Anna and the French Kiss (29 page)

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.

“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, hopefully 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 it. We sit in the grass underneath a canopy of pink blossoms. I glance around for the Grass Police in their little conductor hats, always eager to remove citizens from the lawns, but I don’t see them. Étienne is a good-luck charm when it comes to this sort of thing. My hair drips through the back of my shirt but, somehow, it’s not so bad right now.

We are still holding hands.

Okay, we should let go. This is the point where it would be normal to let go.

Why aren’t we letting go?

I force my gaze to the Grand Bassin. He does the same.We’re not watching the boats. His hand is burning, but he doesn’t let go. And then—he scoots closer. Just barely. I glance down and see the back of his shirt has crawled up, exposing a slice of his back. His skin is smooth and pale.

It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

He shifts again, and my body answers with the same. We’re arm against arm, leg against leg. His hand crushes mine, willing me to look at him.

I do.

Étienne’s dark eyes search mine. “What are we doing?” His voice is strained.

He’s so beautiful, so perfect. I’m dizzy. My heart pounds, my pulse races. I tilt my face toward his, and he answers with an identical slow tilt toward mine. He closes his eyes. Our lips brush lightly.

“If you ask me to kiss you, I will,” he says.

His fingers stroke the inside of my wrists, and I burst into flames.

“Kiss me,” I say.

He does.

We are kissing like crazy. Like our lives depend on it. His tongue slips inside my mouth, gentle but demanding, and it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced, and I suddenly understand why people describe kissing as melting because every square inch of my body dissolves into his. My fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer. My veins throb and my heart explodes. I have never wanted anyone like this before. Ever.

He pushes me backward and we’re lying down, making out in front of the children with their red balloons and the old men with their chess sets and the tourists with their laminated maps and I don’t care, I don’t care about any of that.

All I want is Étienne.

The weight of his body on top of mine is extraordinary. I feel him—all of him—pressed against me, and I inhale his shaving cream, his shampoo, and that extra scent that’s just . . . him. The most delicious smell I could ever imagine.

I want to breathe him, lick him, eat him, drink him. His lips taste like honey. His face has the slightest bit of stubble and it rubs my skin but I don’t care, I don’t care at all. He feels wonderful. His hands are everywhere, and it doesn’t matter that his mouth is already on top of mine, I want him closer closer closer.

And then he stops. Instinct. His body is rigid.

“How
could
you?” a girl cries.

chapter thirty-nine

My first thought is Ellie.

Ellie found us, and she’s going to strangle me with her bare hands, right here, with the puppeteer and carousel horses and beekeepers all as witnesses. My throat will turn purple, and I’ll stop breathing, and I’ll die. And then she’ll go to prison and write Étienne psychotic letters on parchment made from dried skin for the rest of his life.

But it’s not Ellie. It’s Meredith.

Étienne springs off me. She turns her head away, but not before I notice that she’s crying. “Mer!” She runs away before I can say anything else. I look at Étienne, and he’s rubbing his head in disbelief.

“Shite,” he says.

“Shite is right,” Rashmi says. I’m startled to discover she and Josh are here, too.

“Meredith.” I moan. “Ellie.” How could we let this happen? He has a girlfriend, and we both have a friend who is in love with him—the secret that isn’t a secret and never has been.

Étienne jumps to his feet. His shirt is covered with dried grass. And then he’s gone. He races after Meredith, shouting her name. He disappears behind a copse of trees, and Josh and Rashmi are talking, but I don’t comprehend their words.

Did Étienne just leave me? For
Meredith
?

I can’t swallow. My throat is closing. Not only have I been caught with someone I had no right to be kissing—and not only was it the greatest moment of my life—but he’s rejecting me.

In front of everyone.

There’s a hand in front of me, and in a daze, I follow it to its wrist, its elbow, its skull-and-crossbones tattoo, its shoulder, its neck, its face. Josh. He grips my hand and helps me stand. My cheeks are wet, and I don’t even remember starting to cry.

Josh and Rashmi don’t speak as they steer me onto a bench. They let me blubber about how I don’t know how it happened, and I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and please don’t tell Ellie. How I can’t believe I did that to Mer, and she’ll never talk to me again, and I’m not surprised Étienne ran away because I am so, so awful. The worst.

“Anna.
Anna
,” Josh interrupts. “If I had a euro for every stupid thing I’ve done, I could buy the
Mona Lisa
. You’ll be fine. You’ll both be fine.”

Rashmi crosses her arms. “Your lips weren’t the only ones working out there.”

“Meredith, she’s so,” I choke. “Nice.” Again, that word. So inadequate. “How could I do that to her?”

“Yeah. She is,” Rashmi says. “And that was pretty crappy of you guys to do that just now. What were you thinking?”

“I
wasn’t
thinking, it just happened. I’ve ruined everything. She hates me. Étienne hates me!”

“St. Clair definitely doesn’t hate you,” Josh says.

“Though if I were Mer, I’d hate him.” Rashmi scowls. “He’s been leading her on for way too long.”

Josh is indignant. “He’s never once given her the impression that he liked her more than a friend.”

“Yeah, but he’s never discouraged her!”

“He’s been dating Ellie for a year and a half.You’d think that’d be discouragement enough—oh. Sorry, Anna.”

I sob harder.

They stay with me on the bench until the sunlight dips behind the trees, and then they walk me from
le jardin
back to Résidence Lambert. When we arrive, the lobby is empty. Everyone is still out enjoying the nice weather.

“I need to talk to Mer,” I say.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Rashmi says. “Give her time.”

I slink into my room, scolded, and pull out my key.The night I lost it, I’d just left it in my room. The Beatles thump from the wall between Mer and me, and I remember my first night here. Is “Revolution” covering the sound of her crying? I tuck the key back into my shirt and flop onto my bed. I pop up and pace my room, and then lie back down.

I don’t know what to do.

Meredith hates me. Étienne has disappeared, and I don’t know if he likes me or hates me or thinks he made a mistake or what. Should I call him? But what would I say? “Hi, this is Anna. The girl you made out with in the park and then ditched?You wanna hang out?” But I
have
to know why he left. I
have
to know what he thinks about me. My hand shakes as I put my phone to my ear.