She follows Henry to a bar that’s too crowded, too loud.
All the bars in Brooklyn are like that, too little space for too many bodies, and the Merchant is apparently no exception, even on a Thursday. Addie and Henry are crammed into a narrow patio out back, bundled together under an awning, but she still has to lean in to hear his voice over the noise.
“Where are you from?” she starts. “Upstate. Newburgh. You?”
“Villon-sur-Sarthe,” she says. The words ache a little in her throat. “France? You don’t have an accent.”
“I moved around.”
They are sharing an order of fries and a pair of happy-hour beers because, he explains, a bookstore job doesn’t pay that well. Addie wishes she could go back in and fetch them some proper drinks, but she’s already told him the lie about the wallet, and she doesn’t want to pull any more tricks, not after The Odyssey.
Plus, she’s afraid.
Afraid to let him walk away. Afraid to let him out of sight.
Whatever this is, a blip, a mistake, a beautiful dream, or a piece of impossible luck, she’s afraid to let it go. Let him go.
One wrong step, and she’ll wake up. One wrong step, and the thread will snap, the curse will shudder back into place, and it will be over, and Henry will be gone, and she will be alone again.
She forces herself back into the present. Enjoy it while it lasts. It cannot last. But right here, right now—
“Penny for your thoughts,” he calls over the crowd.
She smiles. “I can’t wait for summer.” It’s not a lie. It has been a long, damp spring, and she is tired of being cold. Summer means hot days, and nights where the light lingers. Summer means another year alive. Another year without—
“If you could have one thing,” cuts in Henry, “what would it be?”
He studies her, squinting at her as if she’s a book, not a person; something to be read. She stares back at him like he’s a ghost. A miracle. An impossible thing.
This, she thinks, but she lifts her empty glass and says, “Another beer.”
