pull him toward me. “I think we’ve watched enough of the movie to ensure we can talk about it in an educated way if asked. Let’s just relax for a bit. Listen to some music.”
And Zeke lets me pull him back to my bed, and we both pretend that everything is okay, that he’s not miserable, that I’m not aware that there are important things I don’t know about. Sometime during the night, he leaves, and only when I wake to an empty bed do I let myself wonder which Zeke I’ll see tomorrow.
Except the answer is No Zeke. He leaves me a text that says he had to take a last-minute trip to Boston, that he’s already sent a message to Marianne. That he’s sorry. That he’ll find me later, before dinner.
And at dinner, he’s fun, affectionate Zeke. We sit with Alice and Colin, and Zeke smiles and jokes and his fingers hold mine under the table. At one point, he stands on his chair to do a dramatic reading of “Colonel Fazackerly Butterworth Toast,” an English poem about a man who banishes a ghost from his castle. And while my stomach hurts from laughing so hard and my heart feels full, there’s also an odd emptiness around us.
Our last week in French class before the trip to Montreal is one winning day after another. We speak French from early in the morning when Zeke meets me in front of my door, all through breakfast and class, and even during our breaks. I’m giggling like a schoolgirl all the time, and Drew is all scowly but Marianne smiles, and we ace our tests and our assignments.
And Marianne agrees to write me a glowing recommendation for the Paris School, and I’m so excited when I get out of the building that I yell out a primal scream to the sky, my whole body alive with joy.
Zeke has only gone to Boston twice and each time he’s come back when he was supposed to. I’ve taken to asking him about his physio appointments, and he answers them with a smile or a grimace, depending on the day. Once I even asked if I could come with him, hang out in the doctor’s office while he had his appointment; maybe we could even walk around Boston for a few hours, speaking in French, bien sûr. And even though it didn’t work out, because of timing and rules and permissions and such, it’s okay.
Because we walk through Merritt instead, fingers intertwined, and we sit in the park, and we kiss by the lake; every word we speak is in French.
I’m living in French.
I’m dreaming in French.
C’est merveilleux.
It’s marvelous.
TWENTY
THE BUS RIDE TO MONTREAL is long and cramped. Zeke and I snuggle in our seats together, my legs resting for a while across his lap, our light jackets blanketing us.
Fingers intertwined, mouths pressed together, giggling, making out, whispering. It’s a good thing we’re in the last row. I don’t even notice the smell of the bathroom; I’m just glad there are no children around.
“Arrête,” Zeke whispers. My hand has slipped under his shirt, partially hidden under our jackets but not really.
“J’aime ton torse.” I rub up his stomach to his chest, and he struggles to stay still. “Tu es chatouilleux?”
Favorite new word. Ticklish. Chatouilleux. Zeke est vraiment chatouilleux. Zeke is very ticklish.
Zeke giggles. He freaking giggles and it makes me want to straddle him. It makes me want to be someone I’ve never been, someone I never thought I’d want to be.
“We’re approaching Montreal,” the bus driver interrupts. “Nous sommes presque à Montreal.”
We spend the day touring Montreal with Marianne and the rest of our classmates. But this tour is less about the architecture and the sites. It’s about daily life in a French city, speaking to the salespeople when we buy postcards, ordering at the local deli, picking up copies of La Presse and discussing them over café and pain au chocolat. And if there exists an idea of perfection, a moment where I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing, it’s here and now. Walking through the streets of Montreal in the summer, my fingers intertwined with Zeke’s, a lemonade in my free hand, the sounds of French conversations all around us, the presence of French words wherever I look. It’s almost as though someone has taken all the desires I have, even the ones I’m afraid to admit to myself, and given them all to