“Why are you being such a prick?” he spat, his voice and eyes hard. River leaned across the small table. “I came all this way. Say one fucking thing to me that’s honest. One fucking thing.”
I opened my mouth, a bitchy comeback on my lips, then snapped it shut. My throat had gone dry. I tossed back the rest of my drink, the bite stinging the back of my throat, making my eyes water.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
River’s hard expression softened, his forgiveness instant. “Me too.”
His hand reached to cover mine, and I wanted to cry. Our fingers twined together, and we sat quietly, watching the people pass. I held perfectly still, not wanting to move for fear of breaking the perfect moment or losing the feel of his skin on mine.
But the waiter came back, and River withdrew his hand self-consciously and finished his beer.
“La même chose?”
I started to say yes when I felt River’s eyes on me.
“Non, merci,” I said, and the waiter left. “How long are you here?”
“Not sure,” River said with a pointed gaze:That depends on you.“I can’t stay long. My dad’s sleepwalking through life, and my sister’s not going to graduate from high school unless I drive her there every morning.”
“And the business?”
“Not bad, actually. I’m keeping it afloat.” He smiled ruefully. “Like a juggling act that never ends.”
I nodded. Just as I suspected, Nancy’s death had blown the Whitmore family to bits, and it was left to River to sweep up the pieces and put them back together.
If I’d stayed, I’d only have added to his burden. I still would.
“Come on,” I said, rising from my chair and throwing a twenty-euro note on the table. “You need to see more of Paris than this street corner. I’ll take you on my daily route. This was breakfast.”
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“Don’t be judgy. It’s not sexy.”
His frown deepened, and I saw his thoughts drift back to my hotel room and my bed that wasn’t empty. I started walking, distracting him and forcing him to catch up.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Church.”
I hailed a cab, and we took it to the center of Paris, to Île de la Cité, the small island in the Seine River that housed Notre-Dame. We got out of the cab and crossed a footbridge to the plaza in front of the cathedral, then made our way inside.
We stepped in the cool confines, and River took in the arched ceilings, the alcoves of statues, altars, and tables filled with little candles in cups—some burning, some waiting to be lit.
“You come here every day?” River asked quietly.
I nodded. “I’m as shocked as you are that lightning doesn’t strike me as soon as I cross the threshold. But in my experience, God’s always had a twisted sense of humor.”
“Why do you come?”
“I light a candle for your mom. And for Beatriz. For my aunt and uncle. And you sometimes. When I’m feeling particularly brave that I won’t be struck down for my hypocrisy.”
We went to a table of candles. I dropped a fifty-euro note in the alms box and took one of the wooden sticks. I held it to an already-lit candle and lit a new one. I felt River’s eyes on me, blue and deep and soft.
“What about you?” River asked.
“The candles aren’t for yourself. It’s a kind of prayer for someone else.”
River nodded and held a stick to one flame, passed it to another until it caught, and then blew out the stick. His eyes held mine softly in the darkened cathedral, the hushed voices and footsteps of other visitors fading around us.
