“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’l embarrass
Toph, and he’l break up with her, and that’l be it. The prom picture will be their complete undoing.”
“They stil get to dress up.”
“You hate dressing up.”
“And they stil 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’l be bombed out of her skul .”
“So it’l be real y 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’l happen during the photo shoot, I guarantee it.”
I final y 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 stairwel 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 yel ow 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 cal . 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’l stil be tested every three months, but as of right now, this very moment, his mother is alive in the ful est 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 footbal 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’l 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 footbal 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 cal ing 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.
“Hel o, 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.
“OUCH!”
Étienne snaps at him, and the boy lets go. Étienne’s fingers wrap around my hair and gently work the cloth and string and wood from it. He hands the
boat back to the boy and says something else, this time in a softer voice, hopeful y warning him to keep the boat away from innocent bystanders. The boy
clutches his toy and runs away.
I wring out my hair. “Ugh.”
“That’s very clean water.” He grins.
“Sure it is.” But I love how he knows what I’m thinking.
“Come on.” He stands and offers his hand. I take it, and he helps me up. I expect him to drop it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leads me to a safe spot
away from the pool.
It’s nice holding hands. Comfortable.
I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I’m not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about