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 college in Rome. “Imagine,” she said, after registering, “a whole city of gorgeous Italian guys. They can say anything to me, and it’ll be sexy.”
“You’ll 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 football?” Mer asked dreamily.
As for us, Étienne was right. Our schools are only a twenty-minute transit ride away. He’ll stay with me on the weekends, and we’ll visit each other as often as possible during the week. We’ll 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 follow her exit, and we’re alone. Just the way I like it.
“Ha!” Étienne says. “Just the way I like it.”
He pulls 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’ll sing to you.” He tucks my stripe behind my ear. “Or I’ll take you to the opera. Or I’ll 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 bestseller? In This Moment?”
“Careful. Someday you’ll meet him, and he won’t be nearly as amusing in person.”
Étienne grins. “Oh, so he’ll 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 still 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 still 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’ll 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’ll 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 cheerfully.
“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 fully American? He’s not one of those mad, patriotic nuts, is he?”
“No. He’ll 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 still 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 trill your r’s. I love that.”
“Brilliant,” 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’ll 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 finally home.
acknowledgments
I would still be trapped inside the first three chapters if it weren’t for Paula Davis. Paula, thanks to you, I wrote a novel. Thank you for being the first to believe in Anna and Étienne. Thank you for believing in me. If I could, I would name a moon or a planet or an entire galaxy after you.
Thank you to Kate Schafer Testerman, my Dream Agent who became my Real Agent. It’s not often in life that we get what we wish for. I am still pinching myself.
I feel privileged to have Julie Strauss-Gabel on my side, whose editorial career I have admired for so long. Julie, thank you for your patient, extraordinary guidance. I can’t believe that not only did you read my novel, but that you also wanted to work with it. I am so grateful. And lucky. And stunned.With all my heart, I extend these thanks to the rest of Penguin. Extra hugs for Lisa Yoskowitz, Lauri Hornik, and Scottie Bowditch.
Thank you to my parents, who gave only encouragement when I announced I was majoring in creative writing. Do you realize how rare you are? I love you.
Endless thanks to Laini Taylor and Sumner Smith. Laini, not only do you give brilliant advice, but you also write brilliant emails. Thank you for the guidance (and for the goinky freak). Sumner, you are the most honest reader that I could ask for. Thank you for your romantic wisdom and your contagious enthusiasm.
The Weaverville librarians were unrelentingly awesome. Thank you for looking the other way whenever I googled “Notre-Dame” on the job, and extra thanks to Lauren Biehl for letting me hold her thesis captive for an entire year.
Merci beaucoup to my sister Kara for being brave when I couldn’t be.
Merci, merci, merci to Manning Krull, American Parisian superhero.
And thank you, Kiersten White, for always being there. It is this simple: I would not have survived last year without you. It’s an honor to travel this strange path together.
The following people provided answers to questions and immeasurable moral support: Jim Di Bartolo, Marjorie Mesnis, the North Asheville librarians, Taiyo la Paix, Fay and Roger Perkins, Mary and Dave Prahler, The Tenners, Staci Thomas, Natalie Whipple, Thomas Witherspoon, Sara and Jeff Zentner, and everyone who reads my blog. Special thanks to Amanda Reid for keeping my hair blue, and to Ken Hanke and Justin Souther, film critics extraordinaire. Chris Prahler gave me several versions of what his acknowledgment should say. Here is the shortest: “Thanks to my favorite brother-in-law.” Chris is my only brother-in-law, but my thanks are genuine.
This story was birthed during National Novel Writing Month. Thank you, Chris Baty and staff, for everything you’ve done for aspiring writers.
Finally, thank you to Jarrod Pe
rkins. Who will always be my first reader. Who pulls me out of bed, pours coffee and tea down my throat, and pushes me into my office. Who cooks dinner, carries it to my desk, and carts away the dirty dishes. Who never doubted I would succeed. Who wipes away my tears, laughs at the funny bits, and seriously considers my most frequently asked question: “Is the boy hot enough?” I am deeply in love with you. Thank you for being you, because you are my favorite.
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