A Million Miles Away(39)

Peter snapped a couple of photos and returned to her, the faraway look in his eyes now justified, in sight of the shadowed bottoms of clouds over the rusted railing.

Kelsey took in a breath to begin, but he turned suddenly, to speak first.

“I’m so glad you came, Michelle. I’m glad we’re here.…” He put his arm around her. “Taking pictures of portly Austrians.”

Kelsey tried to keep her voice steady. “Yeah?”

He turned his head close to hers, speaking into her hair, prickling her neck. “I’m serious. You know I’m serious.”

She turned her head, still in his arms, and they were facing each other, inches apart.

“Every time I read your letters, I’m going to come back here. I read them and I hear you speaking. Especially now that I can hear you in person. Your voice sounds like it does in my head. Which is a weird thing to say.”

Kelsey looked away, overwhelmed.

“Really,” Peter continued, shrugging. “These past few months of being apart, it’s like, now we know each other better. You’ve become more real to me through your letters, I think. Or more open or something. I—” He paused, smiled. He was nervous. “I’ve begun to fall for you pretty hard. I don’t know how I could go back without the thought of you waiting for me when I come home.”

She had heard Peter say something like this before, but now she saw in his eyes that he meant it, felt it in his arms.

He kissed her on the forehead. “And seeing you now, well, this is just a bonus.”

Kelsey put her head on his chest, everything blank. If she told Peter now, his heart would break. He would return ruined. Her mind was static, the scenery as flat as a postcard. Nothing was three-dimensional except for her body, pulsing in her coat, and the boy that held her, both of them wrapped in a lie. A nice, warm lie.

No, now wasn’t the time.

It couldn’t be the time, because Kelsey couldn’t think. She could only feel, and what she felt was—well, lips.

Because he was kissing her again, but the message that she should pull back hadn’t traveled from her brain to her hands. She sent it again, but it didn’t arrive, or her hands weren’t listening.

And he kissed her again.

And again.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


That evening, Kelsey, Peter, Sam, and Phil found themselves in a tiny bar just a few blocks from their hotel on Rue Nollet. The walls were pasted over with photos and graffiti, fragments of concert posters, and different layers of paint. The ceilings sagged under wooden arches. The only new items in the place were the candles on every table—tall, sleek, red—and the young patrons, as tall and sleek as the candles.

Kelsey watched as Peter and Phil flipped through selections on the old-fashioned jukebox from the other side of the room.

“Parisian women,” Sam muttered beside her, taking a seat at their table as he sipped his beer. He shook his head, staring at a lithe blonde in a flowing dress who leaned against the bar, radiating effortless cool.

“It must be something in the water,” Kelsey replied.

Sam pointed to the bottle she had ordered. “Or the champagne.”

Kelsey poured herself a glass. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” she said. She took a large swig and coughed on the carbonation. She was all mixed up.

“So you’re an artist,” Sam said. He had an intimidating, steady gaze under strawberry-blonde eyebrows. He was wearing a Metallica T-shirt and New Balance tennis shoes, both unapologetically white. Kelsey wondered what he had seen over there. More than Peter, it seemed.

“Sort of,” Kelsey said. She was tired. She had walked several miles that day, reveling in the sight of every cobbled street corner, asking art history questions of the tour guide in the echoey corridors of the Musée d’Orsay, trying to speak to an accordion player in the Marais in fake, butchered French.

But the exhaustion was just as sweet as it was bitter. No matter who she was, she had been changed by the city, by the art, by Peter. And already it was their last night.

“What kind of art do you make?” Sam asked.

“All kinds,” Kelsey said. And that’s not a full-out lie, she assured herself, thinking of her conversation with Ian so long ago. Dancers are artists, too.

“Peter showed me one of your paintings,” Sam said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Oh, yeah?” Kelsey said curtly, in between sips of champagne. “Which one?”

He tilted his head, confused. “The only one. The one you gave him before he left, he said. I’m no art critic, but it’s good.”

Kelsey had no idea what he was talking about, of course. She didn’t know which painting Michelle had given Peter. She looked over Sam’s shoulder for Peter and Phil, who appeared to have found a fellow American near the jukebox.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice low.

Maybe she could turn the conversation away from herself. Away from Michelle.

“What about you? What do you do as a civilian?” she asked him.

“I breed dogs with my brother.”

“That’s cool.” Must be nice, Kelsey thought. Must be nice to be able to answer who you are in one sentence.

They sipped from their glasses in silence. Across the room, Peter and Phil high-fived each other, laughing.