Mer is always too busy with soccer to hang out, and Étienne and I are always buddy-buddy, and . . . she lost her best friend.
El ie stil hasn’t cal ed her.
And the whole time she’s spil ing her guts, I feel so ashamed. I never realized she didn’t have anyone to talk with. I mean, I know El ie was her best
friend, and she wasn’t around anymore, but somehow I forgot that meant Rashmi didn’t have anyone else. Or maybe I assumed Josh was enough.
“But we’l work through it,” she says about him. She’s trying not to cry. “We always do. It’s just hard.” I hand her a napkin, and she blows her nose.
“Thanks.”
“Of course. Thanks for the toast.”
She gives me half a smile, but it disappears as she notices something behind me. I turn in my seat to fol ow her gaze.
And there he is.
His hair is completely disheveled, and he’s wearing his Napoleon shirt, which is more wrinkled than ever. He shuffles toward Monsieur Boutin with a
plate of . . . dry toast. It looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. And he’s stil beautiful. My heart shatters. “What do I say? What am I supposed to say to him?”
“Deep breath,” Rashmi says. “Take a deep breath.”
Breathing is impossible. “What if he won’t talk to me? I told him not to talk to me anymore.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You’re fine. And he’s coming over, so I’m letting go now. Act natural.You’re fine.”
Right. I’m fine. Right.
His walk to our table is excruciatingly slow. I close my eyes. I’m worried he won’t sit with us, that he real y WILL never speak to me again, when his tray clatters down across from me. I don’t remember the last time he didn’t sit beside me, but that’s okay. As long as he’s here.
“Hey,” he says.
I open my eyes. “Hey.”
“Shoot!” Rashmi says. “I gotta cal Josh. I said I’d wake him before I ate, and I total y forgot. Seeyouguyslater.” And she scurries away as if we’re
contagious.
I push my toast around my plate. Try another bite. Gag.
Étienne coughs. “You all right?”
“No.You?”
“Feel like hel .”
“You look like hel .”
“Says the girl with hair dripping like a wet beastie.”
I sort of laugh. He kind of shrugs.
“Thanks a lot, Étienne.”
He prods his toast but doesn’t pick it up. “So I’m ‘Étienne’ again?”
“You have too many names.”