“Um, no,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Wel . Open your eyes.”
But I stare at the bare tree branches, at the children with bal oons, at the Japanese tour group. Anywhere but at him.We’ve stopped in front of Notre-
Dame again. I point at the familiar star and clear my throat. “Wanna make another wish?”
“You go first.” He’s watching me, puzzled, like he’s trying to figure something out. He bites his thumbnail.
This time I can’t help it. all day long, I’ve thought about it. Him. Our secret.
I wish St. Clair would spend the night again.
He steps on the coppery-bronze star after me and closes his eyes. I realize he must be wishing about his mother, and I feel guilty that she didn’t even
cross my mind. My thoughts are only for St. Clair.
Why is he taken? Would things be different if I’d met him before El ie? Would things be different if his mom wasn’t sick?
He said I’m beautiful, but I don’t know if that was flirty, friends-with-everyone St. Clair, or if it came from someplace private. Do I see the same St. Clair everyone else does? No. I don’t think so. But I could be mistaking our friendship for something more, because I want to mistake it for something more.
The worrying gradual y slips away at dinner. Our restaurant is covered with ivy and cozy with wood-burning fireplaces. Afterward, we strol in a
comfortable, ful -bel ied chocolate mousse trance. “Let’s go home,” he says, and the word makes my heart drum.
Home. My home is his home, too.
There’s stil no one behind the front desk when we get back, but Nate peeks his head out his door. “Anna! Étienne!”
“Hey, Nate,” we say.
“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Nate,” we say.
“Do I need to check up on you guys later? You know the rules. No sleeping in opposite-sex rooms.”
My face flames, and St. Clair’s cheeks grow blotchy. It’s true. It’s a rule. One that my brain—my rule-loving, rule-abiding brain—conveniently blocked last night. It’s also one notoriously ignored by the staff.
“No, Nate,” we say.
He shakes his shaved head and goes back in his apartment. But the door opens quickly again, and a handful of something is thrown at us before it’s
slammed back shut.
Condoms. Oh my God, how humiliating.
St. Clair’s entire face is now bright red as he picks the tiny silver squares off the floor and stuffs them into his coat pockets. We don’t speak, don’t even look at each other, as we climb the stairs to my floor. My pulse quickens with each step. will he fol ow me to my room, or has Nate ruined any chance of
that?
We reach the landing, and St. Clair scratches his head. “Er ...”
“So ...”
“I’m going to get dressed for bed. Is that all right?” His voice is serious, and he watches my reaction careful y.
“Yeah. Me too. I’m going to . . . get ready for bed, too.”
“See you in a minute?”
I swel with relief. “Up there or down here?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to sleep in my bed.” He laughs, and I have to turn my face away, because I do, holy crap do I ever. But I know what he means.
It’s true my bed is cleaner. I hurry to my room and throw on the strawberry pajamas and an Atlanta Film Festival shirt. It’s not like I plan on seducing him.
Like I’d even know how.
St. Clair knocks a few minutes later, and he’s wearing his white bottoms with the blue stripes again and a black T-shirt with a logo I recognize as the
French band he was listening to earlier. I’m having trouble breathing.
“Room service,” he says.
My mind goes . . . blank. “Ha ha,” I say weakly.
He smiles and turns off the light. We climb into bed, and it’s absolutely positively completely awkward. As usual. I rol over to my edge of the bed. Both of us are stiff and straight, careful not to touch the other person. I must be a masochist to keep putting myself in these situations. I need help. I need to see a shrink or be locked in a padded cel or straitjacketed or something.
After what feels like an eternity, St. Clair exhales loudly and shifts. His leg bumps into mine, and I flinch. “Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
“...”
“...”
“Anna?”
“Yeah?
“Thanks for letting me sleep here again. Last night ...”
The pressure inside my chest is torturous. What? What what what?
“I haven’t slept that well in ages.”
The room is silent. After a moment, I rol back over. I slowly, slowly stretch out my leg until my foot brushes his ankle. His intake of breath is sharp. And then I smile, because I know he can’t see my expression through the darkness.
Chapter twenty-two
Saturday is another day of wandering, food, and movies, fol owed by an awkward conversation in the stairwel . Fol owed by a warm body in my bed.
Fol owed by hesitant touches. Fol owed by sleep.
Even with the uncomfortable bits, I’ve never had a better school break.
But Sunday morning, things change. When we wake up, St. Clair stretches and accidental y smacks my boobs. Which not only hurts but also mortifies us both equal y. Then at breakfast, he grows distant again. Checks his phone for messages while I’m talking. Stares out the café windows. And instead of
exploring Paris, he says he has homework to do in the dorm.
And I’m sure he does. He hasn’t exactly kept up with it. But his tone strikes me as off, and I know the real reason for his departure. Students are arriving back. Josh and Rashmi and Mer will be here this evening.