I stare at his diamond-patterned rug. “I locked myself out.”
“Mmm?”
“She forgot her key,” St. Clair says. “Can she borrow your spare?”
Nate sighs but motions us inside. His place is much larger than ours, with a private bath, a sitting room, and a full-size (though tiny by American standards) kitchen in addition to a separate bedroom. He shuffles over to a wooden cupboard in his sitting room. It’s filled with brass keys hanging on nails, a painted golden number above each one. He grabs 408 and hands it to me. “I want that back before breakfast.”
“Of course.” I grasp the key so hard it dents my palm. “I’m sorry.”
“Out,” he says, and we scurry into the hall. I catch a glimpse of his condom bowl, which brings back another uneasy Thanksgiving memory.
“See?” St. Clair switches off the dragonfly lamp. “That wasn’t so terrible.”
The lobby is cloaked in darkness again, the only light coming from the screen saver on the front desk’s computer. I stumble forward, patting the walls for guidance. St. Clair bumps into me. “Sorry,” he says. His breath is warm on my neck. But he doesn’t adjust his body. He stays close behind me as we stumble down the hall.
My hand hits the stairwell door. I open it, and we shield our eyes from the sudden brightness. St. Clair shuts it behind us, but we don’t walk upstairs. He’s still pressed against me. I turn around. His lips are only a breath from mine. My heart beats so hard it’s practically bursting, but he falters and backs away. “So are you and Dave ...?”
I stare at his hands, resting on the door.They aren’t little-boy hands.
“We were,” I say. “Not anymore.”
He pauses, and then takes a step forward again. “And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what that email earlier was about?”
“No.”
Another step closer. “But it upset you. Why won’t you tell me?”
I step back. “Because it’s embarrassing, and it’s none of your business.”
St. Clair furrows his brow in frustration. “Anna, if you can’t tell your best mate what’s bothering you, who can you tell?”
And just like that, I have to fight to keep from crying for a third time. Because even with all of the awkwardness and hostility, he still considers me his best friend. The news fills me with more relief than I could have imagined. I’ve missed him. I hate being mad at him. Before I know it, the words spill out about Bridgette and Toph and prom, and he listens attentively, never taking his eyes from me. “And I’ll never go to one! When Dad enrolled me here, he took that away from me, too.”
“But . . . proms are lame.” St. Clair is confused. “I thought you were glad we didn’t have one.”
We sit down together on the bottom step. “I was. Until now.”
“But ... Toph is a wanker.You hate him. And Bridgette!” He glances at me. “We still hate Bridgette, right? I haven’t missed anything?”
I shake my head. “We still hate her.”
“All right, so it’s a fitting punishment. Think about it, she’ll get dolled up in one of those satin monstrosities no rational girl would ever wear, and they’ll take one of those awful pictures—”
“The picture,” I moan.
“No. They’re awful, Anna.” And he looks genuinely revolted. “The uncomfortable poses and the terrible slogans. ‘A Night to Remember.’ ‘This Magic Moment’—”
“‘What Dreams Are Made Of.’”
“Exactly.” He nudges me with his elbow. “Oh, and don’t forget the commemorative photo key chain. Bridgette is bound to buy one. And it’ll embarrass Toph, and he’ll break up with her, and that’ll be it. The prom picture will be their complete undoing.”
“They still get to dress up.”
“You hate dressing up.”
“And they still get to dance.”
“You dance here! You danced across the lobby desk on Thanksgiving.” He laughs. “There’s no way Bridgette will get to dance on a desk at the prom.”
I’m trying to stay upset. “Unless she’s trashed.”
“Exactly.”
“Which she probably will be.”
“No ‘probably’ about it. She’ll be bombed out of her skull.”
“So it’ll be really embarrassing when she loses her dinner—”
He throws up his hands. “The terrible prom food! How could I have forgotten? Rubbery chicken, bottled barbecue sauce—”
“—on Toph’s shoes.”
“Mortifying,” he says. “And it’ll happen during the photo shoot, I guarantee it.”
I finally crack a smile, and he grins. “That’s more like it.”
We hold each other’s gaze. His smile softens, and he nudges me again. I rest my head on his shoulder as the stairwell light turns off. They’re all on timers.
“Thanks, Étienne.”
He stiffens at hearing his first name. In the darkness, I take one of his hands into my lap and squeeze it. He squeezes back. His nails are bitten short, but I love his hands.
They’re just the right size.
chapter thirty-eight
Now I know why people are always carrying on about Paris in the springtime. The leaves are bright green with birth, the chestnut trees are clustered with pink buds, and the walkways are lined with lemon yellow tulips. Everywhere I look, Parisians are smiling. They’ve shed their woolen scarves for scarves that are thinner, lighter, softer. Le Jardin du Luxembourg, the Luxembourg Gardens, is busy today, but it’s a pleasant crowd. Everyone is happy because it’s the first warm day of the year.We haven’t seen sunshine in months.
But I’m grateful for a different reason.
This morning, Étienne received a phone call. Susan St. Clair is not going to be the protagonist in a James Ashley novel. Her PET/CT scan was clear—no evidence of cancer. She’ll still be tested every three months, but as of right now, this very moment, his mother is alive in the fullest sense of the word.
We’re out celebrating.
Étienne and I are sprawled before the Grand Bassin, an octagonal pool popular for sailing toy boats. Meredith is playing a league football game in an indoor field across the street, and Josh and Rashmi are watching. We watched, too, for a while. She’s fantastic, but our attention to organized sports only lasts so long. Fifteen minutes into it, and Étienne was whispering in my ear and prodding me with lifted brows.
I didn’t take much convincing. We’ll head back in a bit, to catch the end.
It’s strange that this is my first time here, because the garden rests against the Latin Quarter. I’ve been missing out. So far Étienne has shown me a beekeeping school, an orchard, a puppet theater, a carousel, and a courtyard of gentlemen lost in boules, lawn bowling. He says we’re in the best park in all of Paris, but I think it’s the best park in the world. I wish I could take Seany here.
A tiny sailboat breezes behind us, and I sigh happily. “Étienne?”
We’re lying next to each other, propped up against the ledge of the Bassin. He shifts, and his legs find a comfortable spot against me. Our eyes are closed. “Hmm?” he asks.
“This is sooo much better than a football game.”
“Mm, isn’t it, though?”
“We’re so rotten,” I say.
He slaps me with a lazy arm, and we laugh quietly. Sometime later, I realize he’s calling my name.
“Wha?” I must have drifted asleep.
“There’s a sailboat in your hair.”
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘There’s a sailboat in your hair.’”
I try to lift my head, but it snaps back, snagged. He wasn’t kidding. An agitated boy about Seany’s age approaches, speaking in rapid French. Étienne laughs as I try to pry the toy’s sails from my head.The boat tips over, and my hair dips into the Bassin.The young boy shouts at me.
“Hello, help?” I throw an exasperated look at Étienne, whose laughter has reduced him into a fit of giggles. He struggles up as the boy reaches for my hair, tearing at the wet tangles.