Brown, and Josh . . . well , he stil has to come to terms with the fact that we’re leaving and he’s staying. And he is staying. He squeaked by again, barely.
He’s losing himself in his drawings, and his hands are in a constant state of cramps.Truthful y, I’m worried. I know how it feels to be alone. But Josh is an attractive, funny guy. He’l make new friends.
We’re studying for exams in my room. It’s dusk, and a warm breeze blows my curtains. Summer is almost here. I’l see Bridge again soon. I received a
new email from her. Things are shaky, but we’re trying. I’l take that.
Étienne and I are sitting side by side, feet intertwined. His fingers trace swirly patterns on my arm. I burrow into him, inhaling that scent of shampoo and shaving cream and that something else that’s just him that I can never get enough of. He kisses my stripe. I tilt my head, and his mouth moves onto mine. I run a hand through his perfect, messy hair.
I LOVE his hair, and now I get to touch it whenever I want.
And he doesn’t even get irritated. Most of the time.
Meredith has been very accepting of our relationship. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s attending col ege in Rome. “Imagine,” she said, after
registering, “a whole city of gorgeous Italian guys. They can say anything to me, and it’l be sexy.”
“You’l be so easy,” Rashmi said. “Would you like-ah to order-ah the spa-ghe-tti? ‘Oh, do me, Marco!’”
“I wonder if Marco will like footbal ?” Mer asked dreamily.
As for us, Étienne was right. Our schools are only a twenty-minute transit ride away. He’l stay with me on the weekends, and we’l visit each other as
often as possible during the week. We’l be together. We both got our Point Zéro wishes—each other. He said he wished for me every time. He was
wishing for me when I entered the tower.
“Mmm,” I say. He’s kissing my neck.
“That’s it,” Rashmi says. “I’m outta here. Enjoy your hormones.”
Josh and Mer fol ow her exit, and we’re alone. Just the way I like it.
“Ha!” Étienne says. “Just the way I like it.”
He pul s me onto his lap, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His lips are velvet soft, and we kiss until the streetlamps flicker on outside. Until the opera singer begins her evening routine. “I’m going to miss her,” I say.
“I’l sing to you.” He tucks my stripe behind my ear. “Or I’l take you to the opera. Or I’l fly you back here to visit.Whatever you want. Anything you want.”
I lace my fingers through his. “I want to stay right here, in this moment.”
“Isn’t that the name of the latest James Ashley bestsel er? In This Moment? ”
“Careful. Someday you’l meet him, and he won’t be nearly as amusing in person.”
Étienne grins. “Oh, so he’l only be mildly amusing? I suppose I can handle mildly amusing.”
“I’m serious!You have to promise me right now, this instant, that you won’t leave me once you meet him. Most people would run.”
“I’m not most people.”
I smile. “I know. But you stil have to promise.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Anna, I promise that I will never leave you.”
My heart pounds in response. And Étienne knows it, because he takes my hand and holds it against his chest, to show me how hard his heart is
pounding, too. “And now for yours,” he says.
I’m stil dazed. “My what?”
He laughs. “Promise you won’t flee once I introduce you to my father. Or, worse, leave me for him.”
I pause. “Do you think he’l object to me?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will .”
Okay. Not the answer I was looking for.
Étienne sees my alarm. “Anna. You know my father dislikes anything that makes me happy. And you make me happier than anyone ever has.” He
smiles. “Oh, yes. He’l hate you.”
“So that’s . . . a good thing?”
“I don’t care what he thinks. Only what you think.” He holds me tighter. “Like if you think I need to stop biting my nails.”
“You’ve worn your pinkies to nubs,” I say cheerful y.
“Or if I need to start ironing my bedspread.”
“I DO NOT IRON MY BEDSPREAD.”
“You do. And I love it.” I blush, and Étienne kisses my warm cheeks. “You know, my mum likes you.”
“She does?”
“You’re the only thing I’ve talked about all year. She’s ecstatic we’re together.”
I’m smiling inside and out. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
He smiles back, but then his expression grows worried. “So will your father object to me? Because I’m not American? I mean, not ful y American? He’s
not one of those mad, patriotic nuts, is he?”
“No. He’l love you, because you make me happy. He’s not always so bad.”
St. Clair raises his dark eyebrows.
“I know! But I said not always. He stil is the majority of the time. It’s just . . . he means well . He thought he was doing good, sending me here.”
“And was it? Good?”
“Look at you, fishing for compliments.”
“I wouldn’t object to a compliment.”
I play with a strand of his hair. “I like how you pronounce ‘banana.’ Ba-nah-na. And sometimes you tril your r’s. I love that.”
“B ril liant,” he whispers in my ear. “Because I’ve spent loads of time practicing.”
My room is dark, and Étienne wraps his arms back around me. We listen to the opera singer in a peaceful silence. I’m surprised by how much I’l miss
France. Atlanta was home for almost eighteen years, and though I’ve only known Paris for the last nine months, it’s changed me. I have a new city to learn next year, but I’m not scared.
Because I was right. For the two of us, home isn’t a place. It’s a person.
And we’re final y home.