care until he parks around the corner from the Rodin Museum.
“Rodin?” I ask as I get out of the car. The air is both smoggy and sweet, the sun beating down on us from above and making waves on the pavement. Tourists are everywhere, and though they used to annoy me when I was young—purely because I was jealous that they were on a vacation, something I had never known—now I’m caught up in their infectious energy.
“Tell me you’ve been,” he says with a charming smile, tucking his sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
I shake my head. “I don’t think you understand how I grew up.”
“That’s because you don’t ever talk about yourself,” he says and holds out his arm for me. “Take it. Pretend I’m not a monster while we look at the pretty art.”
I hesitate and then walk over to him and hook my arm around his.
He leads me into the museum, this sprawling grand hotel from the 1700s that now houses much of Auguste Rodin’s art. It’s light and airy, with large windows and marble floors and even with all the tourists, it still feels special, like we’ve stepped back in time to some hushed, soft place.
“What do you think?” he asks, peering down at me.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him truthfully. “I would have loved to come here as a child.”
“You didn’t at least come with school?”
“Not here. We went to the Louvre, I remember that day very well. But other than that and some others, I was pretty much kept at home.” I give him a quick smile, wishing I could say more, but I don’t particularly want to talk about my shitty childhood here.
“Just wait until you see my favorite part,” he says. He leads me through the halls, past art that I recognize, a large marble statue called The Kiss, in which a man and a woman are in a very passionate embrace. I’ve seen it in books before, but in person it’s breathtaking and impressive. Rodin’s skill was supernatural.
“You can feel the chemistry coming off them, can’t you?” Pascal says thoughtfully as he studies the statue. “As if they’re flesh and bone, not marble. The strain of their muscles, the deep need and desire. It’s palpable.”
I look at him agape.
He gives me his crooked smile. “This surprises you.”
“Didn’t peg you for a deep art guy.”
“I know you didn’t. But I can be all those things that I am and still be this person too.”
He has a point. I keep trying to put him in a box, good or bad, but he defies that.
“Are you even looking for redemption?” I ask him as he leads me outside and into the back gardens.
He lets his hand slide down my arm until he’s holding my hand, taking me by surprise. “I don’t know what redemption looks like. Maybe I’ll know it when I see it.”
I stare at our intertwined hands like it’s an apparition. “Well, it isn’t holding my hand, I can tell you that much.”
He gives me a quick, slightly melancholy smile. “I know.”
Then he lets go of my hand and walks off.
I follow. I hate to admit it, but I think I preferred it when he was holding my hand. It was something so harmless and comforting and gratifying all at once. A feeling completely foreign to me.
I catch up as he takes me past the long rectangular pond, past more statues, until we’re squeezing through hedges at the back of the property. The land here has got to be at least a few acres, and even as far back as we are, there are still wondrous statues scattered about.
Fewer people, though. In fact, it’s just the two of us in this little glen where there are a couple of benches and tables.
We sit beside each other on a bench, and he gestures to one of the empty tables. “Sometimes I come here when I need a break from the office. It’s worth the drive over the river. I sit here, and usually there are a few older gentlemen playing chess and this woman reading and knitting at the same time. It’s nice to just . . . forget for a moment. About everything.” He nudges my arm with his elbow. “So when are you going to tell me all about your childhood? About your life? I opened up to you earlier, it’s only fair. And you do believe in justice, don’t you?”
“I will. I promise.” I swallow and nod. I can tell him about