I push my toast around my plate. Try another bite. Gag.
Étienne coughs. “You all right?”
“No.You?”
“Feel like hel .”
“You look like hel .”
“Says the girl with hair dripping like a wet beastie.”
I sort of laugh. He kind of shrugs.
“Thanks a lot, Étienne.”
He prods his toast but doesn’t pick it up. “So I’m ‘Étienne’ again?”
“You have too many names.”
“I have one name. People just split it oddly.”
“Whatever.Yeah.You’re Étienne again.”
“Good.”
I wonder if this interaction counts as an apology. “How was she?” I don’t want to say her name.
“Vicious.”
“I’m sorry.” And I’m not, but I have an overwhelming urge to prove we can stil be friends. There’s an actual ache inside of me that needs him. “I didn’t mean to mess things up, I don’t know what got into me—”
He rubs his temples. “Please don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“But if I hadn’t dragged you out to dance—”
“Anna.” Étienne speaks slowly. “You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”
My face grows hot as the knowledge explodes inside of me like dy***ite.
He likes me. Étienne real y does like me.
But as soon as the information hits, it’s replaced by confusion, by a notion so sickening it thrusts my emotions to the opposite end of the spectrum. “But
. . . you’re stil with her?”
He shuts his eyes in pain.
I can’t control my voice. “You spent the night with her!”
“No!” Étienne’s eyes jerk back open. “No, I didn’t. Anna, I haven’t . . . spent the night with El ie in a long time.” He looks at me beseechingly. “Since before Christmas.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t break up with her.” I’m crying. The anguish of being so close to what I want, and it stil being so far away.
He looks panicked. “I’ve been with her for a long time.We’ve been through loads together, it’s complicated—”
“It’s not complicated.” I stand and shove my tray across the table.The toast bounces off the plate and hits the floor. “I put myself out there, and you
rejected me. I won’t make that mistake again.”
I storm away.
“Anna! Anna, wait!”
“Oliphant! Feeling better?” I jump back, having nearly run into Dave. He’s smiling. His friends Mike and Emily Middlestone, aka the Girl with the Pink
Stripe, wait behind him with lunch trays.
“Um. What?” I look over, and Étienne is on his feet. He was about to fol ow me, but now that he’s seen Dave, he isn’t sure anymore.
Dave laughs. “I saw you in the lobby last night. Guess you don’t remember.Your friends were struggling to get you in the elevator, so I helped them carry you.”
Rashmi didn’t mention this.
“You yakked something fierce in your sink.”
Dave was in my room?
“You okay today?” He tucks a shaggy lock of hair behind an ear.
Another glance at Étienne. He steps forward but then hesitates again. I turn back to Dave, something new and ugly hardening inside of me. “I’m fine.”
“Cool. So we’re going to this Irish pub in Montmartre tonight. Wanna come?”
I’ve had enough drinking for a while. “Thanks, but I’d rather stay in.”
“That’s cool. Maybe some other time?” He grins and nudges me. “When you’re feeling better?”
I want to punish Étienne, hurt him in the way that he hurt me. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Dave’s eyebrows lift, perhaps in surprise. “Cool. See you around, then.” He smiles again, shyly this time, and then fol ows his friends to their usual table across the room.
“Cool,” Étienne says behind me. “It was real y cool talking to you, too.”
I whirl around. “What’s your problem? So you can keep dating El ie, but I can’t even talk to Dave?”
Étienne looks shamed. He stares at his boots. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t even know what to do with his apology.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. And this time, he’s looking at me. Begging me. “And I know it’s not fair to ask you, but I need more time. To sort things out.”
“You’ve had the entire year.” My voice is cold.
“Please, Anna. Please be my friend.”
“Your friend.” I give a bitter laugh. “Right. Of course.”
Étienne looks at me helplessly. I want to tell him no, but I’ve NEVER been able to tell him no. “Please,” he says again.
I cross my arms, protecting myself. “Sure, St. Clair. Friends.”
Chapter thirty-six
I can’t believe you bad lunch with David.“ Mer watches him swagger down the hal and shakes her head. We’re headed in the opposite direction from him,
toward physics.
“Dave,” I correct. “What? He’s a nice guy.”
“If you like rodents,” St. Clair says. “You’d think with those big bucked teeth, it’d be hard for him to chew.”
“I know you don’t like him, but you could at least try to be civil.” I refrain from pointing out we’ve already had a conversation about our own less-than-perfect chompers. The last few weeks have been terrible. St. Clair and I are stil friends—in theory—but now that thing is back, even larger and nastier than it was after Thanksgiving. It’s so huge it feels physical, an actual weight and body keeping us from getting close.