He doesn’t know the whole truth. The truth about Esme, his daughter.
He must sense it—that I’ve gone suddenly still. Because a beat later, he murmurs, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I wasn’t planning to say that. It just... was there.” He runs a hand through his hair,. “It’s not… I mean, it’s not that it isn’t true.”
More silence from me. More fear. More uncertainty.
“Iamfalling in love with you, Rhea. I can’t hide fromthat. But it wasn’t fair to drop that on you. I’m not trying to rush you.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to rush me.” I say, squeezing his hand. “And there’scertainlynothing to apologize for.”
Still, I know it’s not enough, so I add, “Spencer, there’s no place I’d rather be than here with you. And not just France, I mean anywhere. As long as I’m with you.”
He exhales and pulls me close. “You’ve lived in my head for over two years. That’s not your fault. It’s just the way it’s been.”
He smiles, but I can see the layers of him beneath it. This man, who always seems composed, looks so vulnerable.
And it’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.
“No pressure. No expectations. I promise. But I do need one thing from you.” He says.
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you’ll let go of whatever worry is weighing you down. Just for the next two days. Just while we're here. Let’s just be here, in the moment, for two more days. Whatever else needs to get figured out, it can wait until we’re home.”
It’s both the permission I crave and the promise I know I shouldn’t make. Permission to keep my secret a bit longer. The promise to continue deceiving him while we’re here.
My throat tightens, “I promise,” I whisper, kissing his hand, but I don’t keep my eyes from glassing over.
“I think I’m just... it’s Esme. I worry…I realized in the night how far away I am. If anything were to happen?—”
He’s already reaching for his phone.
“It’s about nine at home,” he says. “Use mine. Call Laney. Check in. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and I just sit there, holding his phone.
And my heart.
And the truth.
Because when, exactly, do you tell someone something like this?
I call Laney.
I hear Esme’s sweet chatter in the background. And I push the truth to the back of my throat again, where it’s lived for two years. Where it’s sharp and painful and begging to be set free.
And then we go out.
I don’t tell him the truth while we sip espresso in the quiet morning café near Rue Cler, or when we stroll hand in hand through the Musée de l'Orangerie, standing in front of Monet’s water lilies like they might whisper answers if we’re still enough.
I don’t tell him while we climb the winding steps of Montmartre, our fingers laced, or while we pause for crepes beneath the shadow of Sacré-Cœur.
And I certainly don’t tell him while we sit across from each other at that candlelit bistro on the Left Bank, a string quartet playing something delicate in the corner, and he lifts his glass to toast “to second chances and the woman who made Paris feel new again.”
On Sunday morning, Spencer has something even more unexpected planned.
We leave the city by car this time, Spencer at the wheel, gliding through golden morning light as Paris fades behind us and the countryside opens wide.
He doesn’t say much, just reaches for my hand every so often, thumb brushing mine in a soft rhythm that settles my nerves.
