And other men?
Holden approached slowly, strolling casually, though I watched his Adam’s apple bob in a hard swallow while his eyes drank me up.
“Hey,” I said, my throat dry.
He kept his face impassive. “I should ask what you’re doing here, but I have a guess. My journals?”
“You sent them to me for a reason.”
“It was a mistake. I was drunk.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?” he said, struggling for his usual flippancy. “You have a theory?”
I lost my voice. Without letting myself think, I rushed to Holden and wrapped my arms around him. He stiffened and then sagged against me. Tears threatened to squeeze out of my closed eyes as I inhaled him, relishing the feel of him in my arms and under my hands. Cloves, expensive cologne, and shower soap filled my nose, and beneath that—him. His body felt bigger in my arms, stronger, even if his eyes told another story.
Slowly, Holden’s arms came up, and he held me too, tightly, his hands making fists in my jacket, his face buried in my shoulder. I felt his ragged breath gust over my neck, over the place where my bone had broken the night that tore us apart.
For long moments, we held each other, and I wanted to stay in that perfect, timeless limbo of just having him at long last. But too quickly, he pulled away and turned to wipe his eyes.
“Well…” He cleared the emotion out of his voice. “You never answered my question.”
“Why am I here? For you. Can we go somewhere and talk? Maybe your room?”
“My room is…occupied.”
The words whacked me in the chest, and my heart cracked all over again.
“You have someone there,” I stated.
Holden didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Let’s take a walk, have a drink.”
I nodded mutely, and as we walked in silence into a perfect spring day in Paris, I wondered what would be left of my heart by the time this trip was over.
Twenty-Nine
Holden
He’s here. He came.
I couldn’t stop staring at River as we walked down the boulevard. River looked as ruggedly beautiful as ever in jeans, boots, and a worn leather jacket over a tight T-shirt. But his body was bigger, stronger. I’d felt the power in it when he held me. I could’ve lived in that embrace forever, wrapped in his safety. But River’s eyes were heavy with grief and exhaustion, his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying a heavy burden.
He is. His grief and that of his sister and father. I’d bet my worthless life on it.
But despite that, he was here because I’d cheated and selfishlyundisappeared myself. A moment of weakness. I didn’t even remember sending him my journals, but when the morning came two weeks ago and the trunk was gone, I knew exactly what I’d done. And why. Those journals wereme. He was so far away, so I hurled myself at him—sending him every word of my heart because I was too chickenshit to go back myself.
We walked in silence to one of my favorite cafés. As with almost all cafés in Paris, this one spilled its seating onto the sidewalk, with little tables for two and pairs of wicker chairs facing the street to watch the scene. Paris was too damn beautiful to not be looked at, and the city knew it.
We took a table at the end of the first row with unobstructed views.River pulled his chair away from mine to face me instead of sitting adjacent.
“I can’t talk to you sitting like that.”
I nodded. Side by side, our thighs touching, our shoulders inches apart, all we’d have to do is turn our heads, and his mouth would be on mine…
I crossed my legs and lit a Djarum as the waiter came by.
