Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(80)

The only thing I’ve been able to hide are my tears. Every time I feel my nose growing hot and my eyes burning, I get up from my seat and try to make it to the bathroom. They’re all probably thinking I’m throwing up in here, but I’m actually crying my eyes out.

I’m mourning everything I’ve lost.

I’m mourning Olivier.

The man I love, the man I fear I won’t ever see again.

After Pascal antagonized me in the catacombs, I knew I didn’t really have much choice in the matter, and there wasn’t a lot of time to make any decisions. Yes, I wanted to go to the police and tell them that I was being threatened, that my mother was as well. I wanted to fill them in on what has been happening.

But I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I’m a backpacker who has officially been in Europe for too long, overstaying my visa, and the person I would be accusing is one of the richest men in France. I would be laughed at—the idea that Pascal would have any interest in me. In fact, because Olivier had kept me hidden, there was no real evidence that I was even involved with him at all.

And the fact is, my flight was leaving soon. I couldn’t risk all that, only to not show up for it, to have Pascal get on the flight instead.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I left.

I went back to Olivier’s, and I packed my bags in a flurry. I left a note that, if I had more time, would have been filled with a million sentences of how much I love him, how much he matters to me. How much he’s changed my world, my life. I’m not just leaving him behind, I’m leaving the person I never knew I could become.

The only thing I could write was that I loved him, and that I had to do this, and I was sorry I couldn’t think of any other way.

“We’re landing soon,” the flight attendant says to me, motioning to the seatback that I’ve had reclined as far as it will go—which is pretty far, considering I’m in business class. I don’t know what Pascal was thinking; you’d think he would have gone out of his way to be extra cruel and stick me in a middle seat in coach by the bathroom, but instead it’s business class with all the perks. Too bad I can’t enjoy it one bit.

“Sorry, I must not have heard the announcements,” I mumble as I make the seat pop upright.

“That’s okay,” she says and then gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll be back in Paris before you know it.”

She continues her walk down the aisle, checking on everyone else. I guess she knows the face of someone who has to leave before they’re ready.

The truth is, I would have never been ready to leave. When I decided to stay with Olivier, I never gave any thought to how long it would be. To what my future would be. Did I think I would live in France forever, illegally? Did I think we could continue our honeymoon period for months, years? Then what? Would I ever go back to school? Would I ever see my mother? Did I expect Olivier to come over to the States and live there?

I mean, Pascal was right. I hate to admit it, but Olivier’s life is rooted in France. It was always a one-way street with us. Even though we loved each other, things were always on his turf, in his life.

Maybe this is for the best. Maybe Pascal is doing us both a favor.

I shake my head, having a hard time accepting that. Pascal is pure evil, that’s what he is. Or at least partially evil. Even though all signs point to his having something to do with Ludovic’s death, I have a strange feeling that he had nothing to do with it. Or, rather, that maybe Seraphine’s theory was just that: a theory. Perhaps it really was a heart attack. It happens all the time, even to healthy people, and it was no secret that his father was under a lot of stress at the time. It’s the whole reason Olivier was helping out to begin with.

Oh, it doesn’t matter what the truth is anymore. The only truth that really matters is that I’m on a plane about to land at Sea-Tac Airport without the man I love. His absence feels more real now than ever.

But even with my heavy heart, I go through the motions of coming back home. I get off the plane, get my bags, marvel at the sounds and sights of something as simple as the airport, the transition from the easy but chaotic European rhythm to the brusque and efficient way things are in the States. I get myself in a cab and am immediately reminded of how much the cabbies here love to talk, and now I can understand every word.

In a way I wish I could still sit in silence, remain anonymous, at least until I sort myself out and become something human again.

But I survive the inane chitchat, and soon we’re pulling up in front of the apartment I shared with my mother.

No, share, I remind myself sharply. Present tense. Things are going back to the way they were.

I sigh, stepping out of the cab and tipping the driver with the last of the cash I have. Good timing to officially be broke.

But the moment I knock on the door and my mother opens it, a rush of relief comes flooding through me.

“Sadie?” she exclaims.

“Mom,” I cry out, bursting into tears and falling into her arms.

She clutches me—well, mostly my backpack—and we stay like that for a few moments while I cry and cry and cry.

Then she leads me over to the couch and tells me she’s going to make me tea, and I look up and around. For the first time in a while, I feel safe. I always felt safe when I was with Olivier, but never when I wasn’t. Here, I am safe, I am home, just sitting in my living room and looking at the crappy pictures I drew when I was young that my mother insisted on framing, and the photo albums with my father’s face cut out of them, and the cat lounging on the bookshelf, and . . .