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“Anna.”
I stop, standing still.
I’m afraid to turn around.
“Anna?” Max asks again.
I clutch my hands, pressing my nails into my palms. “Are you here to yell at me?”
“No. That’s not what I had in mind,” he says, his voice raw.
“Because when you said you never wanted to see me again, you can’t have expected I wouldn’t work. I have to work, you know. It’s not as if I invited you to shop here.”
I turn around, fully prepared to shove past him. But then what he said sinks in. He isn’t here to yell at me. In fact, he doesn’t look angry anymore. Instead he’s regarding me with a cautious, careful expression.
Out front, the sound of traffic passing fills the air in a quick, whooshing hum. But here in the back lot, there’s only the buzzing of an overhead light and the sound of crickets singing from the tall grasses, and wildflowers in the retaining wall.
I stare at him, unable to walk away, but unable to walk into his arms.
He stares back, and behind the cautious exterior I can feel a million emotions and a million questions swirling.
What does it mean?
I take a deep breath, breathing in the concrete and the subtle hint of grass and wildflower. The sun is almost down, the shadows on the parking lot lengthening, almost swallowing us.
Max takes a step closer to me.
“I have a question,” he says, and the way he says it makes my chest clench.
“Yes?”
The edge of his mouth lifts into a small smile. He no longer looks exhausted, haggard, and worn; instead he looks hopeful.
Hopeful like the Eiffel Tower lit up in the depths of night. Hopeful like a bookmark, keeping your place, waiting for you to come back. Hopeful like reaching out in the dark, waiting for someone to take your hand.
“Did you make a wish?” he asks. Then stepping closer, he looks down at me, his eyes searching. “Do you remember making a wish?”
Is he ...?
Does he ...?
Slowly, I nod. And when I do, Max closes his eyes and his shoulders sag with relief.
When he opens his eyes, his expression is full of love and need and, yes,passion.
“Come to Paris,” he says, his voice breaking. “Anna? Will you come to Paris with me?”
He waits for my answer, his breath held, all his focus on me. It’s a test. I know it immediately. Max is asking if I experienced my wish too.
I shake my head no. “I’ve been to Paris recently.”
He lets out his held breath and gives me a disbelieving look.
“And Saint-Tropez,” I say, and when I do, he understands.
He takes another step forward so the both of us are bathed in the last sliver of sunlight. The sky is deep indigo-blue and we’re covered in gold.
“You left me,” he growls. “I asked you not to, and you left me. And you didn’t come back. Anna, you didn’t come back.”
