Anna and the French Kiss

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 Gaulle, 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’ll be back tonight. The thought makes me smile.

I call 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 stroll 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 stall 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 painfully, 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 falling. 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?