On the last night in Paris, they decided to go to a restaurant: a fancy French (obviously) one overlooking the Seine, with a three-course menu and exorbitant prices. Jonathon wielded his father’s credit card and said they might as well go out with a bang, and Jayden spent most of the time getting ready looking on the internet for which fork to use first.
So he jumped violently when someone knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
Jonathon.
“Oh,” he said and fumbled with his tie. “Um, yes.”
Jonathon slipped into the room, closing the door discreetly. “Ella’s putting on her makeup,” he said by way of explanation, which meant they had at least twenty more minutes. “And then her tights.” Ah, thirty then.
“Oh,” Jayden said again, because he wasn’t really sure of what to say. It was always a
