Allison Parr - Running Back

We narrowed it down to three choices—a long lavender gown Lauren thought would go well with my hair and eyes; a short black thing Anna favored, though I wasn’t so sure about the weird puff of fabric on the sleeve, and a short, simply cut silver dress with a boat neckline. It was kind of weird but appealing nonetheless.

“Hey, what size are your feet?”

I hadn’t even thought about shoes. “Nine-and-a-half.” They all made faces. “What? What sizes are you?”

“I’m a six,” Anna said.

I stared at her. “Are you serious?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “They’re beautiful too. I have beautiful feet.”

“She does.” Kate smiled fondly. “She gets them from me.”

I turned to Lauren in astonishment. She shook her head. “I’m no Cinderella, but my feet are still smaller. Just think of it as an excuse to buy fancy French shoes.”

“But I don’t wear fancy shoes.”

Anna popped a chip in her mouth. “Now you do.”

Mike came in, and stopped when he saw the four of us gathered around my computer. “Breaking news?”

I looked up. “Are you getting a tux delivered in France? For any reason?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s some charity thing Friday night.”

Kate’s head popped up. “And when were you going to tell Natalie this?”

His eyes flickered back and forth between all of us and he started to back up. “I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ll just...go disappear.”

“Go have a boys’ night with Paul!” Lauren yelled after him.

He ducked his head back in. “I’d rather be traded.”

I met his eyes. He grinned and wrinkled his nose at me and vanished.

The O’Connor women went with us to the airport, as they planned to do a little more exploring of the country while we were out of it. Kate gave me one last box before we left. “These are from Maggie. I know you said you could just pick up something in France, but Maggie had your size, and I thought—well, you don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you.” I took the box but didn’t look inside. “I’m sorry about digging up the past.”

She smiled painstakingly. “It’s time we got over it. We could have used you ten years ago.”

So. The thing about the Eiffel Tower? It was big.

That shouldn’t have surprised me. When it was first built in 1890, it was the tallest building in the world, and at fifteen hundred feet it still rose above the rest of Paris, the most iconic part of an incredibly iconic skyline.

Yet at first, catching glimpses of the monument between Haussmann’s elegant apartments as our taxi zoomed through the streets, it looked like no more than a toy. Even when we reached the narrow, tree lined streets of the seventh arrondissement —the neighborhood that housed the Tower, upscale homes and our touristy hotel—and a leg of the structure peaked through at the cross streets, I thought, oh, that’s not that big.

Then we dropped off our bags, walked over and looked up.

And up.

It was like a monster. A gorgeous metallic beast that cut into the sky, so large that when you stood by one of the legs it blocked out everything else.

We climbed to the first level, and then took the elevator to the top. Paris spread out before us, as different from Kilkarten as New York from the Andes. To the south, the Champs du Mars spread out before us, a patch of green amidst the elegant tan and gray buildings with their turrets and balconies. A dark, shadowy rectangle sprung up in the distance like a blot against the skyline, while just slightly to the left the much more pleasing golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb marked another park. Farther on came the Seine and its bridges. The shadow of the tower stretched across the green water, pointing toward the Arc de Triumph and its many avenues. Closer, the palace and gardens of the Trocadéro curved toward us.

Gazing at it made my heart expand in my chest, until I felt like I might float off, fueled by admiration and happiness and joy and beauty. And then I turned my back on it all and kissed Mike until I thought sheer euphoria would carry me off.

When I drew back, he was grinning so hard his dimple showed. “What was that for?”

I kissed the dimple. “It is a rule that you kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

He slid his arms around my back and pulled me closer. “That so?”

“In fact, if you weren’t here, I’d just have to walk up to some stranger and kiss him.”

For lunch, we spread out a blanket halfway between the monument and the military academy on the other side of the park. Like-minded tourists and locals surrounded us. Children raced tricycles while their parents chatted on green benches.

Men jangling Eiffel Tower keychains walked about, targeting camera-wearing tourists and extracting exorbitant amounts of money. A man with dozens of roses moved from couple to couple.

“Don’t do it,” I muttered to Mike as the salesman walked determinedly toward us. “Don’t make eye-contact. Say non , merci .”

Bouquets were shoved in our faces. “Hello, monsieur! A flower for your beautiful lady?”

Mike looked up. “Yeah, sure.”

I stared at him. “What?” He was not going to buy an overpriced, touristy flower. No. No way. Ridiculous! Unbelievable!

Mike handed me a red rose.

I buried my nose in it, and then frowned at him as the man walked away. “You know they marked this up like five-hundred percent.”

“Do you like it?”

I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”

“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”

I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliché—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”

He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”

I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”

Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”

Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.

So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”

He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”

I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”

“What? No way.”

I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”