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I want to run away with him right now. But that’s not what smart girls do. They don’t throw away opportunities. They don’t go after things that make waves, according to my father.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He’s not going to report us, is he?”

Danny cocks his head. “No. He’s not. I said that. I talked him out of a report. But who cares if he did, Lizzie? You’re all set for college. It’s not like this is criminal activity.”

Tears burst from my eyes. “I can’t get kicked out.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I let him. “They’re not kicking you out. Don’t worry so much. I’ll always take care of you.”

My body fills with a glow I’ve never experienced before. But I push it down.

I say, “Always. You’re talking a scary increment of time.”

He steps to me. “Whether this is something or ends up being nothing. I know there won’t be a time in my life I won’t care about you. And that’s scary to me, too, but it’s how I feel.”

I’m a coward, and scared of all things that aren’t books and words. I bolt down six flights of stairs. I pull my clubbing skirt up so I can run faster. I whip open my door and fling myself on my bed. I listen for twenty minutes, waiting for a knock. I asked him for time and he listened. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not sure of anything.

DANNY

I can’t settle my brain. I’ve worked out non-stop and it’s not helping. It’s the sixth day since the roof. I don’t even give a shit about the sex stuff. I miss her. I’m off my axis. I can’t seem to keep my feet on the ground. I drank with the guys and some of her friends. Hilarious night, but I lost in poker because my head was elsewhere. I want her to sort her shit out, but I’m not even sure what’s she sorting.

She hasn’t ignored me, but we haven’t been alone or connected. She sits across from me at lunch and smiles in the hallways. It’s like I’m itchy and can’t scratch. I’m terrified I’ve become an obsessed stalker because she’s all I think about. I took a pass from afternoon classes and forced myself outside. I’m letting her dictate what happens. I won’t push myself on anyone.

I’ve sketched thousands of pictures of her. When she left, I stared at that fucking door for an hour. Stunned how my life flipped so fast. Today’s obsessive thought is how do I get by without her. I’m nobody’s fucking fool. I won’t embarrass myself by wanting a girl who doesn’t like me back. Even though it’s deeper than that.

I’ll never forget that moment when she looked at me, and I could feel us slip into a relationship. We were an “us.”

The idea of an “us” was always temporary until I kissed Lizzie Fox. My brothers and I were always pitched against each other. My teammates in Pop Warner, Pee Wee, and high school became my brothers, and even that was taken away when I was thrust into boarding school to get a leg up on on the other Southie kids who could sling a ball.

Some of those muthafuckers are better than me, but my father is craftier and swindled this New Jersey prep school into a scholarship so I could be seen by better colleges. I’m grateful to the bastard for only that because without this school I wouldn’t have met her.

My father unloaded on me again about wasting opportunities by picking Boston College. I hope he rots on his dingy-ass bar stool down at Whitey’s Pub watching me play instead of being invited to the stadium. I kick some stones in front of me, and one of them zings off a garbage can and startles a giant dog.

I jog a little bit to get down to my favorite stretch of the Seine. If people weren’t speaking French, it could be Boston. I miss home today. My ma always says home is a whisper you should hold close. She grew up in the Italian neighborhoods in the North End but gave it up for the Irish man who charmed her way too young and moved her down to his area of Boston. She doesn’t talk much about her family but we were spoon-fed her heritage. All three of us can make spectacular cannoli and quote her many idioms as if they’re gospel. I think Lizzie might be my whisper.

My feet have brought me to my version of church. I’ve sat through all the Catholic stuff, but when I walked through these doors, I finally had a religious epiphany.

I shuffle in and wave. “Bonjour, Sallie et Barnabe. Allay.”

Sallie gestures to me. “Et comment allez-vous aujourd’hui, monsieur Danson? Venir dessiner à nouveau notre escalier?” I laugh as they ask if I’m going to do the exact thing I came here to do. Draw a staircase.

I reply with my traditional snark, “If I don’t do it, who will?” They wave me through and I scan the membership card I bought with poker winnings. I head to Level 1 – Richelieu Wing. Lefuel Staircase of the Louvre. Many people sit and stare at the Daru Staircase leading to Nike of Samothrace. It’s stunning, but my favorite has less hype. I find it more beautiful because of all the angles. The smell of art always sets me right. I’ve been here every day since the roof. Before that, I only came every other day, but it wasn’t to observe steps, it was to bask in the paintings. Now I need the steady and measured structure of form and function. I pull out my sketchpad and stare at the intersecting staircases, arches, and columns.

I’m practicing line drawing because every fucking figure I draw is her. Fuck, I have to get this under control. I sit down, cross my legs, lean against the wall, and stare at the marble staircases. The sun hits them in the exact same spot as the last couple of days. I open my pad, diving into the sound of a pencil scratching on thick paper.

I get lost in the light. Security stops by, checking my progress, and gives me a thumbs-up. The Tuesday guy shares his snack, usually an apple, or a bag of cookies. The left gallery fills with kids I recognize, including this prick who calls himself Thumper. He fucking hates my crew because we stopped him from hitting on our friends. He’s slime and his French is shit.

I put my stuff away before he sees me or discovers what I’m doing. I don’t tell a lot of people I draw and paint, it’s just for me. Football is for everyone. I’m walking away when I hear her laughing. My body floods with adrenaline and joy. I can’t leave now.

Her hair is up and her jeans are rolled. She’s wearing this flowy paisley blouse that sinches at her waist. She’s scribbling in a notebook I bought for her. Maybe she’s thinking about me. I look too long through the archway. She catches me and I see her gasp.

LIZZIE

He’s here. My heart flips when our eyes connect through the galleries. Our docent is talking, and I’m not paying attention. I haven’t paid attention to anything for days. My mom told me not to worry so much and that I could use more silliness and fun in my life. I should let go and kiss this boy. But she doesn’t realize how much I like him. And I think feeling this intense is going to mess up everything I’ve worked for. That’s what I was thinking for the first three days apart.

Then something shifted inside and for the last three days, I’ve been plotting how to tell him I miss him. It’s awkward when we see each other. I know I’m making it so and right now, he’s staring at me like I’m as beautiful as the art. And he’s wrong because he is! He gives me a little chin lift and turns away. My heart aches a bit more.

I wish he could read my mind. Please don’t go. I know what I said, but I don’t know how to unsay it. Every time I try to text him, it comes out sounding dorky, so I delete it. I’m the least cool human being ever. I’ve cried every day. How do you tell someone you pushed away that you want them back? What if he’s taken this week and, like, moved on? I’m terrified he might read my text while making out with someone else. What would that look like? The thought squirms and turns my stomach. I would die if he were with anyone else. I stare at the archway, hoping he’s here alone. This is awful.