He smiles. “Place your feet on the star, and make a wish.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I slide my feet together so I’m standing in the center. “I wish—”
“Don’t say it aloud!” St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body, and my stomach flips violently. “Don’t you know anything about
making wishes? You only get a limited number in life. Fal ing stars, eyelashes, dandelions—”
“Birthday candles.”
He ignores the dig. “Exactly. So you ought to take advantage of them when they arise, and superstition says if you make a wish on that star, it’l come true.” He pauses before continuing. “Which is better than the other one I’ve heard.”
“That I’l die a painful death of poisoning, shooting, beating, and drowning?”
“Hypothermia, not drowning.” St. Clair laughs. He has a wonderful, boyish laugh. “But no. I’ve heard anyone who stands here is destined to return to
Paris someday. And as I understand it, one year for you is one year too many. Am I right?”
I close my eyes. Mom and Seany appear before me. Bridge. Toph. I nod.
“Al right, then. So keep your eyes closed. And make a wish.”
I take a deep breath. The cool dampness of the nearby trees fil s my lungs. What do I want? It’s a difficult question.
I want to go home, but I have to admit I’ve enjoyed tonight. And what if this is the only time in my entire life I visit Paris? I know I just told St. Clair that I don’t want to be here, but there’s a part of me—a teeny, tiny part—that’s curious. If my father cal ed tomorrow and ordered me home, I might be
disappointed. I stil haven’t seen the Mona Lisa. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe.
So what else do I want?
I want to feel Toph’s lips again. I want him to wait. But there’s another part of me, a part I real y, really hate, that knows even if we do make it, I’d stil move away for col ege next year. So I’d see him this Christmas and next summer, and then . . . would that be it?
And then there’s the other thing.
The thing I’m trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn’t want, the thing I can’t have.
And he’s standing in front of me right now.
So what do I wish for? Something I’m not sure I want? Someone I’m not sure I need? Or someone I know I can’t have?
Screw it. Let the fates decide.
I wish for the thing that is best for me.
How’s that for a generalization? I open my eyes, and the wind is blowing harder. St. Clair pushes a strand of hair from his eyes. “Must have been a
good one,” he says.
On the way back, he leads me to a walk-up sandwich stand for a late-night snack. The yeasty smel is mouthwatering, and my stomach growls in
anticipation. We order panini, sandwiches pressed flat on a hot gril . St. Clair gets his stuffed with smoked salmon and ricotta cheese and chives. I order Parma ham and Fontina cheese and sage. He cal s it fast food, but what we’re handed looks nothing like the limp sandwiches from Subway.
St. Clair helps with the euro situation. Thankful y, euros are easy to understand. Bil s and cents come in nice, even denominations. We pay and strol
down the street, enjoying the night. Crunching through the crusty bread. Letting the warm, gooey cheese run down our chins.
I moan with pleasure.
“Did you just have a foodgasm?” he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips.