Simone is there, too.
She’s tucked in at Gustave’s side, her hand restingon his chest like she’s placing a claim. She looks perfect—wearing a midnight blue gown that wraps around her like ink poured over curves. Her hair is in a sleek chignon, and her diamond earrings catch the light every time she moves.
They look like a couple. No, not like any couple butthecouple.
He belongs here. I don’t.
My stomach turns. It’s hard to watch him here, drink in hand, people swirling around him like a constellation, while I’m in the shadows, barely a footnote.
He smiles at Simone.
Something inside me splinters.
I want to leave, but I also want to stay, to see us for what we are.
Because we’re not real.
Because pretending is exhausting.
Because maybe if I stare long enough, the illusion will break.
Because that’s what we are, a fantasy woven out of time and place in my apartment at Saint-Germain-des-Prés and his cottage in Burgundy.
Simone catches sight of me. Her gaze pauses. Cool. Curious. Assessing.
She knows.
Dios mio, she knows!
She turns slightly, says something to Gustave.
He looks.
And this time, there’s no flicker of recognition.
No spark.
No trace.
He lifts his glass—to me or past me, I can’t tell—but it’s polite, detached.
Cece pulls me to meet someone, but her enthusiastic words are like bees buzzing noisily in my ear.
“I need air.” I wrench myself away from her. I need to get away. I need to get out of here because I’m breaking open in front of everyone.
I run out into the Paris night, where the lights are too bright and the city feels like it’s laughing behind its glitter.
How do I come back from this?
The air outside Maxim’s is cooler than I expected. Or maybe it’s because my skin’s gone cold.
I press a hand to my chest, as if that will hold everything in. Like maybe I can keep pieces of it from spilling out onto the Champs-Élysées in front of strangers, traffic, and God.
The city keeps moving—cars hissing by, a horn blaring somewhere, laughter spilling from a bar—but inside me, it’s silent, dead quiet, except for a piercing wail you hear when something detonates too close.
“Tara.”
I don’t turn. I stare at the street like it might give me an exit, a trap door…an escape.
