I fol ow him outside. “Rashmi’s in there?”
“They’re having it off,” he says bluntly. “I’d rather not interrupt.”
I’m glad he’s ahead of me, so he can’t see my face. It’s not like I’m ready to sleep with anyone—I’m not—but it’s stil this stupid wal between us. I’m
always aware of it. And now I’m thinking about Étienne and El ie again. His fingertips stroking her bare shoulder. Her lips parted against his na**d throat.
Stop thinking about it, Anna.
Stop it, stop it, STOP IT.
I switch the conversation to his mother. She’s finished treatments, but we won’t know if the disease is gone until March. The doctors have to wait until
the radiation leaves her system before they can test her. Étienne is always trapped between worry and hope, so I steer him toward hope whenever
possible.
She’s feeling well today, so he is, too. He tell s me something about her medication, but my attention wavers as I study his profile. I’m jolted back to
Thanksgiving. Those same eyelashes, that same nose, silhouetted against the darkness in my bedroom.
God, he’s beautiful.
We walk to our favorite cinema, the one we’ve dubbed the “Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater.” It’s only a few blocks away, and it’s a comfortable
one-screener run by the gentleman who walks Pouce, the dog from the pâtisserie. I don’t actual y think there’s a “Mom” around—Pouce’s owner is more likely a “Pop and Pop” kind of guy—but it’s stil a fitting nickname. We walk in and the friendly, dignified man behind the counter cal s out, “Jo-ja! Atlanna, Jo-ja!”
I smile back. I’ve been practicing my French with him, and he’s been practicing his English. He remembers I’m from Atlanta, Georgia (Jo-ja!), and we
have another brief chat about the weather. Then I ask him if Pouce is a happy dog and if he, the gentleman, likes to eat good food. At least I’m trying.
The movie this afternoon is Roman Holiday, and the rest of the theater is empty. Étienne stretches his legs and relaxes back into his seat. “Al right, I have one. Being bad has . . .”
“Never looked so good. ”
“Yes!” His eyes sparkle. This is one of our favorite games, where one of us creates the beginning of a clichéd tagline and the other finishes it.
“With friends like these ...”
He matches my darkened voice, “Who needs enemies?”
As my laughter bounces off the curtained wal s, Étienne struggles to keep his expression straight. He fails and grins wider because of it. The sight
makes my heart skip a beat, but I must make an odd face, because he covers his mouth. “Stop staring.”
“What?”
“My teeth.You’re staring at my bottom teeth.”
I laugh again. “Like I have the right to make fun of anyone’s teeth. I can shoot water incredible distances through this gap, you know. Bridge used to
tease me all the ti—” I cut myself off, feeling il . I stil haven’t talked to Bridgette.
Étienne lowers his hand from his mouth. His expression is serious, maybe even defensive. “I like your smile.”
I like yours, too.
But I don’t have the courage to say it aloud.