‘Yes.’ She manages a smile. ‘Just thinking, it would be a shame if you got all wet.’
He grins, slow and sure. ‘Wouldit now?’ She can feel heat rising to her cheeks, even as there’s a pulse of something right through her core just from the way he’s looking at her. He jumps down next to her. ‘Not a fan of bridges, huh?’
‘Bridges are fine. I’m less of a fan of falling off them.’
He makes a tutting noise. ‘One of only four Palladian bridges, this. You shouldn’t be scared of it, you should beadmiringit.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m notscaredof it.’I’m scared for you, she adds silently, knowing that it would make her sound like a total lunatic if she said it out loud.
Ash comes to a stop underneath the temple structure, looking like something out of a painting with the lake as his backdrop. A scene she’d like to draw herself if she had the time, the space.
She thinks about what Jack said – about how Ash is the way he is because he is so desperate not to be like him. She wonders if there’s any truth in that. The past defines the two of them, she supposes, no matter how much they might fight against it. Maybe that’s her problem too – maybe it’s her past lives defining her. Experiencing the same grief over and over. And if that’s the pattern she’s stuck in, how is she supposed to break free of it? How is she supposed to let go of a past that stretches back not just in her lifetime, but in multiple others?
She watches Ash, the low sunlight filtering through a gap in the structure falling over one side of his face. He glances over at her, raises her eyebrows when he sees she’s still standing there staring.
Only by making a different choice can she have the future she’s meant to have. She doesn’t know what that means. But she does know that she’s made the choice before to walk away from him.
A leap of faith. That’s what Saskia said.
Her skin is buzzing as she moves very deliberately towards him. Tiny currents of electricity spark her skin – that feeling she usually only gets once a year, when the need to act, to prove that she is still alive, becomes overpowering. Her eyes are level on his, and a slight crease forms between his brows – not a frown, exactly, but like he is trying to figure out what she’s going to do next.
She stops in front of him, and he goes very still as she reaches out, places her palms on his chest. On the railings, she sees his fingers flex, though he doesn’t move his hands, like he’s being careful to stay exactly as he is.
‘Thank you,’ she says, tilting her chin up. His eyes are even bluer out here, with the sunlight bouncing off the water. ‘For bringing me to meet your dad.’
Her pulse is spiking against her wrist as she pushes up on her tiptoes, lightly pressing her lips to his. It’s nothing. Barely a whisper of a kiss. But she feels the curve of his smile against her lips. Hears the soft, gentle exhale, the sound something akin to relief. Feels that same sensation course through her body, uncertainty chased away as something tightens in her. Something that makes her want to sink deeper. It alarms her a little – the intensity of it. Alarms her enough that she eases back.
Only then do his arms come out, fingers gently skimming down her sides, then taking her hands gently, holding her in place. He encircles her wrists, thumbs moving to the underside – almost like he’s reading her pulse. At his touch, it jumps, giving her away, and the corner of his mouth lifts. His eyes are darker now, a deep, inky blue.
Neither of them moves. Neither of them takes it any further. They stay still, Lissa’s heart thrumming against her ribs, an awareness she’s never felt before running down her spine. Just from the way he’s looking at her. Just from the lightest touch, the tiniest point of contact, skin against skin.
Nothing else happens. But still, it feels like something has changed.
It feels like a choice has been made.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She is clutching her sketchbook as she arrives at the café, breathing in the scent of coffee and croissants. It’s hot, even though it’s early. Soon shimmering heat will sweep across the city, surrounding the landmarks with a haze.
He’s waiting for her at their usual table, the one where they first met. Her stomach twists and rolls when she sees him – a combination of nerves, excitement and dread. His face, that beautiful, angular face, breaks into a smile as he spots her. Her heart flares in the same way it always does whenever she sees that smile, and for a brief moment, she wishes she didn’t feel like this. Then it would be so much easier to leave him.
Because this is it – she got in. An art school in Florence, something that still feels surreal. She didn’t really expect to be accepted. She hasn’t even told her parents yet, because she knows what the reaction will be. But she’s going. She has to give it a chance, has to try to break free. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what will happen to her mother once she’s left, or of the blame that will be thrown her way for abandoning her.
How ironic, that she received the letter today of all days. On the anniversary of the bomb that killed her sister. She’s been to see her mother this morning, and it was awful. Her father didn’t come home last night – she doesn’t know what time he’ll be back, or if he’ll stay away, unable to deal with his wife’s spiralling grief, her inability to move on even after all these years.
It wasn’t the right time to tell her mother about Florence this morning. She’ll break the news in a few days. But before that, she has to tellhim. Has to tell him she won’t be coming to Hollywood with him. That was never her dream anyway. And she can’t wait around for these moments in Paris, can’t sit here hoping for something more between them when he is so desperate to chase all that life has to offer.
She reaches the table, and he kisses her on the cheek, lightly, respecting the fact that they are in public.
‘I have something to tell you,’ he announces without preamble, that smooth velvet voice that she loves.
She sets the sketchbook on her lap. He doesn’t comment on it. She always carries one around with her, after all. Only this time, the letter is inside it. ‘Well that’s a coincidence, because I have something to tell you too.’
He grins, then gestures. ‘You first.’
‘No, you,’ she insists. Because she thinks she knows what it is he wants to say – she thinks he’s finally going to tell her that this is it, that he’s leaving for America, chasing the bigger-budget films, with bigger orchestras.
He cocks his head. ‘Should we argue about it a bit, do you think? Just for show?’ She laughs, but waits. It’ll be easier to tell him if she already knows he’s leaving her.
