Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(36)

One of the train conductors blows the whistle, and people start piling into the train faster.

This is it.

Time to go.

“Tell me we’ll see each other again,” Olivier says, placing his hands on my shoulders and leaning in, his forehead resting on mine. “Promise me that.”

I don’t like making promises, especially when I know the chances of seeing him again are slim. So I say, “I’ll do everything I can.”

He swallows, nods once, and then kisses me quickly. “Goodbye, mon lapin.”

“Goodbye, Olivier,” I whisper.

Then the train dude blows the whistle right in my ear, yelling something in French.

Even Olivier looks startled.

We break apart, and I step onto the train.

Look back at him.

Give a little wave.

He gives a little wave right back.

Then I go and find my seat.

The train pulls away, and I strain to see Olivier through the people settling in, but I can’t.

He’s gone.

I’m going.

I let out a long sigh, feeling the sadness come for me, and rest my head against the window. I don’t even notice the way it rattles as the train goes over the tracks.

Next stop: Barcelona.

Next stop: same old Sadie.

A loud beep from my phone goes off, interrupting the gloom in my head and the tightness in my chest, and I start to think that maybe it’s him. We exchanged phone numbers the other day—maybe he’s texted me to say something, anything at all that will make this better.

But it’s not him.

It’s an email from my mother.

Since it’s the middle of the night at home, I’m instantly worried that something is wrong.

But when I open my email, it’s a few paragraphs.

They say:

Dearest girl,

I had a dream about you just now. You were a baby bird, and I was a mother bird. Maybe a seagull. I’m not sure, but I had to watch you from afar, and you were learning to fly. You didn’t want to leave the nest. You kept looking at me, and I kept telling you to do it. That you needed to, or you would die. Then eventually you spread your wings, and you leaped off the nest.

You fell! At first you didn’t flap your wings, and I was terrified you would fall forever. But then you started to fly. You rose up on the wind, and then you were gone, and as sad as I was that I was alone, I was happier knowing that you were finally on your own. You were finally free to be you.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I feel like maybe you should know.

I know you’re coming home in two weeks, and I know you feel like you have to because of school and because of me, but I just want you to know: if you want to keep flying, keep flying. You deserve it. You deserve everything, my baby girl.

Go, and be free!

Love,

Your crazy mother



I’m stunned. Not that my mother wrote me this—she often writes me about dreams and other things that come to her suddenly. She’s often random and impulsive.

It’s just that this is what I was waiting to hear. To not go back home is ridiculous—I don’t have the money for that, and I wouldn’t be able to get a job in Europe unless it was under the table. I need to go back for her, and I need to go back to school, and, despite what she says, those things are nonnegotiable.

But I can keep flying.

I should keep flying.

My heart starts racing even before the thoughts are forming in my head.

I glance up at the electronic schedule in front of the cabin doors.

Next stop is Cannes-La Bocca, by the water.

When the train starts to slow, I get up, grab my backpack, and exit, probably to the bewilderment of the people behind me.

Once I’m on the train platform, it starts to pull away, and I curse myself for possibly making the biggest mistake of my life. After all, if this doesn’t work out, I have absolutely no way of getting to Spain now.

But I wouldn’t know if I didn’t make the leap.

I take out my phone and text Olivier:

Want to come get me at Cannes-La Bocca station?



I’m grinning as I press “Send.” Nervous as hell and giddy, all at the same time.

He texts back immediately:

Are you serious?



My grin spreads across my face until I fear it may break it in half.

Absolutely. I’m not done with you yet.





CHAPTER NINE

OLIVIER

Paris, France

Contrary to popular belief, the Dumont company headquarters isn’t actually located in Paris. Any tourist (and even some Parisians) would say it’s still in the city, but the actual address is in Neuilly-sur-Seine, in between the iconic Arc de Triomphe and the ugly Grande Arche de la Défense. My father fought for years to keep it at our old location in Montparnasse. It wasn’t the Right Bank, but at least it was in Paris.

But then Chanel moved locations, and Gautier thought it would make sense for us to do the same—to the extent that the Dumont global headquarters is now located across from the Chanel one.

Secretly, I think the only reason my uncle even goes to the office is so he can spy on Chanel’s designers from across the street.

The office is a place I try my best to stay away from. First of all, I don’t actually work there; I’m always just popping in to see either Seraphine or my father, and yet somehow I always get roped into something the minute I step in. That’s the price for having Dumont as my last name—and the fact that most people believe I should be serving as president of fashion instead of Seraphine, even though she’s the one who has fought hard for it and deserves it more than anyone.