me.
Instinctively, I duck behind the tree.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says to me, his voice rough and broken. “Who cares what they record?”
The words are on the tip of my tongue, almost spilling out into the air:
I’m hiding from Pascal.
But I take one look at Olivier, and I know that Pascal is the least of his problems right now. In front of me is a broken man—eyes red, hair mussed, lips raw from chewing on them.
I put my arms around him and pull him into a hug. He’s reluctant at first, and I know it’s not because it’s me, but because he wants to keep being strong, especially here.
But then he relents and collapses into me, and I think he might break down entirely if not for the fact that a hired car pulls up beside us and gives a light honk.
Olivier pauses and pulls back, then ushers me into the back seat of the car. Once there, he leans back, undoing his tie, holding both hands to his face.
“You did good,” I tell him, knowing my words are feeble and mean nothing right now.
He shakes his head. “I should have said more.” He breathes in and out, his chest rising with ragged breaths, and then his hands fall away from his face. His lost and pained eyes seek me out. “I could have done more.”
“You did all you could. He would have been so proud. He is still so proud.”
He stares out the window. “I can’t even process this. I can’t. I don’t know what to do, you know?” Then he lapses into a string of mumbled French that I don’t understand, but that I certainly feel.
“I know,” I tell him, rubbing my hand on his leg, trying to comfort him. “It’s okay. Everything you’re feeling, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to feel any of this. I just want to . . . turn it off. Like a tap. Make it stop. I want to be numb. I don’t want to feel anything.”
“You don’t want that either,” I tell him. “Trust me. That’s the void. At first the void seems like the easiest place to be because you don’t have to feel anything. No sadness. No pain. No grief. Sometimes anger, but it’s not even real anger. It’s weak. And then you no longer feel happiness or joy or creativity. Nothing.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I need that.”
“You would mind. After a while there, you would mind. You feel nothing in the void, but because you stop feeling, you stop processing, and you stop . . . being. You know? We all need to feel, even the bad things. It’s what makes us human. If you stay in the void for too long, you’ll start questioning your humanity. If you’re even a person. If you’re even real. If you’re even here. And when you start with those questions . . . then you’re in too deep.”
He stares at me, biting his lip for a moment before saying. “You talk as if you’ve been to this place.”
“I have. And I got out. I just know it’s not a place you want to be. But believe me, I’m going to do whatever I can to help you. To be here for you. You won’t face any of this alone.”
He grimaces and lets out a sharp sigh. “But I will. You won’t be here. You’re leaving in a day.”
I shake my head, smiling just a little. “No, I’m not. I’m not going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m staying, Olivier. In Paris. With you. Even if you think it’s too much and too soon, I can stay at a hostel for a while, maybe get work under the table. I mean, I think I’d have to.”
“No,” he says, flinching as if I’d slapped him.
Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped to get.
I swallow my burning pride and try to make him understand. “I don’t want to leave you. Not now. And really, not ever. I can defer my studies to next year, it’s not a big deal.”
His eyes pinch shut, and now my cheeks are flaming with embarrassment.
“I know you’re going through a lot, and I don’t want to add to your problems,” I say quickly. “I just want to stay with you.”
He leans back in his seat, eyes focused on the ceiling. They’re so wild and raw, and yet I can’t read any of the millions of emotions that are rushing through them.
Eventually the words croak out, “You