“It is. It just caught me off guard. I know what you draw. I should’ve known what would be in there. We shouldn’t even be talking about this, I should be telling you about all of the parts that I loved—”
“And now you’re apologizing to me, and that’s insane.”
“It’s not!” I clutch my phone harder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
There’s no reply.
“Hello? Josh? Hello?”
“My mom is calling me. Shit. They’re about to serve dessert or something.”
“No!”
“Do you still love me?” His panic rises again. “You didn’t say it when you answered.”
I pull out a handful of tissues from a box. “Of course I do!”
“I can’t believe I have to hang up right now.”
“Don’t go. I love you.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” And the line goes dead.
Like the sucker I am, I stay beside my phone all night hoping that soon means “soon”. It doesn’t. How could I have lashed out at him like that? He trusted me. He bared his soul, and I held it against him. I hate this. I hate that I hurt him. And I hate that I’m still upset about his work, and I really hate that I’m gonna have to pretend like I’m not.
I keep the box in my closet, hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind experience, but it’s impossible. It’s the only thing on my mind. By Saturday night, I still haven’t heard from him. Fear of my wrongdoing reaches a critical peak. I have to do something. I add a small peace offering to the box and carry it to the Wasserstein residence, using the return address already on the package. The weight of the box is heavy, burdensome. But it still doesn’t take me long to get there.
Their brownstone looks similar to the others on the street – beautiful, old and well kept. They have miniature evergreens and ivy in the window boxes, an American flag hanging from the second storey, an autumn wreath on the door, and a silver filigree mezuzah affixed to the door frame. The curtains are drawn.
I knock, hoping for an answer from the Secret Service or whatever organization it is that watches over this nation’s more famous senators. No one answers. I knock again, and a stocky man with broad shoulders, stylish grey hair, and a security earpiece opens the door. “May I help you?” His voice is as solid and sturdy as his appearance.
“Isla Martin.” My own voice trembles. “I’m Josh’s girlfriend. From France? I know he won’t be home until tomorrow, but that’s when I’m leaving, so I was hoping you could pass this along to him.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
The tough guy act is dropped for a moment. He smiles, and it’s surprisingly warm. “I’m paid to know that.”
“Oh.” My cheeks turn pink. “Well, would you please give this to him?”
He takes the package from me. “Sure. But I’ll have to scan it for explosives first. As long as it passes, he can have it upon his return.”
I laugh.
“That was a serious statement. All parcels are checked.”
My cheeks deepen into red. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” And I scuttle away.
The next night, when I check my phone in Paris, I have a text from an unknown Manhattan number. He doesn’t mention the return of the manuscript – nor the fact that I left its pages wildly out of order – but he does say this: I can’t believe how much I missed your scent. Merci for the scarf, my sweet rose.
Chapter twenty-four
The pallor of winter further overcasts the already grey city. Olympic rings, bright and colourful, provide the only visual relief. They’re plastered on every advertising surface, including the sides of entire buildings. This February, the Winter Olympics will be in the Rhône-Alpes region of south-eastern France, though, by the adverts, you’d never know they weren’t in Paris proper. The French athletes are the stars of the posters, naturally, but a few of the biggest names from other countries have also made the cut.
Kurt and I exit the Denfert-Rochereau métro station and pass a larger-than-life poster of a fierce-looking American figure skater named Calliope Bell.
“Who do you root for?” I ask. “The Americans or the French?”