“This is what I want, Mom,” Henry said, and he couldn’t believe how calm he felt. “This is where I belong. In the kitchen.”
“Maybe it is,” she acquiesced. Henry almost dropped the phone. “It sounds like you’re doing incredible things over there. But I just want you to think about college, okay? Just tell me you’ll think about it. I just . . . I don’t want you to feel like you have to grow up right away. Like you have to run into the kitchen.” Her voice cracked. “There’s no need to rush.”
Henry didn’t feel like he was rushing. He felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to do. And it didn’t feel like college was part of that, but now that Mom was actually acknowledging what he wanted instead of haranguing him about his grades, the idea of considering college felt a lot less distasteful.
“Maybe we could tour some schools when you’re home from the École this summer? When you’re not busy with your stage?” Mom asked. That simple question made it seem like she was cool with him staying for the full school year and doing a stage with Chef Laurent. If that was true, Henry would tour a sewer with her if that’s what she wanted.
“I’ll do some tours with you,” Henry said. “If that means I can definitely come back to the École? Even if I got a B in history?”
“I hope you didn’t get a B. But yes, you can go back next semester. Even with a B. I know how hard you’ve been working.”
Henry had to stop himself from fist-pumping.
“I’m proud of you, Henry,” Mom said. Henry felt a lump forming in his throat. “I always have been. And I always will be.”
“Is that Henry?” he heard Dad shout joyously from the background.
“Tell Dad I’ll call him back,” Henry said quickly before he hung up, suddenly cognizant of the fact that Chef Martinet and Chef Laurent were still sitting there, watching him.
“Thank you, Chef Laurent,” Henry said as he returned his phone to his pocket.
“My pleasure.” Chef Laurent shook his hand one last time. “I will see you in the spring.”
Springtime in Paris. Henry couldn’t wait.
He walked out of the cafeteria and into the hallway, where he was greeted by a rousing chorus of cheers, and all of his friends bundled up in winter coats.
“They have saved the best for last, I am sure!” Hampus said.
“Did it go all right, then?” Priya asked.
“Of course it did.” Marquis held out his fist for a pound, and Henry obliged. “He crushed it.”
“Perfect Boy strikes again.” Yumi winked.
“It was good, Henry?” Rosie asked. She was holding up his jacket.
“It was good.” In fact, everything was good. “Well, I did tell Chef Laurent I loved him. So that wasn’t great.”
Everyone laughed and teased him, and Henry didn’t even mind that they were laughing at him. Because he’d done it. He’d proved to himself and to Mom and to Chef Martinet that this was what he was meant to do. And now he was here, with his friends, and in the middle of them all, there was Rosie. With her chocolate-brown eyes and her braid resting on one shoulder. Somehow just the same and wholly different from the first time he’d seen her on the plane. So much more than he’d known she could be. Than he’d known anyone could be.
The door to the cafeteria opened behind Henry, swinging square into his shoulder blades. He stumbled forward a few steps, nearly falling on top of Rosie.
“Sorry,” Bodie said as he stepped through the door. “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was standing there.”
“It’s okay.” Henry stepped out of the way, next to Rosie, letting Bodie into the hallway.
“What is this?” Bodie looked around him at everyone standing in their coats. “You guys going somewhere? A posse field trip?”
“We’re not a posse,” Rosie said firmly.
“Sure we are,” Yumi said. “Let’s get matching jackets for next semester.”
“With our nicknames on the back in rhinestones?” Marquis asked sarcastically.
“Mine will be The Puma,” Hampus said seriously.
“I’m not wearing a bloody rhinestone jacket,” Priya said. “If we’re getting jackets, let’s at least get nice jackets.”
“Heard you crushed it, man,” Bodie said to Henry as the others discussed jackets. “Denis was really impressed.”
Bodie held out his hand, and Henry found himself in the middle of yet another poorly executed bro handshake.
“Denis did say my dessert was better than yours, though,” Bodie told Rosie.
“No, he didn’t.” Rosie nearly gasped with surprise.
“You’re right.” Bodie grinned. “He didn’t.”
Rosie reached over and shoved him, playfully, and they laughed.
“Have fun, you crazy kids,” Bodie said as he turned to walk up the stairs. “Wherever it is you’re going.”
Henry probably should have asked Bodie to come with them. But he wasn’t that evolved yet.
It was something he could work on for next semester.
“Where, exactly, are we going?” Henry asked Rosie.
“Put on your jacket, Henry,” she murmured. “We’re going to the Eiffel Tower.”
Rosie held on tight to Henry’s hand as the six of them tumbled out of the metro stop and raced toward the Eiffel Tower. They were running—Rosie didn’t even know why they were running, but she found, for the first time in her life, she actually could run. She could run as far and as fast as she wanted to. Or that was what it felt like, anyway. That once she’d started, she could just keep going. Forever. The sidewalks disappeared beneath their feet as they got closer and closer, the golden glowing legs of the tower growing larger and larger as they approached.
“Come on, then!” Priya called. “The queue’s just up there.”
Rosie looked up from beneath the tower, stunned by the metallic structure climbing above her. It was almost as amazing as the feeling of Henry’s hand in hers. And as if he knew exactly what she was thinking—maybe he did—he leaned down and gave her a quick kiss, before everyone saw and started oohing at them.
Honestly. You’d think they’d never seen two people dance around each other for four months and finally decide they should be a couple.
“I’m buying us all tickets to the top,” Yumi declared as they joined the ticket line, “because Chef Laurent said my takoyaki were a ‘revelation’ and I feel like a baller right now!”
And they all protested, of course, that Yumi didn’t have to buy them all, but she marched up to the counter and slapped down a credit card. And promised that she would defeat them by physical force if necessary, if they attempted to intervene with her purchase. So they let Yumi buy the tickets, and they barely had to wait at all to get in line for the elevator. They rode up to the second floor, switched elevators, and rode up, up, up, all the way to the top.
When Rosie stepped out, she lost her breath. It felt like the air had changed, like they had entered an atmosphere composed of something different. They’d all been chatting and laughing in the elevator, but once the doors opened and they stepped out, everyone hushed. Even Yumi.
Rosie was mesmerized by the lights spread out before her. They seemed to extend infinitely, pinpricks of golden glow as far as the eye could see. Farther. She could see the bright lights lining the banks of the Seine, and the straight lines of lights that marked each bridge, and the hundreds—no, thousands; millions, maybe—of lights in each building, each window. Each one seemed to flicker softly at Rosie, beckoning her to discover, to explore. This was Paris. Light. Promise. Possibility.
She leaned against the railing and closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the prickle of tears, but, for once, she didn’t try to stop them, or hold them at bay.
In an old house in Paris . . . she thought. Thanks, Dad. She knew, she knew it down to her core, that she never would have come here if it hadn’t been for her father and those early memories of him reading to her about Paris—a place where
girls were fearless. And Rosie also knew that she would never have come here if it hadn’t been for Mom, who had printed out the application and dropped it on her bed, coaxing Rosie out of her comfort zone, away from everything that was safe and familiar and into something that was better than safe and familiar.
Rosie opened her eyes and let herself cry a little as she looked over the city, blown away by this extraordinary place and the people she’d met here. And by the person she’d become.
“There’s still so much I haven’t seen,” she said softly, not even sure who she was talking to.
“We haven’t seen.” Henry stood next to her, looking out over the city, his eyes shining in the darkness, two more spots of light in Paris. “We’ve got lots to see, Rosie.”
And Rosie knew they could never see it all. That Paris would never stop unfurling itself, revealing more and more to discover. But Rosie would see all that she could. With Henry.
She turned away from the city to face him, and now he was looking at her, and they melted into a kiss. This time, it wasn’t a quick one in an attempt to avoid a chorus of Ooo. This time, it was his hands on her waist and her hands in his hair, and Rosie felt the rightness of it all thrum through her like a deep vibration.
Henry was Paris, for her. And she wanted to discover all of him.
“Bloody unbelievable.” Priya sighed. Guiltily, Rosie stopped kissing Henry. And she looked over to see Marquis and Yumi disentangling themselves from a similar embrace. “Everyone’s snogging in the City of Love and it’s so cliché I want to wallop all of you with a baguette. What do we do now, Hampus?” Priya asked. “Are we supposed to fall in love, then?”
“I am gay, Priya,” Hampus said gently.
“I’m not seriously propositioning you, Hampus! Honestly.” Priya rolled her eyes. “Come give us a hug, then. Forever alone, the two of us.”
“Next semester, we will find love,” Hampus said, and it sounded like a promise, and Rosie had no doubt they would. But for now, Hampus folded Priya into his enormous arms.
“I love you, Priya!” Rosie cried, and let go of Henry’s hand so she could hug Priya from behind.
“Well, that’s all well and good, but I’m not going to snog you,” Priya said.
“I love you, too, man,” Henry said, and then he was hugging Hampus right next to Rosie, his arms around her, too, while her arms were around Priya.
“This is the lamest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Yumi said.
“The group hug is happening, Yumi,” Marquis said as he folded himself in next to Henry. “Get on board.”
“I’m finding new friends next semester,” Yumi said, but Rosie knew she didn’t mean it, because she came over and hugged them all, anyway. And if the other tourists thought they were nuts, thought that six teenagers in a group hug was the last thing they ever expected to see at the Eiffel Tower, Rosie couldn’t have cared less.
“All right, that’s enough, then,” Priya said briskly. “If you hug me much longer, I’ll start to feel pathetic.”
“Come on. Let’s go look at the view,” Yumi said. “Also, someone in that hug needs to reapply their deodorant.”
“Yumi!” Marquis exclaimed.
“It was definitely you, then.”
And they bickered as they made their way to the railing, and then Priya stood next to Yumi, and then Rosie next to Priya, and then Henry on her other side, and Hampus next to him, and the six of them looked out over the city.
“‘If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man,’” Henry said, “‘then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’”
A moveable feast. Rosie had heard that before.
“Women can go to Paris, too, Hemingway,” Yumi said.
“Hemingway?” Hampus asked.
“It’s one of my dad’s favorite quotes,” Henry explained. “It’s from a memoir by Ernest Hemingway.”
Rosie loved that idea, of a moveable feast. Of something you could enjoy whenever you wanted, something that went with you no matter where you happened to go. Like home. Home was a place you carried in your heart. And Paris, she knew, would be a place that she carried in her heart, forever. Her own moveable feast. With pastries in pink boxes from Chef Petit’s boulangerie and kimchi in Tupperware and crêpes sparkling with sugar. And with Henry. Always, always Henry.
She wouldn’t say this out loud, not even if they were alone, because it was just too cheesy to exist anywhere outside of her head, but Henry had been her moveable feast. Literally, sometimes, when he’d bought more pastries than he could carry or ordered more crêpes than he could eat. But mostly, she didn’t mean it literally. Because that was the thing about food: for Rosie—and Henry and Priya and Yumi and Marquis and Hampus and everyone at the École, probably—food was never just food. It wasn’t literal. It couldn’t be. It was never just the bites you took, or even the tastes that lingered. Food was the people you cooked with, the people you cooked for, the people you ate with, and the people you thought of as you ate. The people who made the meal what it was. The most important thing about cooking wasn’t even how everything tasted. The important thing was the way it made you feel.
Eventually, Rosie knew, they’d have to leave the Eiffel Tower and head back to the École before curfew. And in a few days, she’d go home to Ohio for Christmas. And a few months after that, she’d leave the École forever.
But she would never leave Paris. Not really.
Because she knew that it would all stay with her.
Wherever she went.
For the rest of her life.
As you probably guessed from this book, I love my bread, and I love my butter, but most of all, I love the following people:
Every first thank-you goes to my incomparable agent, Molly Ker Hawn. Somehow, you magically make everything happen. Kind of like yeast. I have no idea how yeast makes bread rise, and I don’t know how you do all the billion things you do, but I am so grateful for you. Thank you for responding to all of my e-mails (even my most neurotic ones) so quickly, for poking the people I’m afraid to poke, and for being my best and fiercest advocate.
Kieran Viola, I gave you a lump of flour and water and you somehow turned it into a beautiful loaf of bread. I can never thank you enough for all of your patience and your mind-bogglingly brilliant insight through these many, many rounds of rewrites. Thank you for always having an eye on what was best for Rosie and Henry and their story, and for loving Hampus as much as I do.
Thank you to Mary Mudd for keeping everything running smoothly, and for somehow not laughing at me when I didn’t know what # meant. (If you laughed at me when I wasn’t there, I do not blame you.) Thank you to copy editor extraordinaire Jody Corbett for your extraordinary attention to detail, to Bonnie Dain and the design team for making this book so beautiful, and to everyone at Hyperion for all the love and care you’re put into this book. Thank you to superstar publicist Amy Goppert for sending me and this book out into the world, and especially for sending me places with Crystal Cestari. #TeamSprinkles.
Thank you to Lily Choi for your thoughtful read and to Jaewon Oh for your incredible notes—I am so grateful for your work in making this book better. Thank you for asking all the right questions about Henry’s parents, for pointing out the obvious things I missed, and for saving me from making a terrible bibimbap mistake. Your help has been invaluable.
Thank you to Lauren Emily Whalen for your beta read at a time when I needed it most, for knowing that fancy ice cream can be overrated, and for having the hard conversations about loss and how it never really leaves. Southport Grocery biscuits on me.
Thank you to Kathie Miller for the trifle that inspired Rosie’s mom’s, except yours was way more delicious than I could ever have described, and to Megan for a friendship that has spanned decades and continents. Thank you to Evie, whose own junior year at SYA inspired some of the École, and to Caitlin, who was remarkably forgiving when I slept through the majori
ty of our Paris trip. Jet lag is very real. Thank you to Becky for helping me survive a terribly awkward Chandeleur party and for being the best thing about Poitiers. Rosie would definitely have approved of our extreme chocolate Easter egg experiment.
Thank you to the members of the Chicago Korean Restaurant club and to San Soo Gab San, Da Rae Jung, Chicago Kalbi, Han Bat, Cho Sun Ok, Ban Po Chung, and Joong Boo for all the fun and delicious times, and to En Hakkore and Parachute for providing inspiration for Henry’s family restaurant and his own cooking style. There’s always room for japchae. Or baked potato bing bread. One order is never enough.
I was somehow born into a family of tiny appetites, but despite the fact that they never want dessert, I love them anyway. Thanks to my baby sister, for always gossiping with me while I’m cooking, mocking my terrible cookie decorating, and texting me instant feedback on my books. You can’t get the meat sweats from cheese pizza. Thank you to Mom, who hates the kitchen, but was always willing to bake Ma’s Heart Cakes from The Little House Cookbook with me, and who let me take over the Thanksgiving pies at an absurdly early age. To Dad, who thinks salad and a handful of raw almonds is the pinnacle of culinary excellence, but somehow produced a deep-fried, butter-soaked, frosting-loving daughter. The family vacation we took to France when everyone else had a stomach virus and missed out on all the restaurants was when I first really fell in love with food—I can still taste my first steak-frites. So in a way, it’s all your fault.
Max, I don’t know what else I can say except that you’re my favorite person to eat with. Thank you for always encouraging me to try more, whether that’s in writing or banchan. I wish I were as brilliant and talented as I you think I am, but I love you so much for thinking it. Also, thank you for not divorcing me because of my terrible knife cuts, particularly my unique approach to “mincing” garlic.
Thank you to the readers, bloggers, librarians, teachers, bookstagrammers, authors, and booksellers (especially the Book Cellar! Hi, friends!) who have tweeted at me, said hi at events, taken beautiful pictures, written wonderful posts, supported me, and most importantly, read my books. (Kolbe, I see you and your preorders, and I appreciate you!) I am so grateful to each and every one of you.
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