care.

  I was certain I could do that too, so before the door closed I snuck out through the gap, and a moment later I was standing outside Paris, for the very first time since leaving the taxi.

  I stuck my nose in the air just like the French woman had done, and started to walk right past the scary man.

  But the man was two steps too fast.

  He was suddenly in front of me now, so I stopped right there in my tracks. He spread out a hand in front of me, waiting for a high-five or money.

  Oh...MONEY!

  I took a closer look at the man’s tattered jacket and worn-out shoes. Concluding that he was simply a homeless Parisian, but also remembering that he still might pull out a knife, I searched my pocket for change then placed two coins in his hand.

  The jerk didn’t even say thank you, which made me feel a lot better about giving him Canadian quarters. Sorry about the shitty conversion rate!

  I turned the corner and smiled, because not only was I still alive, but all my neighbours were still alive too. Best of all I’d finally made it outside, which meant that it was time to immerse myself in all things Paris...

  ***

  Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  I’d read so much about this street; it was the place with cafés where
writers like Hemingway hung out, it was the place with rum bars, fancy bars, casual terraces, and expensive designer shops as you made your way west. It was also the place with Starbucks, but I tried not to focus on that.

  Overall it was a great place to start for a newbie in Paris, so I followed the flow of people as I searched for food and a friendly welcome.

  Before too long, it wasn’t hard to imagine that less than twenty-four hours before I’d been walking the streets of Toronto, because parts of what I was seeing weren’t all that different. The busy traffic, the buses, McDonald’s, you could almost trick yourself into believing that Paris wasn’t a big deal at all. Even in a fairly commercial area such as this though, the trickery came crashing to a halt when you raised your gaze just a little. This move resulted in sheer awe, as you wondered how every building could look so beautiful and historic; were they a hundred years old? Two hundred years old? The multiple-storey buildings were oozing with character, so it almost didn’t matter if you saw the odd Starbucks or McDonald’s at the bottom.

  All that mattered to me in that moment was finding an official “boulangerie,” where I could savour my first pain au chocolat in the home of the world’s best pastries.

  But where the hell were the bakeries? Probably in charming side streets I hadn’t yet discovered on the map.

  I settled for what looked like a French café chain with a big orange sign on the front, and promised myself I’d be way more legit the next day.

  I waited in the queue and gawked at all the pastries in the big glass case. I heard American accents in front of me, and looked up to find an overweight middle-aged man, his wife, and their two kids. The husband and wife were wearing matching straw hats, which baffled me given the not-so-straw-friendly weather. The man also wore thick socks with his sandals, the cardinal sin of men’s fashion.