Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,103

a plan.

“I’m sure I’ve given her a few reasons to want to be the one who popped me, but no, we treat knowledge like a blood sport. Speaking of which, this”—he pointed to his eye—“is actually a rugby injury.”

“Rugby? I used to play. Are you in a league?” Robbie looked delighted.

I remembered from Severin’s bio that he’d played rugby in college. Relief surged through me. All right, I had to give it to Knightley: the boy was quick on his feet.

“Yes, I’m in a local Boston league,” Jason said. “This was from practice. I stopped my teammate’s foot with my face.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

Severin laughed. “I know that play. What’s your position?”

I clenched my hands in my lap. Did Jason really play rugby? I didn’t know. Was he making this up because he’d read Severin’s bio, too? What if he didn’t know the positions? What if he couldn’t bluff his way out? Then again, he’d certainly done his research on potatoes. I had to trust he’d been just as thorough with rugby.

“Fly half,” Jason said evenly. “And you?”

“Hooker,” Robbie said.

I glanced at Eleanor. Was this for real? I knew nothing about rugby. These positions sounded made up. I started to sweat.

“Tell me, Jason.” Robbie leaned toward him with the same sort of scrutiny he’d given me about Mars. “Do you really think you have a black eye?”

“Well, it feels like a black eye and it looks like a black eye, so I’m thinking it’s a black eye, or a dark-blue eye if we’re being particular.”

I glanced away, fearing I would laugh, knowing exactly how confused he felt by the question. I couldn’t wait to see what Severin hit him with next. He didn’t disappoint.

“But what if it isn’t?” Severin persisted. “What if it’s all a simulation?”

“A simulation?” Jason repeated. I could see him fighting to keep his face blank. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“What if this, all of this”—Robbie gestured to the restaurant around us—“is just a simulation, the creation of a higher being, and we’re all just players?”

Jason and I sat, speechless. From Mars to potatoes to simulations. This was not the dinner conversation I had expected. In fact, simulations had not been a part of any article I’d read on Severin. It must be something new. Oh dear.

Mercifully, the servers arrived at that moment and took our empty plates and brought the next course, gratinated onions, which were small onions flavored with Parmesan and truffle and filled with a liquid that reminded me of French onion soup. The artistic presentation of the nouvelle cuisine was so enticing. It looked like art and smelled delicious.

The flurry of plates coming and going gave Jason and me a second to regroup. He leaned close under the pretext of commenting on my food and said, “Help me.”

His voice was so plaintive, I almost laughed out loud. Instead, I reached between our two chairs, caught his fingers in mine, and gave them a quick squeeze. We were two intelligent, hardworking people; surely we could handle this. At least, that was what I was trying to convey. When Jason’s warm fingers squeezed back, I took it as message received and let go. He didn’t. Instead, his thumb brushed over the back of my hand, making my breath hitch. I pulled away, breaking the moment.

Trying to regain control of the situation, I gave him side-eye and said, “I didn’t know you played rugby.”

This time, when he looked at me, his eyes were thoughtful. In a soft voice, he said, “I imagine there’s a lot you don’t know about me . . . yet.”

Yet? What did he mean? And why, oh why, did my heart flutter at the sentiment? Was he trying to tell me we weren’t done? That he would wait until I got back to Boston? That at the very least we’d be friends? The questions positively burned my insides, like hot lava trying to find a way out. I said nothing. Now was not the time.

As the servers departed, Robbie leaned forward again and said, “If the simulation hypothesis is true, then that black eye of yours is about as real as a unicorn.”

Jason nodded. He leaned forward and asked, “Do you believe that we’re living in a simulation, Robbie?”

To my surprise, Robbie laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh that made me smile. He lifted his wineglass and took a sip. Then he met Jason’s gaze and said, “Maybe. Definitely maybe.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked. The words flew out