of some history book or some old Van Gogh painting—a two room shack with stone floors and a handful of area rugs, and a stove you had to light each time with a long match.
The owners let it out most of the year, never bothering to dust, so all the books in their squashed hallway library were covered in layers of dust. But there was charm to it, even if the hot water was only lukewarm, and the toilet made terrifying noises like it was going to swallow him whole on the next flush.
It felt otherworldly and timeless when he walked in the door to see Allie at the kitchen table eating off a wooden cheeseboard and tearing hunks off a baguette and smiling over her cup of instant coffee. He was happy, even if he was melancholy. And he was looking forward to starting his life again.
He just wasn’t sure what that was going to look like.
He had no idea if his letter arrived at Luca and Sebastion’s house. He checked his phone obsessively for the first week, but it remained entirely silent, and he tried his damndest not to take that as a sign.
And he was trying his damndest to believe he could accept no as their answer.
It was the fourteenth though—a Saturday that was drizzly and miserable, but the weather swore it would clear up before the festivities began. Allie had gone into the city early to help set up. The company party was supposed to be some exercise in bonding and trust, which she thought was hilarious.
“They want to see how many of us can get shit-faced and not fist-fight by two AM. And here’s hoping it doesn’t mean people are getting fired, because if that’s the case, I’ll be the first one they let go.”
Xan promised to meet her later, but he wanted to mingle with tourists and see some of the sights he’d been avoiding since he arrived. He liked the quiet parts of the country anyway. The rolling green fields and the little farmhouses and the narrow streets with names like Rue Vincent Hugo.
The afternoon before, he’d stumbled on a cemetery tucked in the curves of the neighborhood, back behind a thick row of cherry trees that were heavy with fruit. The whole place sort of smelled like fermented rot, but he ignored the squish under his shoes and started to wander among the rows of crosses and angels bearing names and dates.
Some of them were old—as old as the village itself must have been, but there were newer ones with fresh flowers and turned earth.
He found himself stopping near the edge of the wrought-iron fence, staring at five intricately carved stones, all bearing the same date of death. They were boys, teenagers, who died in seventy-two.
“It was a car crash,” came a voice from behind him.
He turned and found an older man with wispy grey hair holding a walking stick that looked more for hiking than for supporting his weight. He was in jeans and a button-up flannel, and he offered Xan a small grin.
“You’re staying in the cottage up the road,” he said in thickly accented English. “I meet your wife.”
Xan laughed. “Cousin. She’s my cousin.”
The man let out a quiet ah, and he stood on the other side of the stones, pressing one hand to the one that sat directly in the middle. “Roget was my brother. They got drunk and rolled their car. Only one of their friends survived. Fools.”
Xan felt his heart clench. “I’m sorry.”
The man shook his head. “Don’t be. Roget always told me he was going to die young. I thought he was an idiot. But he was usually right. He never let danger stop him.”
Until he was forced to stop, Xan thought.
“Would you have gone?” he couldn’t help asking.
The man raised his brows. “No. But I thought about him every day when I moved to America. I lived in Chicago and went to school there, worked there. Twenty-two years before I came home.” He sighed and gave the headstone a pat before stepping away. “It’s probably always worth the risk.”
“What is?” Xan called after him as he started back down the path.
The man looked over his shoulder and grinned. “The journey beyond this. You’ll never reach the other side of here if you don’t start walking now.”
As he stood in front of the tall mirror, adjusting his hair, Xan thought about that stranger. He wished he knew his name. It felt strange not to know