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He nods. “Fair enough. Shall we go in? Have a late dinner? Make it an early night?”
At the smile in Max’s eyes, I know he’s imagining what we can finally do now we’re back in our own home, our own bedroom, and our own bed.
We’re back in Geneva. The dream is over. The freesia has wilted.
“Before we do,” I ask, knowing what I have to do, “can I see the necklace from the Bride’s Parure?”
31
I’m backin the library where all this began. A week ago I stood in front of the sapphire rivière necklace and made a wild, daring wish. It’s hard to imagine the me of a week ago. Red-cheeked, tired, dressed in soapsud-damp jeans and a bleach-stained sweatshirt, hiding behind the belief that Max didn’t see me, when in reality, I’d never let him see me. I was lonely—I see that now. I was scared to ask for love. And like my mom said, I was also scared I didn’t deserve it.
When Max found me in the library and demanded I never set foot in this house again, that I never see him again, I didn’t think we’d end up here.
Dusk has fled and the deep, inky indigo of night has saturated Geneva. The tall windows of the library show smudges of dark woods, black water, and the lights of the city reflected in the lake.
During the day the library is always bathed in sunlight, with golden specks drifting on streams of sun falling through the tall windows. Daylight makes the library feel open and expansive, with its walls of books, tall ladders, and stone columns. The tall plaster ceilings, the cheerful fireplace, and the groups of leather chairs clustered together always gave the room an elegant, bookish feel. Even the subtle paper and binding smell was hidden under the airy, open nature of the room.
But now, at night, all of that open, expansive elegance has disappeared. The dark windows shutter the room, and the quiet blankets the library in a muted hush. The room is sleepy, dreamlike. All the shelves of books feel like a warm hug wrapping around me, and the room is no longer expansive, but cozy. The padded chair by the window—the one where Max sat and read at night while having a cup of coffee—now there are two chairs, with a blanket on one and a stack of books by the other.
That’s what’s different about the library. It feels like a pot of tea and a tray of biscuits, a warm blanket, and a book next to the person you love. Before, it was a place to be alone. Now it’s a place to be together.
Max unlatches the oil painting of Mont Blanc and swings it wide. Behind the painting there’s a safe, and in seconds Max has pulled out the gold filigree jewelry case. I catch my breath as the light shines on the delicate violets and vines etched into the gold.
Max brought the necklace to Paris, but after our wish on the parure, when he forgot everything, it returned here.
“Why did you want to see it?” Max asks, snapping open the case.
“I wanted to make a wish,” I say, not looking at the glittering string of sapphires, but instead looking at Max.
I’m trying to memorize him in this moment. The softness of his mouth, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the mess of his hair from running his fingers through it while we made our way home. I take in the warm, familiar intimacy in his gaze and the way he watches me as if he’s constantly delighted I’m here and that he’s here with me. I memorize the rough stubble on his face that scrapes over my cheeks when he kisses me. I take in the way he tilts his head and leans slightly toward me as if he can’t help but move closer to me, even unconsciously. I take in the fresh air and leather smell of him, the steadiness of him, the goodness.
I’ve changed over the past week. But so has Max. Before he was as austere and stark as his home, with only quick flashes of the passion hidden underneath. Now, while he still looks the same—as beautiful as a glacier sliding into the cold depths of the arctic—there’s more. The solitude of the arctic is gone, and instead it’s the rugged, raw beauty of the Côte d'Azur. He’s the turquoise sea, the rocky shores, the golden sands, and the turbulent waves. He’s the sea-thick air and the hot sun rolling over the grass-swept dunes,andhe’s the stark, barren chateau alone on the edge of Lake Geneva. He’s both and he’s more. He’s 222 kisses climbing to the Sacred Heart. He’s a weeping willow over the Seine. A flowering Eden in the center of a city. A friend. A confidant. A hand held in the dark when you’re certain you’re alone.
He’s my wish.
I didn’t know that loving Max would feel like breaking apart. It feels so much like breaking that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to put myself back together again. The rivière necklace is twenty-six sapphires, broken and cut gemstones wound together in a river of light. I wonder, is that what people are like? Are the breaks what make us beautiful? Has all of this been worth it even though it’s going to break me?
“A wish,” Max says, his voice a soft rumble. The corner of his mouth lifts as he watches me taking him in. “I didn’t think you believed my family’s myth. I don’t.”
He runs a finger over the black velvet embracing the necklace. “I always thought it was a nice story explaining why my lucky ancestor didn’t lose her head. Nothing more.” He looks back at me and smiles. “What sort of wish did you have in mind?”
I shake my head. My throat is tight, my face cold, and the air is so thick that I’m struggling to pull in a breath. “What would you wish for?”
“You,” he says without having to think. Then he grins and says, “Since I have you, I’d wish you’d always stay?—”
“I’m leaving,” I say.
He blinks.
I don’t think he can make sense of what I said, because his brow wrinkles, his lips turn down, and he shakes his head. “Where? Did Christine call about the center? You could ...”
I have no idea who Christine is. This isn’t about the community center. I shake my head and Max trails off, a question in his gaze.
My eyes burn and there’s a pressure in the back of my throat. The library is as quiet as a tomb, closed-in and hushed. There isn’t the magical, golden thrum that infused the room a week ago. Instead there’s a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. My heart struggles against the pressure, thudding painfully under the weight.
I’ve felt this once before, when my heart stuttered under the weight of a moment. It was the night my dad died. I stood at the edge of his hospital bed, eleven years old, too scared to hold his hand and too scared to say goodbye. The nurse outside the room said, “It’s time to say your goodbyes.” But I thought—no, I believed—that if I didn’t say goodbye then he couldn’t die. Because my dad wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Hewouldn’t.
So I didn’t say goodbye. Instead I said, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”
