Page 24

I sigh. “I’m never living that down, am I? It probably wasn’t even the right word for the occasion. English has too many fucking words.”

“How’m I doing with that, by the way? Canoodling, not words?”

“I had to downgrade Wednesday night to a seven.”

“Wait, what? That’s bullshit! You said it was a perfect ten.”

“And it was, at the time. But then you learned my body a little better, and consistently outdid yourself. And now you’re preening.”

“You take that back. You can’t even see me.”

I snuggle into him. “I can feel your chest expand.”

He laughs.

I try to look back at him, because now I wonder if I’ve been letting down my end of the bargain. “Have I—” I start.

“I never ranked you. Not even for a joke. You were always in a special category, just for you, and I’m not going to even attempt to compare you. But I can tell you trust me more. Making love to you is joyful. That’s all I know.”

“Oh,” I manage, stupidly. It’s a soft, vulnerable sound. My eyes mist. I turn back to the sunset like a robot, unable to contain my feelings. My chest feels too small, like my internal organs are swelling, and my ribs, built for a normal man with a normal heart, are now close to their limit. My throat tightens, and even swallowing becomes a conscious effort.

I know what this is. I’ve read about it. I’ve taught it. I have sat across a desk from men describing it to me in careful language while I wrote it down.

Rebound. There’s a literature on it. Three months out of a four-year relationship, alone in a strange city, two days after the worst morning of my professional life.

Or revenge. Brice has called twice this week. Or infatuation. Or limerence, which has a name and a chapter and a list of diagnostic criteria, and I meet all of them. Novelty. Proximity. A man in crisis attaching to the nearest available source of relief. It’s textbook. I could teach it.

This is not what you think it is, Sébastien.

And even if it were, he doesn’t know me. He knows my brother broke his legs and a cute story about a family vacation. He knows there’s a grocery store four minutes from my townhouse. He doesn’t know about Robby, except for that he’s heard a name that he’s not asked about. He doesn’t know about the committee. He doesn’t know that I’m waiting for people to decide if I’m allowed to continue working in this country.

Voyons donc, I tell myself. Don’t throw yourself at this man. Don’t make the last of it awkward. You’ll cringe about it for the rest of your life and you won’t get him anyway.

I run my fingers over the grass and wish that I could hold him as tightly and as certainly as he is holding me.

“First star,” he says. “Make a wish.”

Obediently, I look up at an unknown star in the twilight sky.

“What are you going to wish for?” he asks me. His voice in my ear is so soft and intimate.

“I don’t know.” I swallow, because what I want to wish for is the one thing I can’t say out loud. I can’t even say it in my head, not even for a wish. This feeling is unbearable, but I want it for just a few more hours. I take a deep breath and reach for a joke that will make me feel like my bones aren’t threatening to tear themselves apart from the inside. “The world is so big and there are so many good wishes that I don’t want to waste it.”

“Can I wish for you, then?”

“Okay.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Done.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I can’t help myself. “It’s not world peace, is it?”

“No.”

I think about it. “If it’s pineapple pizza, I’m on board.”

“First, ew. Second, you don’t tell the wish or it doesn’t come true.”

“Then I take it back. It’s my wish.”