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He looks me over—not sexual, just sizing, the way you’d check a doorframe—nods at her, and walks off, leaving the hardbacks on the floor.

“He’s intense,” I say.

“He’s beside the point.” She glances at the front of the store and back. “Mes condoléances, by the way. Your mother. It should not go unmourned.”

“Thank you.”

“Now.” She takes down a third book. “You have something you want to ask me and we have four minutes, so ask it.”

I look over my shoulder and drop my voice. “What is he so afraid of when it comes to me? And not about what the University says. What is it about me that scares him?”

Delphine turns the book over and reads the back of it. She reads all of it. She reads it the way you read something you intend to buy.

Then she puts it back on the shelf and straightens it with one finger. “On ne peut pas être au four et au moulin,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you cannot be at the oven and at the mill.” She looks at me. “It means that today I could either help a stranger or betray a friend. I have decided to do neither.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.” She pats my arm. “Ah. Bastien is here. Punctual, of course. Enjoy your shirt.”

And she’s gone down the aisle before I can get my mouth open.

Through a gap in the shelving, Bastien is sitting down at a table with a coffee and a man from anthropology.

He’s in a T-shirt and jeans. Not the pink one. I haven’t seen him out of a suit since Washington. That makes me feel good at least.

I find the armchair with the clearest line of sight in the room, I put a stack of books on the arm, and I sit down.

Chapter twenty-one

Bastien

“Sorry for the delay. Were you waiting very long?” Anthony says as I settle at a table with a coffee.

“Just long enough to get a coffee.” I resist the urge to check my phone pointedly. He’s here to do me a solid, and I could do with a friend in my corner who’s not Delphine. Delphine, after all, suggested I get a lot of Chinese food delivered and just serve it out of the containers, because, in her words, “Who doesn’t like Chinese food?”

It’s quiet at this time of the morning, but I still have the unnerving feeling that I’m being watched. Most of the tables are empty: this is still early on a Saturday, it’s probably not the hot spot it would become by the evening. Behind Anthony is an armchair where someone has balanced a set of books on the arm and, apparently, decided to wander away.

“The coffee is not as good as the Bean Stop, but they try,” Anthony says.

“I heard that!” the barista says from behind the counter.

“It’s fine!” I call out to the barista. It’s not fine. The coffee tastes like a punishment. I drop my voice. “So, what are your thoughts about the pounding? Also, can we call it anything else?”

He laughs and it’s taking me all the self-control I have not to look over my shoulder, because oh, my God, dude, do you have a fucking death wish? This is supposed to be super chill and low-key. For about ten seconds, I fully expect Levi to pop out of the woodwork, throttle Anthony, and spirit me away to lock me in a tower like Rapunzel. I mean, he only lives down the block, and I’m already irrationally nervous that he’ll wander in.

Get a hold of yourself, I think. I’m doing nothing wrong.

“I was hoping we could get to know each other,” Anthony says.

Hmm. I swallow the urge to bristle. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, let’s start with the basics. How has your first semester been?” he asks.

“It’s been…” I hesitate and think of Levi, sitting in my class every goddamned day. “Very intense.”