Something about the hotel bore a strange familiarity to her. She couldn’t quite place it for the longest time. But then, after a couple nights, it clicked. She had been here before. Years ago. Back when James came to visit. Back when she had still indulged him in a friendship out of the sense of obligation that comes from knowing someone since childhood. Time and time again, Alexia would remind herself of this—of how it was important to hold on to your history in this way. If one jettisoned all their childhood friends, could they ever truly be capable of remembering who they were and how far they’d come?

The problem with remaining close to childhood friends, alas, is exactly that: they remind you of who you were. And who you no longer have any interest in being, let alone associating yourself with. Sure, there are many who insist that it’s important to remember who you used to be, so as to track the depth and weight of your evolution. Alexia didn’t feel that way. She wanted to be as far removed as possible from the person she was as a child in the mid-90s. She didn’t know that person, could barely recognize her when shown pictures (a semi-regular occurrence that happened thanks to her sister’s obsession with dwelling on the past). James, unfortunately, didn’t understand that. For he was exactly the same as back then. Never bothering to evolve, or even make the attempt to. Whenever Alexia tried to gently bring it up to him, he balked, calling her “pretentious” and “self-righteous.” Labels that made her think, “Well at least his vocabulary has evolved.”

Alexia supposed she wouldn’t have been bothered by his willful stagnation were it not for the fact that he tended to follow her everywhere she went—not to live, but to visit. And yes, she tended to move around a lot. At least every three years, she found herself living in a different city. Constantly searching for something that had yet to make itself known. But she reasoned that she would know it when she saw it…or felt it. So far, she had not. Thus, it was onward to the next city, which happened to be Paris. It was the first place she moved that was out of the United States, and it was extremely hard-won to be able to get there. Not just because it meant finagling a workplace that would also sponsor her for a visa, but because it meant finding a job that didn’t require her to speak French. Miraculously, a certain luxury brand needed a copywriter to work solely in English. That suited Alexia just fine, even though she didn’t see herself as someone who radiated the “luxury” vibe. Maybe after enough time working there, she would. Sort of like Andy Sachs at Runway magazine. 

But no, that wasn’t really the case. For even after almost a year and a half went by, Alexia still saw herself as endlessly dowdy compared to her chic, coiffed co-workers. To her dismay, this is something that James pointed out to her when he flounced into town for his usual “pop by.” She was really hoping that the distance to get to Paris from California would deter him, but, oh no, you can’t deter someone who has both free time and money. That rare, all-powerful combination. His source of income, naturally, came from his parents, who were convinced that, someday (/somehow/some way), he would find his “path” if they just allowed him the freedom to do so. 

James had been relishing such freedom since high school, when his parents actively chose to go on as many out-of-town trips as possible so that James could use their house as “the place to party.” Accommodating him with more of a “loose leash” than Regina George still didn’t help him secure much in the way of popularity. For the most part, he spent high school following Alexia around like a lost puppy. She had never known someone so lacking in a definitive identity, and yet so desperate to have one. So desperate, in fact, that he seemed to think that Alexia’s would “do” “just fine” for him. 

His Single White Female shtick wasn’t noticeable to her until it was already too late. He showed up to school wearing the same things she did, told people he listened to the same music, liked the same books and movies. It wasn’t long before he was doing such a good job of “being” her that their peers genuinely thought Alexia was the one who had copped his style. This incensed her, and the friendship almost didn’t survive as high school came to a close. But James just kept clinging like a barnacle, apologizing to her endlessly and insisting he was only trying to show her how much he admired her. 

Eventually, she capitulated to forgiveness. After all, she wouldn’t see him for a while. He was planning to go to community college in their town, while she would head to Los Angeles to attend a “real” university. Surely, he wouldn’t have time to come and see her—she would be free of him until Christmas break (she wasn’t planning to come home during Thanksgiving). But no, to her total bafflement, he showed up at her dorm room one day in October to “surprise” her. Thus began James’ rich tradition of “visits.” The majority of them “drop ins” (as he liked to call them) with no warning.

After a certain point, Alexia gave up on the notion that she might ever be free of this person. She did her best to look at it as, again, a way to “preserve her past.” Reference a living “document” that knew her way back when. But, once he showed up in Paris, she couldn’t keep lying to herself about how much James was grating on her nerves…and had been for years. Why couldn’t he take a hint? Accept a gradual fadeout like any normal person capable of grasping social cues? These questions plagued Alexia as she took him around the city under duress. More annoying still, he berated her for not seeming to know any of the truly “hip” places to go. He said he’d be better off staying in his hotel than taking advice from her about what to see. 

And, to be fair, his hotel was quite nice. Posh. Historical. Baroque. All the things, in short, that Alexia had taught him to gravitate toward. There was even a spa and sauna for his private use for one hour out of the day. He really would be nothing without her. Totally tasteless and personality-less. She seethed about this fact as she appraised his expensive room, one that she didn’t think she would ever be able to afford. 

But now, two years after finally shaking him out of her life (via a harsh and strict ghosting method), she realized that she was, indeed, staying in it. That she had suppressed the memory of having been there only to gravitate toward it yet again. Not just the hotel itself, but the actual room he had stayed in. As though to pay James back for having the gall to secure a place that he didn’t even truly identify with, appreciate. She sighed with satisfaction over comprehending what her subconscious had done to ensure she stayed in this hotel—even despite how it should have felt tainted knowing James had once been in the very same boudoir.

Lying on the bed in a terry cloth robe and sipping from a cup of coffee she had just made, she sank into the plush pillows, feeling as though she were melting right into them. This was her room now, her city. Her life. And she would never let James claw or paw or worm or squirm his way back into it. Just as she had this comforting thought, however, an abrupt knock at the door interrupted her peace. For a split second, she feared it might actually, somehow, be James. But then she remembered: it was room service. She supposed old fears, like old habits, died hard.