“You’re too thin,” she says to me as I set out of the back doors and shield my eyes from the blazing sun. To my relief, the table settings are for two, and there’s a simple caprese salad and bread on the table, just enough for both of us. The backyard is teeming with flowers and birdsong and the buzz of insects, but none of the Dumonts is in sight.
“I am not too thin,” I tell her. In NYC I got into the American mentality of working out. I did it a lot, boot camps and self-defense and the like, but I’ve also put on a few extra pounds. The weight—and bigger ass and boobs—doesn’t bother me as long as I feel strong.
“I guess I’m just not used to seeing you as a woman,” she says, dishing salad onto my plate. When I was younger, I was more on the pudgy side, a rarity in France. “You’ve changed so much.”
Have I? I thought I became a different person when I moved, but I never put any of this behind me. Coming back here just proves it. I’m back to feeling lost and hopeless and scared. In some ways, it’s like I never left at all.
Except this time you have a plan, I remind myself. All you need is time and patience.
Too bad it feels like I’m running out of both.
We eat lunch under the midday sun. My mother seems completely at ease, but I’m shouldering the feeling that a net is going to drop from above at any moment. I never saw Gautier again after he found me in Pascal’s room yesterday. I did everything I could to make sure of that.
But he’s mentioned twice now about wanting to take me for a drive today, and I refuse to get in any car with him alone. I’m just not sure how long I’ll be able to avoid him or what I’ll say.
“Where is everyone?” I ask my mother as I finish up the last bit of burrata cheese, olive oil dripping off it and onto the plate.
“Mrs. Dumont is out for Sunday brunch. Mr. Dumont is somewhere in the house. Maybe in his study. He was looking for you earlier, but you were sleeping.” She gives me an annoyed look.
Fuck.
“And there’s Pascal right now,” my mother says, and I follow her gaze to the side of the house where his private entrance is. He’s just opening the door, about to step inside.
“Excuse me,” I tell her, and I bolt, dropping the fork in a clatter and running across the lawn in my bare feet until I reach him.
“Pascal,” I call out quietly as he’s about to close the door.
He pauses and peers around at me while I stop in front of him.
He’s wearing aviator sunglasses that make him look like a model, though I rather prefer it when I can see his eyes instead of my own reflection. I feel I can read him so much better.
“I was wondering if I’d see you at all today,” he says, leaning against the door with his arm propped up, all casual-like. “You enjoying your day off? You look relaxed.”
I can’t see his eyes, but I can definitely feel them as they coast up and down my body, causing heat to coil in my stomach. I’m wearing cutoff jean shorts and a demure tank top, something I threw on when I thought it would just be for lunch with my mother.
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” I tell him, even though I didn’t give it much thought, and the words are just tumbling out of my mouth.
He waves his hand at the door.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel like having a conversation in your bathroom again.”
He stills at that, and I know he’s probably feeling bad about what happened.
“Where would you like to talk, then?” he asks, looking around.
“We could go for a drive,” I tell him. He frowns, looking put out. I fumble on. “I know you just were out somewhere, but . . .”
But please take me far away from this house.
“My father said something about taking you for a ride,” he says stiffly. “Is that not happening?”
I shake my head, giving him a tight smile.
He keeps frowning, and I know he’s studying my face, chewing slightly on his bottom lip. “Okay. Sure. Wherever you want to go.” He glances at my bare feet. “How about you grab some shoes.”