didn’t already look like a moron. But how was I supposed to know a Scottish motto would be in French? I thought they hated France. Or is that just the
English?
Argh, I don’t know. I always assumed it was in Latin or some other dead language.
“Your brother?” St. Clair points above my bed to the only picture I’ve hung up. Seany is grinning at the camera and pointing at one of my mother’s
research turtles, which is lifting its neck and threatening to take away his finger. Mom is doing a study on the lifetime reproductive habits of snapping turtles and visits her brood in the Chattahoochee River several times a month. My brother loves to go with her, while I prefer the safety of our home.
Snapping turtles are mean.
“Yep. That’s Sean.”
“That’s a little Irish for a family with tartan bedspreads.”
I smile. “It’s kind of a sore spot. My mom loved the name, but Granddad—my father’s father—practical y died when he heard it. He was rooting for
Malcolm or Ewan or Dougal instead.”
St. Clair laughs. “How old is he?”
“Seven. He’s in the second grade.”
“That’s a big age difference.”
“Wel , he was either an accident or a last-ditch effort to save a failing marriage. I’ve never had the nerve to ask which.”
Wow. I can’t believe I just blurted that out.
He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Your parents are divorced?”
I hover by my desk chair, because I can’t sit next to him on the bed. Maybe when I’m used to his presence, I might be able to manage that particular
feat. But not yet. “Yeah. My dad left six months after Sean was born.”
“I’m sorry.” And I can tell he means it. “Mine are separated.”
I shiver and tuck my hands underneath my arms. “Then I’m sorry, too. That sucks.”
“It’s all right. My father’s a bastard.”
“So is mine. I mean, obviously he is, if he left us when Seany was a baby. Which he total y did. But it’s also his fault I’m stuck here. In Paris.”
“I know.”
He does?
“Mer told me. But I guarantee you that my father is worse. Unfortunately, he’s the one here in Paris, while my mum is alone, thousands of miles away.”
“Your dad lives here?” I’m surprised. I know his dad is French, but I can’t imagine someone sending their child to boarding school when they live in the
same city. It doesn’t make sense.
“He owns an art gal ery here and another in London. He divides his time between them.”
“How often do you see him?”
“Never, if I can help it.” St. Clair turns sul en, and it dawns on me that I have no idea why he’s even here. I say as much.