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He brushes a kiss across the top of my head and I relax against the solid wall of his chest.
“All those years I thought I was alone, and all along, there you were, making sure I ate well, saving my books from neglect, leaving bookmarks and flowers and scents to make sure I had a good night’s sleep. I thought I was alone, but I never was. Not for a minute.”
I bury my face against the leather of Max’s jacket, breathing in the soft scent, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. His hand tangles in my hair, scraping against the back of my neck. A warm thrumming hums through me like the awakening of the soil in spring. I feel as if I’m ready to bloom under the sunshine of Max’s words.
I stretch up to him, raising my face to his, and admit, “When I first saw you, I thought it was love at first sight.”
He stares at me for a moment, searching my gaze, feeling the weight of my words. “You didn’t know me. You knew nothing about me.”
“It didn’t matter.”
He nods and then asks, “You don’t feel that way any longer?”
“No.”
I don’t think it was love at first sight. Iknowit was love at first sight. I don’t think I loved him. IknowI love him.
“Love at first sight is a fickle thing,” he says, acknowledging its loss. “It’s a lot like passion. Here today, gone tomorrow.” He plays with my hair, the long curls sliding through his fingers and catching the dappled light. “Is that why you made your wish?” he asks, releasing my hair to let it fall back to my breast. “It wasn’t to live in my wretched house or have a vault of jewelry at your disposal. It was for the idea of love?”
“You think I’m a fool.”
He shakes his head. “I think I’m a fool.”
“Why?”
“Because even knowing you’re as constant as the north star, I’m still scared of how much I want you. I still want out of this upside-down world where I’m seven years married.”
My stomach falls to the crushed limestone and flops around in the leaf-laced shade at our feet. I watch it gasp for breath and then die a slow death.
“We still have today,” I tell him. “Tonight. You can be as passionate as you like. Tomorrow it’ll all be wiped away. You’ll be alone again. I’ll be on my own. We might not ever meet again.”
He shakes his head and reaches up to grip my wrist. “Don’t. Promise me that when this is over, if I don’t remember, you’ll come to me and?—”
“What if I don’t remember either? Besides, you’ll think I’m crazy. You’ll kick me out of your house. You’ll call the police?—”
“Make me listen,” he says.
“I can’t make you do anything.”
“You can make me do whatever you want. I’d ...” He trails off, his gaze landing on my mouth. “I want to know you in our other life. I want the chance to get to know you there. To kiss you. To bring you flowers. To take you out to dinner. To meet your mom and sister. I want the chance to see if you are the choice I would make. I’d like to give you the sun and the rain and the ...”
“Composted fish brains and alfalfa sprouts,” I say.
“Exactly.” He restrains a smile. “I’d start a fan site. A club. But I wouldn’t let anyone else be a member, because I don’t like to share.”
I smile at that. “Are you saying that even though I wished you into a topsy-turvy marriage in an upside-down world, you still like me? You still want to know me?”
He dips his chin, and when he looks at me, his lips soften and he smiles. He holds up the crinkled bouquet of freesias. “Do you see these flowers?”
I nod. “Getting a bit sad, aren’t they?”
“They’re our timer,” he says, eying the drooping petals. “While they’re still limping along, we’re going to enjoy the hell out of ourselves. Come morning . . .” He shrugs. “Who knows? But meanwhile, you’ve never been to Paris. I’m going to take you on a whirlwind tour of all the romantic places—Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur, the Eiffel Tower?—”
“But—”
“—kissing you in each spot. Imprinting a memory, so that even if our minds forget, our bodies and our souls will remember. So that the next time I see you I’ll have a choice. And hopefully I’ll make the right one.”
I blink at Max, dizzy and stunned at his announcement, the scent of freesia swimming around us.
