And three hours later, when his midnight hits, we celebrate again.
And for the first time since coming home, I’m completely happy. It’s strange. Home. How I could wish for it for so long, only to come back and find it
gone. To be here, in my technical house, and discover that home is now someplace different.
But that’s not quite right either.
I miss Paris, but it’s not home. It’s more like . . . I miss this. This warmth over the telephone. Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?
Bridgette used to be home to me. Maybe St. Clair is my new home.
I mul this over as our voices grow tired and we stop talking. We just keep each other company. My breath. His breath. My breath. His breath.
I could never tell him, but it’s true.
This is home. The two of us.
Chapter thirty
It saddens me how relieved I feel to be going back to France. The plane ride is quiet and long. It’s my first flight alone. By the time the plane lands at Charles de Gaul e, I’m anxious to get back to the School of America, even if it means navigating the métro by myself. It’s almost as if I’m not afraid of riding it anymore.
That can’t be right. Can it?
But the train ride back to the Latin Quarter is smooth and easy, and before I know it, I’m unlocking my door and unpacking my suitcase. Résidence
Lambert rumbles pleasantly with the sound of other students arriving. I peek through my curtains at the restaurant across the street. No opera singer, but it’s only the afternoon. She’l be back tonight. The thought makes me smile.
I cal St. Clair. He arrived last night. The weather is unseasonably warm, and he and Josh are taking advantage of it.They’re hanging out on the steps of the Panthéon, and he says I should join them. Of course I will .
I can’t explain it, but as I strol down my street, I’m suddenly racked with nerves. Why am I shaking? It’s only been two weeks, but what a peculiar two
weeks. St. Clair has morphed from this confusing thing into my closest friend. And he feels the same way. I don’t have to ask him; I know it like I know my own reflection.
I stal and take the long way to the Panthéon. The city is beautiful.The gorgeous St-Etienne-du-Mont appears, and I think about St. Clair’s mother
packing picnic lunches and drawing the pigeons. I try to picture him racing around here in a young schoolboy’s uniform, shorts and scabby knees, but I
can’t. all I see is the person I know—calm and confident, hands in his pockets, strut in his step. The kind of person who radiates a natural magnetic field, who everyone is drawn to, who everyone is dazzled by.
The January sun peeks out and warms my cheeks. Two men carrying what can only be described as man-purses stop to admire the sky. A trim woman
in stilettos halts in wonder. I smile and move past them. And then I turn another corner, and my chest constricts so tightly, so painful y, that I can no longer breathe.
Because there he is.
He’s engrossed in an oversize book, hunched over and completely absorbed. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he bites his nails. Josh sits a few feet
away, black sketchbook open and brush pen scribbling. Several other people are soaking up the rare sunshine, but as soon as they’re registered, they’re
forgotten. Because of him.
I grip the edge of a sidewalk café table to keep from fal ing. The diners stare in alarm, but I don’t care. I’m reeling, and I gasp for air.
How can I have been so stupid?
How could I have ever for a moment believed I wasn’t in love with him?
Chapter thirty-one
Istudy him. He bites his left pinkie nail, so his book must be good. Pinkie means excited or happy, thumb means thinking or worried. I’m surprised I know the meaning of these gestures. How closely have I been paying attention to him?
Two elderly women in fur coats and matching hats shuffle past. One of them pauses and turns back around. She asks me a question in French. I can’t
make the direct translation, but I know she’s concerned if I’m okay. I nod and tell her thank you. She flashes me another look of unease but moves on.
I can’t walk. What am I supposed to say? Fourteen consecutive days of telephone conversations and now that he’s here in person, I doubt I can
stammer a hel o. One of the diners at the café stands up to help me. I let go of the round table and stumble across the street. I’m weak in the knees. The closer I get, the more overwhelming it gets. The Panthéon is huge. The steps seem so far away.
He looks up.
Our eyes lock, and he breaks into a slow smile. My heart beats faster and faster. Almost there. He sets down his book and stands. And then this—the
moment he cal s my name—is the real moment everything changes.
He is no longer St. Clair, everyone’s pal, everyone’s friend.
He is Étienne. Étienne, like the night we met. He is Étienne; he is my friend.
He is so much more.
Étienne. My feet trip in three syl ables. É-ti-enne, É-ti-enne, É-ti-enne. His name coats my tongue like melting chocolate. He is so beautiful, so perfect.
My throat catches as he opens his arms and wraps me in a hug. My heart pounds furiously, and I’m embarrassed, because I know he feels it. We break
apart, and I stagger backward. He catches me before I fal down the stairs.
“Whoa,” he says. But I don’t think he means me fal ing.
I blush and blame it on clumsiness. “Yeesh, that could’ve been bad.”
Phew. A steady voice.
He looks dazed. “Are you all right?”