“He just left you there?” says Henry, aghast.
Addie takes a fry, turning it between her fingers. “There are worse places to be left.”
They’re sitting at a high-top table in a so-called pub—what passes for a pub outside of Britain—sharing an order of vinegary fish-and-chips and a pint of warm beer.
A waiter passes by, and smiles at Henry.
A pair of girls heading for the bathroom slow as they come into his orbit, and stare as they leave again.
A stream of words drifts over from a nearby table, the low, rapid staccato of German, and Addie’s mouth twitches in a smile.
“What is it?” asks Henry.
She leans in. “The couple over there.” She tilts her head in their direction. “They’re having a fight. Apparently the guy slept with his secretary. And his assistant. And his Pilates instructor. The woman knew about the first two, but she’s mad about the third, because they both take Pilates at the same studio.”
Henry stares at her, marveling. “How many languages do you know?” “Enough,” she says, but he clearly wants to know, so she ticks them off
on her fingers. “French, of course. And English. Greek and Latin. German, Italian, Spanish, Swiss, some Portuguese, though it’s not perfect.”
“You would have made an amazing spy.”
She raises a brow behind her pint. “Who says I haven’t been one?”
The plates are empty when she looks around, sees the waiter duck into the kitchen. “Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand.
Henry frowns. “We haven’t paid.”
“I know,” she says, hopping down from the stool, “but if we go now, he’ll think he just forgot to clear the table. He won’t remember.”
This is the problem with a life like Addie’s.
She has gone so long without roots, she doesn’t know how to grow them anymore.
So used to losing things, she isn’t sure how to hold them. How to make space in a world the size of herself.
“No,” says Henry. “He won’t remember you. But he’ll remember me.
I’m not invisible, Addie. I’m the exact opposite of invisible.”
Invisible. The word scrapes over her skin. “I’m not invisible either,” she says.
“You know what I mean. I can’t just come and go. And even if I could,” he says, reaching for his wallet, “it would still be wrong.”
The word hits like a blow, and she is back in Paris, doubled over with hunger. She is at the marquis’s house, dining in stolen clothes, stomach twisting as Luc points out that someone will pay for every bite she takes.
Her face burns with shame.
“Fine,” she says, pulling a handful of twenties from her pocket. She drops two on the table. “Better?” But when she looks at Henry, his frown has only deepened.
“Where did you get that money?”
She doesn’t want to tell him that she walked out of a designer store and into a pawn shop, moving pieces from one hand to the other. Doesn’t want to explain that everything she has—everything besides him—is stolen. And that in some ways, so is he. Addie doesn’t want to see the judgment on his face, doesn’t want to think about how merited it might be.
“Does it matter?” she asks.
And Henry says, “Yes,” with so much conviction, she flushes crimson. “Do you think I want to live like this?” Addie grits her teeth. “No job, no
ties, no way to hold on to anyone or anything? Do you think I like being so alone?”
Henry looks pained. “You aren’t alone,” he says. “You have me.” “I know, but you shouldn’t have to do everything—be everything.” “I don’t mind—”
“But I do!” she snaps, thrown by the anger in her own voice. “I’m a person, not a pet, Henry, and I don’t need you looking down at me, or coddling me either. I do what I have to, and it’s not always nice, and it’s not always fair, but it’s how I survive. I’m sorry you disapprove. But this is who I am. This is what works for me.”
Henry shakes his head. “But it won’t work for us.”
Addie pulls back as if struck. Suddenly the pub is too loud, too full, and she can’t stand there, can’t stand still, so she turns, and storms out.
The moment the night air hits her, she feels ill.
The world rocks, re-steadies … and somewhere between one step and the next, the anger evaporates, and she just feels tired, and sad.
She doesn’t understand how the night went sideways.
Doesn’t understand the sudden weight on her chest until she realizes what it is—fear. Fear that she’s messed up, thrown away the one thing she’s always wanted. Fear that it was that fragile, that it came apart so easily.
But then she hears footsteps, feels Henry coming up beside her.
He doesn’t say anything, only walks, half a step behind, and this is a new kind of silence. The silent aftermath of storms, the damage not yet tallied.
Addie swipes a tear from her cheek. “Did I ruin it?” “Ruin what?” he asks.
“Us.”
“Addie.” He grabs her shoulder. She turns, expecting to see his face streaked with anger, but it’s steady, smooth. “It was just a fight. It’s not the end of the world. It’s certainly not the end of us.”
Three hundred years she’s dreamed of this. She always thought it would be easy.
The opposite of Luc.
“I don’t know how to be with someone,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to be a normal person.”
His mouth quirks into a crooked grin. “You’re incredible, and strong, and stubborn, and brilliant. But I think it’s safe to say you’re never going to be normal.”
They walk, arm in arm, through the cool night air. “Did you go back to Paris?” asks Henry.
It is an olive branch, a bridge built, and she is grateful for it. “Eventually,” she says.
It had taken far longer to get back there, without Luc’s help, or her naïve drive to reach the city, and she’s embarrassed to say she did not hurry back. That even if Luc meant to abandon her, stranding her there in Florence, in doing so he broke a kind of seal. In yet another, maddening way, he forced her free.
Until that moment, Addie had never conceived of leaving France. It’s absurd to think of now, but the world felt so much smaller then. And then, suddenly, it was not.
Perhaps he meant to cast her into chaos.
Perhaps he thought she was getting too comfortable, growing too stubborn.
Perhaps he wanted her to call for him again. To beg him to come back. Perhaps perhaps perhaps—but she will never know.
