Trapped

With a thump, Sara Water’s heeled-boot fell to the pavement. Woozy, she exited the cab, grateful to be back on solid ground. She was used to LA traffic, but these Parisian roads were a different beast. She straightened her blazer while the driver fetched her suitcase. They exchanged bag for tip, then he quickly sped off, disappearing into the throng of cars.

The sweet scent of cherry blossoms pushed away the acidic smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline. She turned to the towering hotel before her, taking in its grandeur. The statuesque building seemed to touch the sky. The stunning architecture and art-deco influence awakened her spirit, sending a coursing energy through her body, despite the almost eleven hour flight. She knew what to expect, of course — most hotels were similar, when you got down to it. Her room would have a bed and a dresser. There would be a closet with empty hangers and a bathroom with miniature, plastic bottles of toiletries. The first floor would have a bar where she’d spend a majority of her evenings. There would also be many, many conference rooms where she’d spend most of her days.

The mundaneness of hotel-living did not quell her excitement, for this was the French version. The rooms would be French rooms, the bar would have a French bartender (probably). Even the hallways would have French paintings on the walls, the elevator a “lift.” When Sara looked out her window, she’d see thousand-year-old buildings and Parisians going about their French lives. In the morning, she’d be awaken by the smell of French pastries — she had Googled bakeries nearby on the plane ride over, between her romantic movie marathon. She found a delightful looking one only five minuets away between watching “Sleepless in Seattle” and “Along Came Polly,” and couldn’t wait for breakfast.

Sara gave a small shimmy on the sidewalk, trying to shake off the last remnants of her flight. This trip was a big one. All the branches from her international company were here. She brushed off lint from her blazer and trousers. This would be the first time since the pandemic she’d get to see everyone — in person and from the chest down.

Nervously, she made her way up the marvelous marble steps. Normally, she wouldn’t care this much about her appearance after an eleven hour flight, but her fellow American colleagues had much shorter flights and were already checked-in, probably already at the bar. She had sprinted to the ladies room after de-boarding and hastily exchanged her hoodie and leggings for an outfit suitable for a business meeting or associates’ dinner. Most of her colleagues were men and wouldn’t understand the need to “freshen up.”

Sure enough, as soon as Sara entered the grand foyer:

“SARA!” Bob Newton’s baritone boomed across the lobby, causing the concierge to give him an ugly look. The lobby was really a decadent salon, with the bar tucked in the far corner. The fact Sara could even hear Bob was truly impressive, the fact she could hear him so loudly and clearly was a token of the Chicagoan.

He jumped from his stool and wrapped her in a bear hug, almost knocking her suitcase to the ground. “’Bout time,” he complained. “We’ve been here for hours!” His pink-tinted cheeks shown in the bar light.

Sara shook hands with all her fellow branch managers; John Ryan from Boston, Bill Weaver from Milwaukee and Mike Johnson from Pennsylvania. When she got to James Marsen (New York), Sara felt her cheeks flush. He lifted his drink to her and gave her his signature shy smile.

James and Sara has gotten to know each other very well over the past several years. She started at the New York branch only a year or two after he did. They bonded over the fact they were the youngest in the leadership teams, her at 29 and he at 31.

All the other managers who attended conferences like these had at least 10, if not 20, years on James and Sara. The two often found themselves together, giving each other pointed looks whenever a fellow manager made a dated reference or used a phrase that had fallen out of favor. They once spent a meeting, before Sara had moved to LA, discreetly Googling ’70s movie references just to impress the CEO. They also had a jointly held irritation at being called “kid.”

“Whatcha drinking, kiddo?” Bob asked Sara. She bit her tongue, and saw James hide a laugh behind his glass. She clocked that all the men were drinking dark liquor, so she ordered an Old Fashion.

“How’s that dinky LA office?” Bill asked good-naturedly. Sara scoffed in mock outrage. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara noticed James had stopped smiling.

The LA branch was tiny. The company wanted a “west coast presence” and expanded into LA three years ago. Not many wanted to move across the country, but Sara jumped at the opportunity. She was the manager of the sales department, a big promotion from her position in New York. Though she loved the Big Apple, Sara knew the fastest way to get that promotion was to move; it would have taken years in the boy’s club of the New York branch. If she played her cards right, in a few years time, she could become manager of the whole LA branch, like Bob and Mike were of their respective branches.

“Sara is doing a great job,” James said from across the bar. Sara and James had discussed the LA opportunity at length, usually over late-night Chinese food back in the New York office. James had even considered applying himself, but decided against it at the last moment. Last year, he had been promoted to “Assistant Head of Sales,” meaning he was also in line for a branch management job.

“You know, sometimes I’m still surprised you actually did it. Moved, I mean,” James said, loud enough for only Sara to hear. He had moved seats to sit next to her.

“California’s actually pretty nice,” Sara said. James pulled a face. “It is!” She protested. “The weather, the beach —"

“The traffic.”

She gave him a sour look. “I’m not missing out on anything by being in LA. It has everything New York had.”

“Except Broadway. Museums. You know, culture?”

“Rats. Germy subway cars. Snow,” she countered. James shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Dinky or not, we owe Miss Sara a toast,” Bob announced. He held his drink high above his head, the liquid sloshing in its glass. His words were only slightly slurred. “For posting the highest sales numbers this quarter! Impressive for a young branch. And young kid!”

The other men raised their glasses as well. “Watch your back, Marsen!” Bill yelled, causing everyone to laugh.

James had been the rising star of the company before Sara arrived. It led to some healthy competition between them — and a bit of teasing via email and chat messages.

“That’s right!” Sara said, pretending like she had just remembered. “How much did my branch beat yours by, again?” James rolled his eyes.

“It’s always New York or Chicago, and now LA?” Mike lamented. “The rest of us are just trying for fourth.”

“Philadelphia will never make the top five, let alone four!” Bob shouted.

“I don’t know,” James said. “I heard their new manager, Lindsey Frank, might give Sara and I some competition.”

The group finished their drinks and made plans to meet back downstairs in an hour to find a spot for dinner. Sara went straight to the receptionist desk and finally checked in. James waited for her. He was staying in a different hotel across the street from this one. More employees than ever had wanted to come on this trip, and the company obliged them. After two years of being stuck at home, people were itching to travel, even to a boring conference.

“Hey,” James walked Sara to the lift once she was checked in. “Watch to ditch the old guys? There’s a restaurant nearby that’s got great reviews.”

Sara agreed, then went up to her room to drop off her bag.

“Bummer they had to put us in different hotels this time,” James said as they climbed into the cab. Sara had met him on the street where he was holding a taxi for them.

“Yours is, like, ten steps away,” Sara said with a laugh. “It’s not like it’s on the other side of the Channel.”

“I know,” James trailed off, looking out the window of the cab. The city lights streaked by as the cab picked up speed. Sara pulled her eyebrows together, unsure why James cared.

She ordered Pot-au-Feu, the national dish of France. At least, that’s what a quick Google search in the cab told her was the national dish of France. The waiter’s exasperated expression left her afraid she had committed an Ugly American crime. Oh well. She had done the same thing in London a few years ago, ordering Bangers and Mash, and planned to do it again at the next city she was privileged enough to visit.

Since Sara won the sales game, the bill was on James tonight, as per tradition. They had played this game back when they both worked in New York as well. However, it was less fun now that Sara lived almost 3,000 miles away. Sending one another a victory meal via a delivery service simply wasn’t the same.

James ordered a bottle of Champagne to toast to Sara’s win, again. Sara loved Champagne. She watched the bubbles swim to the top of her glass before taking a long, slow sip. She allowed the liquid to wade over her tongue, like waves in the ocean, kissing a sandy beach. She savored the dryness of the Brut before swallowing; She was no sommelier, but thought she tasted a bit of apple.

“Congratulations on your ‘win,’” James teased, bringing her back from her musing. He used one hand to form air quotes around the word “win” while the other kept the glass held high. “Even though I beat you — handily — last quarter.”

It was true that she barely edged out James for the title this time. But her branch was still a baby — a toddler — she explained.

“Besides, next year, I’ll crush you,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

James pretended to look scared, his eyes lingering on her exposed neck. “I guess I better watch my back,” he joked.

James looked down at the table, fidgeting with the forks and napkins. Sara’s eyes followed his movements. For the first time, she noticed some gray mixed in his tousled brown hair.

Once the Champagne was gone, they moved on to wine. James ordered the house red — neither needed to order a bottle based on region or grape. They simply weren’t sophisticated enough.

Sizzling beef signaled the arrival of dinner. The delectable scent of beef stew and roasted potatoes made Sara’s stomach ache and her mouth water. She dug in.

The conversation left work and turned to families and friends. James’s brother planned to propose to his girlfriend of less than a year.

“That seems quick,” Sara said, her spoon suspended in midair. James shrugged. “I guess when you know, you know.

“Better to act than to miss out,” he added. Sara sensed something behind his statement. He was nonchalant, neither his expression nor his tone giving anything away. But he had stopped mid-cut into his chicken, his knife dividing the two pieces. The space between the two supple hunks of meat seemed miles apart, and James seemed — that couldn’t be right, Sara must be misreading his expression — angry?

Sara, inexplicably nervous all of the sudden, changed the subject back to work. James lightened. He rolled his eyes while admonishing her laser-focus, calling her a workaholic.

“In the now infamous works of Kim Kardashian, if you want to succeed, you’ve got to ‘get off you ass and work,’” Sara said in her defense, teasing him again.

James blinked. “Huh?”

Saved waved him off with an amused smiled. “Never mind.”

She found James’s disinterest in pop-culture charming. He wasn’t appalled by it, just genuinely not interested. He was a fan of the classics instead and had introduced Sara to some pretty great films. Whenever he made a reference to something she didn’t understand, she made a point to watch or read the source material, if nothing else, but for a reason to text him.

After dessert of Mousee au Chocolat, and finishing the bottle of wine, Sara and James disembarked the restaurant, and based on the hostess’s annoyed look, not so gracefully. The warm spring day and turned into a chilly night. James put his jacket around Sara’s shoulders before hailing them a cab.

“Hey, how about we head to my hotel? For some coffee?” James asked as he held the cab door open for her. “I bet the guys are back and at the bar again.”

Sara was acutely aware of how close she had to pass James in order to get into the cab, and thought maybe she should just go back to her room and call it a night. Something had changed, a shift in the air, a quake in the Earth. She couldn’t quiet place exactly what it was.

James was probably right though — the other guys would, indeed, be back at the bar, wondering where she had disappeared to and begging her to join them again. She had a presentation to give to the big wigs tomorrow — tips and tricks so everyone can post better sales numbers — and coffee now might stave off a hangover…

“Come on,” he added, draping his arm over the backseat. “We’ll thank ourselves in the morning.”

She looked at his warm brown eyes and felt a flush creep from her cheeks to her neck. Had he changed? Maybe it was just the wine. Either way, she relented.

If she was being completely honest with herself, she wasn’t ready for her night with James to end.

The two stumbled up the stairs to James’s hotel, laughing and teasing each other about their presentations tomorrow. They were both blissfully unaware of the group gathered on the corner of the street, armed with picket signs and megaphones.

Lounging in the salon, Sara and James had finished two cups of coffee and were working on large glasses of water when an announcement from hotel management came over the loud speaker. Since they didn’t speak French, they had to wait for the English announcement to begin. The crowd gathering outside were protesting labor wages, peacefully, but management “kindly requests all foreign guests” stay inside the hotel until the protest was finished. Sara and James had assumed the raucous outside was simply Parisians enjoying a Friday night, but could now make out the undeniable sounds of chanting and faint police sirens in the distance.

“Are they asking us to shelter in place,” Sara asked.

“Sounds like it.”

“That’s exciting.” Despite living in LA in 2020, Sara missed the vast protests over the summer, instead only seeing them on TV or reading about them in the paper the next morning.

James witnessed the protests in New York first-hand, and watched the ones in Portland on TV. He also remembered the French striking against President Emmanuel Macron’s pension reforms a couple years ago.

“Unless they picked these hotels because of the international business conference,” he said, his eyes fixed on the protesters. “We should head up to my room.” James reached out for Sara’s hand to help her off the lounge chair. He then placed his hand on the small of her back, almost absentmindedly, leading her to the lift.

James’s hotel room was bigger than hers. He had room for a small loveseat and coffee table, where a coffeepot and two mugs sat on a pewter tray. Sara sat on the loveseat while James went about making a pot of coffee, saying they may as well have another mug. “Who knows how long this will last.” He had a similar desk tucked into the corner of the room that she had, except his desk had been taken over by his laptop and briefcase. Sara saw a yellow legal pad full of notes, no doubt for his presentation tomorrow. He must have been going over them before he met the guys downstairs, something she now wished she had be able to do.

A ball of linens peaking out of the closet caught her eye. She allowed herself to look at James’s bed, something she had been trying to avoid. It was the same single queen she had, but the pillow cases and duvet didn’t have a very French design. As a matter of fact, they looked rather plain.

She gestured to the bed. “Still?”

“I’m telling you,” James said, handing her a steaming mug. “Don’t watch that documentary.”

Sara laughed. “Never!” She ripped open a sugar packet and stirred it into her drink. She couldn’t remember which city they were in when she learned of James’s germaphobic tendencies. Baltimore, maybe? Apparently he had made the mistake of watching a documentary before that trip, the kind where they looked at hotel rooms with a blacklight. She was sure if she looked into the bathroom, she would see that James had brought his own towel from home as well.

James sat next to her on the loveseat. Sara tensed. Once again, she felt a shift in the atmosphere. She brought the mug to her nose and took a deep inhale. The bitter scent of hot coffee always relaxed her. Except tonight.

“It’s going to be okay,” James said, misreading her discomfort. He put his arms on the back of the loveseat, just as he did in the cab. Sara went rigid, so as to not accidentally brush up against him.

“So, how’s Bachelor Party planning?” Sara asking, trying to defuse the tension, but her words came out more rushed and timid then she intended.

“I haven’t even thought about that. Ugh. That’ll be depressing at 31.”

“More depressing than attending the wedding of your younger brother?” She teased.

“I’ll have to find a hot date. Hey, maybe you’ll be in town. And bored enough to come with me?”

Sara gulped. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach. She was surprised by how…exciting that sounded. A hot date. Had he really meant that?

Was this the change? This subtle, paradigm shift in their friendship.

What are you doing, she wondered. Why are you here, in his room? They were co-workers, friends, competitors. They teased and mocked, but they didn’t flirt, didn’t ask each other out on dates.

Sara didn’t want James to know how excited she was at his proposal. But, she also didn’t want to close that door just yet.

“It’s a date,” she said, clinking her mug to his. She prayed the statement was light enough to be taken as a joke, in case he wasn’t serious.

The sounds of French police sirens grew louder, their blue lights shinning into James’s room. They looked out at the street below. A couple more cruisers had arrived, but not many. The crowd, however, had grown larger, random passerby joining the fray. The chanting intensified.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their coffee and watching the commotion outside.

“Sara,” James said, breaking the silence. “I’m in love with you.”

Stunned, Sara froze. She stared straight out the window, watching the protesters hoist their signs higher, refusing to look at him.

The hints and clues she pretended she couldn’t see surfaced, slapping her in the face. The crush she tried to ignore all these years roared now with a vengeance.

“No, you’re not,” Sara said, finally turning to him.

He frowned. “How would you know?

“Because. We don’t fight for each other.”

Outside, the sounds of chanting had gown fiercer. Police cars were arriving in droves now. The blue flashing lights illuminated James’s face as he looked down at her.

“What do you mean by fight?”

She sighed, exhausted. Between the flight, the drinking and now this, it had been a long day. She allowed herself to lean back on the loveseat, her head resting on his arm.

“Why didn’t you say anything before I moved?”

James scowled at the wall. “I…I almost did. When we talked about the LA job, and you were making a pros and cons list, I asked if there was a guy you might stay for. Remember? You didn’t hesitate before saying ‘no.’”

Sara did remember. She remembered scoffing at the very idea of sacrificing a career opportunity for a guy, offended he thought her so weak.

“That’s not the same thing,” she said defensively.

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“And,” she continued. “If I had known you were talking about yourself —"

“Would it have changed anything?”

Sara bit her lip.

“James, are you willing to move to LA?”

She watched him think. “It’s just…my entire life is in New York.”

“Exactly. And now mine is in California. And I really like the sunshine,” Sara smiled sadly. “If I came back, we’d be competing again, vying for the same job. And if one of us got it over the other—"

“I’d be happy for you.”

“But also disappointed.”

“I’d get over it.”

“What about jealous?”

“I’d. Get. Over. It,” James said, pausing between each word for emphasis.

When Sara didn’t respond, James leaned in closer. “Sara, do you love me?”

She put her mug on the coffee table. James’s arm slid from the loveseat to her back. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of his touch. This wouldn’t be easy.

“I think I do,” she finally answered. “But, I don’t know if that’s enough.” James looked confused, so she continued.

“It’s just…when you’re in love, aren’t you supposed to act crazy? Irrational, even? Willing to risk everything you’ve built on a chance?”

James smiled. “When you’re sixteen, maybe.”

Sara stood. She walked to the desk and leaned against it, placing her palms on the cool wood.

“Be honest with me,” she said. “Are you willing to give up your career, your home, for me?”

James mulled over the question. “That seems like a tall order, Sara. Especially now. Shouldn’t we try first?”

“I’m not willing to sacrifice my career or home either,” she said, ignoring his question.

James looked frustrated. “Where is this coming from?”

Sara laughed. “Every rom-com I’ve ever seen. Every romance novel, ever love song. It just seems like, when you fall in love, everything else takes a back-seat, willingly or not. It seems like nothing else matters. And it shouldn’t, right? Not if it means being with someone you love, someone who makes you happy?”

The crowd outside started yelling. The National Riot Police had arrived and the crowd wasn’t pleased. From this vantage point, Sara could see officers lowering their shields, preparing to advance on the crowd.

James got off the loveseat. He walked to Sara, coming level with her at the desk. He placed both his hands on her waist, just above her hips. She didn’t protest.

“Hon,” he said gently. “I don’t think that fairytale stuff is real. I think it’s just a marketing scheme. Real life, real love…it’s just not that simple.”

Sara looked into his eyes. “It’s a nice scheme though, don’t you think?”

The air in the room thickened, the sounds of the crowd muffled.

James raised two fingers to Sara’s face. Brushing her skin, he pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I don’t want to sacrifice everything I’ve built to be with you, and I don’t want you to sacrifice anything to be with me. That won’t make either of us happy. I don’t know about some all encompassing feeling, but I do know that when I am with you, I’m happy. Happier than ever. I even look forward to virtual meetings, because at least I get to see you. And I really, really want to give this a shot.”

“What about a local girl? One who makes you happy and lives next door?”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

Sara blushed. The sounds of rubber bullets filled the air, but the shouts and screams barely penetrated their bubble.

James took Sara’s face in both his hands. She melted at his touch. James pulled her close, and Sara closed her eyes.

And explosion rocked the Earth, forcing them apart. The sky outside illuminated a fiery orange. A protester had thrown a Molotov cocktail, causing chaos among the clashing police and protesters. Tear gas canisters launched into the crowd. James dropped his hands. He took a few cautious steps to the window, trying to make sense of the mayhem.

Sara felt as if she’d awakened from a dream. She grieved the lost of their moment.

“It’s working, I think,” James said. “For the police, I mean. The crowd is running.”

Sara nodded. She went to gather her purse and blazer from the coat rack by the door.

“What are you doing,” he asked.

“They’ll probably let us leave soon,” she lied.

“But…”

“James. I think I should go.”

James looked crestfallen. He moved toward Sara, who took a step back. He stopped. His hand, which had been extended toward her, fell limply to his side.

“I don’t…why?”

Sara had to tear her eyes away from his hand. She wished the fingertips were still caressing her face. She forced herself to look into his sad eyes. Her mouth went dry. She gulped.

“I like fairytales,” she said.

When he didn’t respond, Sara turned to leave. Her hand fumbled on the doorknob. James’s voice stopped her.

“So…that’s it? I’m too late?” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken another step. He seemed stuck, lost. Sara looked at his tousled, graying hair, the pink flush on his cheeks. She saw a small, glimmer of hope still shinning in his caramel eyes. She didn’t know what to say, so she decided on the truth.

“I don’t know.” She turned on her heel and ran from his room.