Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(81)

Wait. Where the hell did that cat come from?

“Mom, did you get a cat?” I ask. “Or are you aware there’s a cat in here?”

The cat has been watching me this whole time, and now that I’ve noticed it, its tail starts twitching. It’s completely black except for one white paw.

“That’s Kismet,” she says to me, bringing the teapot into the room and placing it on the worn coffee table. “We’re best friends.”

I raise my brows and look at her. “I thought you—”

“Didn’t like cats?” she says with a chuckle. “Well, that’s what I thought. But while you were gone, I was getting lonely, and after a while I realized it might be good to take care of something else. I thought I was finally well enough to do it. So I went to the shelter and saw him, and when the volunteer mentioned that black cats rarely get adopted, I knew I had to take him home.”

I can’t help but beam at her. “I’m proud of you.” I never really thought that my mother would be in a place where she could not only keep a job and make friends, but adopt a pet—but here she is.

And here I am.

She gives me a wan smile. “I’m just taking it a day at a time. That’s the only thing that’s really keeping me going. If I mess up, well, that was today. There’s always tomorrow, and tomorrow is never the end.” She pours me a cup of green tea and hands it to me. “I’m sorry that you’re here.”

I take the cup, blinking at her. “You are?”

“I mean, I’m glad you’re here. It was the greatest surprise I could ever get. But I know that if you’re here, that means things didn’t quite work out. And I so wanted them to for you, darling.”

I exhale loudly, suddenly exhausted at even the thought of trying to tell her everything that’s happened. “I wanted them to work too” is all I can manage to say.

“Well, we don’t have to talk about it right now. You’ve had a long flight. You must be so tired. Let’s just have some tea, and if you’re hungry, we can order in pizza. I bet you haven’t had real pizza in a long time.”

I don’t bother telling her that there was a lot of real pizza when I was in Italy. Instead, I say, “Pizza would be awesome.”

But even before she can place a call to Domino’s, I’m lying back on the couch, closing my eyes, and slipping into a deep sleep.



The next morning, I wake up at nine o’clock, having slept more than twelve hours. Jet lag doesn’t even know what to do with me anymore.

Somehow I ended up in my old bed, and I assume my mother put me there, even though I have no memory of anything after falling asleep on the couch. The house is quiet, and when I walk into the kitchen to make coffee, the cat darts between my legs, making me yelp.

The cat also yelps and then runs across the room, scampering for safety in the heights of the bookshelf.

“Sorry,” I mumble, my hand at my chest, trying to bring my heart rate down. I’m jumpy as fuck, and I guess I can’t really blame myself, considering I was pretty much forced on a plane back home in order to save the ones I love. That whole thing.

That’s one thing I’ll leave out of the conversation with my mother. The less I say about Pascal or Gautier or any of them, the better. It’s just about Olivier and me, which is what it should have been about all along. It’s like the minute we went to Paris, whatever precious thing Olivier and I had between us was torn in a million different directions, whether by work or his family duties or his perverted and conniving cousin. I’m starting to wonder if Olivier and I really ever had a chance to become more than what we were. It was like the sex we were having every night was the only thing holding us together.

And yet I know that if we had been given a chance to make it, just the two of us, somewhere else in some other life, we could have been something amazing.

I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot and spy a note from my mother, saying she’s gone to work and is doing a double shift, and she’ll see if she can get off early. Also, there’s pizza in the fridge.

I open the fridge and pull out a slice of pepperoni and start munching away on it, trying to figure out the next course of action.

The first thing I did after the plane landed was open up my phone to see if there was anything from Olivier. Then I sent a few texts and emails, wanting to talk to him on the phone, to make sure he’s okay, to explain what happened to me. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I actually left because I wanted to.

But the texts weren’t delivered, and the emails were never responded to.

I can’t tell if he’s mad at me—I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t know the whole story—or if he’s okay. I wish I had Seraphine’s phone number so I could check in on him that way.

I know I should start making real plans. Figuring out if I can still go to school, albeit a week late. If not, if I can pick it up next semester. Or maybe—maybe even transfer schools. I don’t want to set foot in Europe for a while—in fact, I don’t even think I’m allowed to go back anytime soon. But maybe somewhere in the US. I don’t want to leave my mom again, and yet as I stand here in the kitchen, sipping the lukewarm coffee, this doesn’t feel like home either. I feel like I won’t be the person I need to be until I’m somewhere else, whether it’s a place that’s near or far.