I feel him stop a few feet behind me. Close enoughthat I can sense him, feel the weight of his gaze on my back.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
A cheap beginning. A coward’s excuse.
I huff out a breath and glance back at him over my shoulder. His expression is open. Apologetic. Infuriatingly sincere.
“Really?” My voice is tight. “You didn’t think Cece might drag me to the after-party of the century?”
His jaw tightens a fraction. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“No?” I let out a dry laugh. “What was it supposed to be like then?”
He doesn’t move as he watches me with agony in his eyes. It hurts me to see him in pain. I want him to be happy. I want him skinny-dipping with me in a river in Burgundy.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, his hands tucked in his dress pants. He says the words like they cost him everything.
And here’s the truly awful thing:I let him say it. I let him stand there and look at me likethatbecause I want to believe him. Because I’ve fallen in love with him.
And it’s pathetic.
I know it.
And yet, I stand, folding in on myself, to let his apology slide into the fissures still forming inside me.
“I leave in three and a half months,” I say quietly,more to myself than to him. “This was never going to be more than…whatever this is.”
He watches me, grief etched in his gaze. But he doesn’t say anything.
Because what can he say? That he loves me back? But he doesn’t. Not in the way that would have him pull Simone’s hand off his chest like it burned him.
So I save him from saying anything at all.
“I know what this is.” I try to sound breezy, but I fail miserably. “I do. So…I don’t know, enjoy it while it lasts. No expectations. No heartbreak.”
ExceptI’m already heartbroken.
I’m standing in the middle of Paris with the man I can’t have, pretending I’m okay with scraps, and lying through my teeth to the two people who are not buying it—himandme.
He reaches for my hand.
I let him.
Because I miss him.
Even when he’s standing right in front of me, I miss him.
AndI don’t want to be strong tonight.
He squeezes gently. “Merci, Tara.”
I want to scream, demand what he’s thanking me for, but I know. He’s grateful for my understanding—for knowing that he’s not committing sins against me, he’s living his life the only way he’s capable of.
I watch him disappear back into Maxim’s, and after a moment, I leave, too. I tell Cece I have a headache—itisn’t a lie. The ache is real, pulsing behind my eyes, born from somewhere deep in my chest.
Author’s Note
I know that Paris Fashion Week is usually held in late February or early March, and in late September or early October. However, I’m taking some creative liberty to move Fashion Week to April because I really wanted to attend fashion week vicariously through Tara.
