“The sound people make when they’re traveling up the Eiffel Tower is the same in every language, isn’t it?” he whispered.
“You mean, ooh and aah?” she replied.
“Exactly.”
“Except not here. Here they say, Ooh la la.”
Peter cringed. “Bad. You are good at bad, bad jokes.”
“No, here they say: Who gives a merde about the Eiffel Tower, I am so cool, I am from Paris.”
“Merde? Is that shit?”
Kelsey was using her limited French to her full advantage. “Oui. As in: Western Kansas smells like merde, because of the hog farms.”
Peter gave her a shove. “Do not knock my place of origin. And that’s Emporia with the hog farms, not El Dorado.”
“Why are we talking about hog farms right now, of all times?”
“A valid point. I feel like we should be reciting poetry.”
“Roses are red, violets are—”
“Anything but that.”
They laughed.
Kelsey hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand the whole way up.
It was a windy, cool afternoon in early spring, and that morning the four of them had walked down the Champs-Élysées as the sun broke the clouds. Even the Parisians were loose and talkative in the metro, smiling below dark sunglasses.
Everyone seemed to have forgotten their troubles, and Kelsey was powerless against the pull of an entire city. She was distracted. Love this, everything seemed to say, in the haughty way a girl like her might flaunt her own good looks. How can you not love this?
Peter let go of her hand briefly, to point out the pyramid shape of the main entrance of the Louvre in the distance, then took it again, squeezing.
He was lighter than she had ever seen him. He didn’t have anything to shove away, to swallow, to pretend wasn’t happening. That morning, they had watched Phil and Sam do one hundred push-ups each, but Peter had cheerfully refused. “Unless someone is going to yell in my face about it, I don’t feel the need.” On their way to the tower, Peter had made dirty jokes about the nude statues that lined the park hedges, including one that made Kelsey spit out her latte on the manicured gravel.
The elevator continued to rise, away from Peter’s friends, who were now somewhere near Notre Dame Cathedral.
Kelsey realized how long she and Peter had been alone.
As the city blocks began to blur together into one vast carpet, her resolve crept back.
Peter, I’m not who you think I am. I am, but I’m not. Kelsey felt her eyes squint. This was going to be terrible.
At the top, the wind blew stronger and the iron creaked, sending a group of Italian tourists into shrieks.
Kelsey buttoned up her trench coat and Peter pulled her to him, kissing her lightly on the forehead as they stared out across the city, entwined.
Peter, this may come as a shock. But I am not Michelle. I do care about you, though, which is why I am here.
No matter what would happen between them, they were the only two people there who knew each other in that particular way, so far from home. She couldn’t imagine keeping a secret from him. This should be her chance to make everything right. This was her chance.
She stepped back, putting a hand on each of his arms, their solidness now shivering under his cotton sweater.
“Should have brought my jacket,” he said, and they were both quiet.
“Peter—” Kelsey started.
Just then, a man—whose red tracksuit mirrored the woman beside him—tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” His accent sounded Eastern European. “Photo, please?” He gestured at himself and his wife, then at the sweeping landscape.
Peter looked at Kelsey, raising his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “Long shot or close-up?”
“Sorry?” the woman responded, flipping her dark lenses up to reveal regular glasses underneath.
“Never mind,” Peter said, glancing at Kelsey again, close to laughter. He was having fun. They were both having fun.
This was a terrible thing she had to do.
Kelsey smiled stiffly and folded her arms, trying to keep her courage.
The blonde couple held each other and posed, their cheeks rosy from the chill, hands united at their waists. They had probably been married for decades, pounds and wrinkles away from their youth, further and further from the moment they met but always in love, until the end.
But that had nothing to do with Kelsey.
She bit her lip, trying to wet her cotton mouth, to still her nerves.
Peter snapped a couple of photos and returned to her, the faraway look in his eyes now justified, in sight of the shadowed bottoms of clouds over the rusted railing.
Kelsey took in a breath to begin, but he turned suddenly, to speak first.
“I’m so glad you came, Michelle. I’m glad we’re here.…” He put his arm around her. “Taking pictures of portly Austrians.”
Kelsey tried to keep her voice steady. “Yeah?”
He turned his head close to hers, speaking into her hair, prickling her neck. “I’m serious. You know I’m serious.”
She turned her head, still in his arms, and they were facing each other, inches apart.
“Every time I read your letters, I’m going to come back here. I read them and I hear you speaking. Especially now that I can hear you in person. Your voice sounds like it does in my head. Which is a weird thing to say.”
Kelsey looked away, overwhelmed.
“Really,” Peter continued, shrugging. “These past few months of being apart, it’s like, now we know each other better. You’ve become more real to me through your letters, I think. Or more open or something. I—” He paused, smiled. He was nervous. “I’ve begun to fall for you pretty hard. I don’t know how I could go back without the thought of you waiting for me when I come home.”
She had heard Peter say something like this before, but now she saw in his eyes that he meant it, felt it in his arms.
He kissed her on the forehead. “And seeing you now, well, this is just a bonus.”
Kelsey put her head on his chest, everything blank. If she told Peter now, his heart would break. He would return ruined. Her mind was static, the scenery as flat as a postcard. Nothing was three-dimensional except for her body, pulsing in her coat, and the boy that held her, both of them wrapped in a lie. A nice, warm lie.
No, now wasn’t the time.
It couldn’t be the time, because Kelsey couldn’t think. She could only feel, and what she felt was—well, lips.
Because he was kissing her again, but the message that she should pull back hadn’t traveled from her brain to her hands. She sent it again, but it didn’t arrive, or her hands weren’t listening.
And he kissed her again.
And again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
That evening, Kelsey, Peter, Sam, and Phil found themselves in a tiny bar just a few blocks from their hotel on Rue Nollet. The walls were pasted over with photos and graffiti, fragments of concert posters, and different layers of paint. The ceilings sagged under wooden arches. The only new items in the place were the candles on every table—tall, sleek, red—and the young patrons, as tall and sleek as the candles.
Kelsey watched as Peter and Phil flipped through selections on the old-fashioned jukebox from the other side of the room.
“Parisian women,” Sam muttered beside her, taking a seat at their table as he sipped his beer. He shook his head, staring at a lithe blonde in a flowing dress who leaned against the bar, radiating effortless cool.