Chapter 5 - Flying Back in Coach
The reality of Paris without my credit card was not the romantic dream Danielle had curated on her mood boards.
Unable to afford the boutique hotel, and with Richard's card maxed out after paying for a two-night stay at an unrated two-star budget hotel three miles outside the Boulevard Périphérique in Saint-Denis, my family spent seventy-two hours in absolute misery.
Saint-Denis was not Saint-Germain. There were no charming patisseries or cobblestone alleys outside their door. Instead, their room had peeling floral wallpaper, two twin beds pushed together, a bathroom with a faulty drain that smelled faintly of mildew, and windows that rattled every time the suburban commuter trains roared by.
Danielle refused to leave the room for the first twenty-four hours.
"I can't take pictures here!" she sobbed, sitting on the thin mattress with her designer luggage piled around her. "Look at this lighting! Look at the street outside! It looks like an industrial park! What am I supposed to post?!"
"Danielle, shut up about your damn pictures!" Richard snapped, pacing the tiny room in his undershirt, his face gray with stress. "We have eighty-five euros left in cash. That's it! Eighty-five euros to last four days until our return flight!"
"Call the embassy again!" Eleanor pleaded from the edge of the bed. "They have to help us! We're citizens!"
"I told you, Eleanor, the embassy doesn't give handouts to tourists who run out of money!" Richard yelled, slamming his hand against the cheap laminate dresser. "The consular officer basically laughed in my face! He told me to have family wire us Western Union!"
"Who?!" Eleanor cried. "Who is going to wire us money?! My sister doesn't have two pennies to rub together, and your brother hasn't spoken to you since Mom's funeral!"
The unspoken answer hung in the stale air of the room like a ghost.
*Valerie.*
Every problem in their lives for the last ten years had ended with Valerie. Car broke down? Valerie. Property taxes overdue? Valerie. Danielle overspent her credit limit? Valerie.
Now, Valerie was a ghost who had vanished from their network.
"She will pay for this," Richard muttered, his jaw grinding so hard the muscles jumped. "The moment we get back to Atlanta, I am going straight to her apartment. She humiliated me. She humiliated this family. I don't care how much money she makes—she is still my daughter, and she will learn her place."
Danielle sniffled, looking down at her manicured nails. For the first time, a sliver of genuine realization seemed to penetrate her self-absorption.
"Dad..." Danielle whispered. "What if she doesn't let us in?"
"She doesn't have a choice!" Richard roared. "Everything she has, she owes to this family! Who paid for her braces?! Who bought her first used car?!"
"You didn't buy that car, Richard," Eleanor said quietly, her voice sounding defeated and frail in the dingy room. "She bought that Honda Civic from her uncle with money she earned working at the diner in college."
Richard glared at his wife, his eyes bulging. "Are you taking her side now?! After she left us stranded in a foreign country?!"
"I'm not taking anyone's side!" Eleanor screamed back, finally breaking. "I'm saying we are stuck in a shithole on the outskirts of Paris with eighty euros, eating baguettes from a gas station, because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself at the airport! You had to hit her! In front of everyone!"
"She disrespected me!"
"And look where your pride got us!"
For the remainder of their trip, the Castillo family lived on discount supermarket bread, sliced cheese, and tap water. There were no dinners at Le Jules Verne. There were no shopping sprees along the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. There were no graduation portraits in front of the Trocadéro.
Danielle posted an old photo from three years ago on her Instagram with the vague caption: *Taking some quiet time to disconnect and reflect on my journey. Paris is a state of mind.*
Her friends commented: *Omg queen, show us the Eiffel Tower!*
She didn't reply to a single one.
When Friday morning finally arrived, they dragged their luggage onto the RER B train back to Charles de Gaulle Airport four hours early, desperate simply to sit in the terminal where it was warm.
They checked into their Delta flight back to Atlanta.
Because they had basic economy tickets, they were assigned the very last row of the plane—seats 41A, 41B, and 41C—directly against the rear bulkhead, right next to the lavatories. The seats did not recline. For eight and a half hours, Richard sat bolt upright, inhaling the scent of airplane disinfectant and listening to the constant flush of the vacuum toilet, his rage fermenting into something toxic and obsessive.
In his mind, he had constructed an entire narrative of righteous retribution. He would march off that plane, take an Uber straight to Valerie’s loft, confront her in front of her neighbors, demand she reimburse every cent of their expenses, and force her to apologize to Danielle on her knees.
He genuinely believed that the hierarchy of his household was absolute, and that once they were back on Georgia soil, his authority as a father would reassert itself over Valerie's rebellion.
He had no idea that while he was crossing the Atlantic in seat 41C, Clayton County Magistrate Judge Robert Vance was signing an arrest warrant for Richard Castillo on charges of misdemeanor battery under the Family Violence Act.
He had no idea that Mark Sterling had already served a notice of civil lawsuit against Richard’s company to the Georgia Secretary of State.
And he certainly had no idea that standing in the international arrivals hall at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport were two uniformed officers from the Atlanta Police Department, flanked by an airport investigator holding a tablet displaying a still frame of Richard’s face from terminal security cameras.
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The trap had been set. All Richard had to do was walk through the gate.
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