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I laugh. “That’s either morbid or lovely.”
“Morbid,” Max says.
“Lovely,” I decide.
We grin at each other.
“You could say,” I add, “that Earth is God’s hostel and we’re all here for a short stay until we arrive back home.” I nod toward the manicured garden. “Earth. God’s Hostel. Don’t get comfortable—your stay is short.”
Max laughs and nudges my shoulder with his. “How is that not morbid?”
I shrug, breathing in the fresh garden scents. “I don’t know. I think it’s comforting. Sometimes things in life can seem really awful, but I think that’s only because of the immediacy of them. If you give yourself the grace of distance and the idea of eternity, then what seems so insurmountable, so hard and heartbreaking ... well, it’s not. It only feels that way because it’s this moment. But no moment lasts forever. I like that.”
“This is why you have a degree in philosophy.”
“I do?” I look at him in surprise.
Max blinks at me, his forehead wrinkling. “Don’t you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I deferred my admission once my stepdad left. I started working and then ... there never seemed time. I was accepted to the school of arts.” I smile at him, wondering. “Philosophy? What would I do with philosophy?”
Max tilts his head. “You run a nonprofit. It started as a community soup kitchen, the Open Heart Kitchen?—”
“Because my family loves feeding all our neighbors,” I say, delighted.
“That’s right.” Max grins. “And then you realized you could do more. It expanded into a community resource center. There are classes for adult literacy, computer literacy, resume and CV assistance, mentorships ...” He trails off, catching my expression. “What?”
I let the bouquet of freesias sag in my hands. The paper crinkles against the edge of a manicured shrub. “The fake me seems a lot more amazing than the real me.”
Max frowns. “Aren’t you one and the same?”
I consider this. If you’re walking along on the path of life and then you split in two, and one of you takes the right fork and the other takes the left, are you still the same person? Or do the experiences along the way change the contours of your soul? Experiences can influence your personality and your choices, but do they change your soul?
“You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s still me. I’m me either way.”
“I hope so,” Max says, pulling me out of the Hôtel Dieu and the manicured gardens. “Because, if I’m being honest, I like the me I see in my memories too much to attribute him to someone else. I’d like to take a bit of credit for his good sense.”
“His good sense?”
“My good sense.” Max nods.
We step out onto the street and I lick my pointer finger, hold it up to the wind, and then point in the direction the breeze is blowing from. “That way.”
Max grins. We wind through the streets, wandering past quaint stone houses, painted medieval-looking arched doors, and window boxes overflowing with spring flowers. There are brightly painted cafés in blues and reds and yellows, with iron balconies and ivy trailing up the walls. They smell like melting butter, simmering stocks, and freshly baked bread.
Narrow cobblestone alleys twist between buildings. There are bright street signs on the stone walls, with hanging glass lanterns and mopeds parked on the sidewalks.
Carved into one stone wall is a pretty stone dove caught in flight. “Look at the dove,” I say, smiling at Max. “That’s beautiful.”
He points at the plaque beneath the dove. “Have you heard the story?”
“No.” I peer at the plaque.
“Ah. It’s a famed legend, actually,” Max says. “This dove is one of a pair. In the thirteenth century, one of the sculptors working on Notre-Dame lived here with his two doves, a male and a female. When a flood swept through the city, the house collapsed. The male dove escaped, but the female was caught in the rubble. Every day the Parisians watched as the male dove returned day after day to bring food to his mate. He never abandoned her, and eventually, she was able to escape. The sculptor carved this in honor of their love.”
Max’s voice is a low murmur, barely discernible above the noise of people passing on the sidewalk and motorcycles whirring by. I lean close to hear him, and when he finishes speaking, I realize I’m pressed so close he could circle his arm around me, lean down, and press his mouth to mine.
“That,” I say, “is a beautiful story.”
