“Un kir, s’il vous plaît,” I said. “River?”
My heart tripped over his name, saying it to him for the first time in almost a year.
“Any beer, I guess.”
“Une bière pression, je n’ai pas de préférence.”
The waiter dropped two coasters and left.
“Neither of us is twenty-one,” River said. “They don’t care?”
“God bless the French. The drinking age is eighteen. Besides, do you feel nineteen years old?” I asked. “Nineteen to the tenth power, maybe. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s been rough.” He tapped the coaster on the little table. “So you live in a hotel now?”
“Not just the one. I’ve lived in hotels in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, London, and now Paris again.”
“Why not just buy a place?”
“Why would I do that? The beauty of hotel living is that it comes with all the furniture, and they bring you food.” I tapped ash into the little ashtray between us. “Not to mention I’ve never been much of a home dweller.”
River didn’t smile. “I was going to ask you how you’ve been, but I think I have an idea.”
“How many journals of mine did you read?”
“Not many. I don’t think you sent them for me to read.”
“Is that a fact?” I asked, trying to keep my cold front up while River’s innate warmth and kindness were working to melt it down. “That’s interesting, givenIdon’t know why I sent them.”
“You sent them because you want help.”
“Says you,” I sniffed. “Maybe I was testing the efficiency of the French postal service.”
“Holden…”
The waiter returned and placed my drink—blackberry liqueur in white wine—on the table beside River’s sturdy glass of beer. For some dumb reason, that juxtaposition was stark and punched me in the chest. How badly I missed him crashed over me so hard I was amazed I didn’t fall out of my chair. But this wasn’t fair to him. I’d cheated, broken my own rules meant to protect him.
He can’t be here. His family needs him.
My defense mechanism shifted from aloof to asshole.
“Look at you and your beer,” I said, shaking my head, my voice dripping with derision. “You stick out like a sore thumb. A big, dumb American in your jeans and scuffed boots and your unstylish jacket.”
River’s eyes widened, then darkened. “I don’t actually give a shit what people think. And you’re American too, in case you forgot.”
“I look the part,” I said, gesturing at my clothes. “I can speak the language. You don’t belong here. If I took you to one of my parties…”
If I took River to a party, he’d stand out in every way that mattered. Current tragedies in the world would make the rounds like a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The people would nibble on genocide or war or famine, chew it up, and spit it out like an olive pit. But River would actually care. He wouldn’t shake his head solemnly or quote some blog post and then forget all about it the second someone came by with champagne.
River would give a shit, and goddamn, I love this big dumb American.
“I don’t want to go to one of your parties,” River said darkly. “In fact, that’s the last fucking thing I want to do.”
“What do you want?”
“To help. Or… I don’t know, Holden. I don’t know what the hell to do.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said into my glass. “I don’t knowwas always your thing.”
