Over the remaining weeks of that summer, I felt a continuous pull to return to the river house. Even with the language barrier between us, Étienne and I got to know each other well. We played cards, picnicked on the banks, swam in the river, and talked about our families and the things we had in common. It felt as though we were building the foundations of a lasting friendship, but when I returned the following year, his house was deserted. I went back a year later and the year after that, but all that had changed were the vines growing up the outer walls, looking as though theywere intent on swallowing it whole. I never found any trace of Étienne or his mother again and, for a long time, I wondered what had happened to them. Eventually that summer began to take on a surreal quality. I gave up hope of finding answers.
And now, ten years on, here is Étienne in front of me. A man.
7
“You don’t seem surprised tosee me.” I sound shocked. Iamshocked.
“I’m not,” Étienne replies, casually returning his attention to slicing a lemon at the bar.
Whyisn’t he shocked? And why isn’t he happier to see me? I couldn’t be more pleased.
“But…What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“Here.”
“But the house…”
“What about the house?”
“I went back there. It was empty.”
He pauses. “You went there?” And then he shakes his head and puts his knife down. “I meant that I’ve been here in Sainte-Églantine. I’ve seen you around.”
“You’ve seen me? And you didn’t say hello?” Suddenly I feel breathless with hurt.
We’d connected that summer and then he just…ghosted me. Why?
“You were always with other people.” He looks past me pointedly.
I glance over my shoulder and see Jackson by the road, scuffing his foot on the pavement as he talks away on his phone.
Okay, now I think I understand.
Étienne was an escape from what was happening between Jackson and Chloe so I never mentioned them. But one day at the end of the summer I fled to the river house after coming upon them…together. It was clear that they’d taken their relationship to the next level and I was distraught. Étienne was sweet as he tried to get to the bottom of why I was so upset. When it finally became clear that I was crying about another boy, his features clouded over. It had hurt him to know that I had feelings for someone else, that much was obvious. But I’m not sure I realized until now quite how much.
“Still besotted, I see,” he comments dryly, nodding at Jackson.
I turn back to him with a frown. “How do you even know that’s him?”
“I have eyes and ears.”
“Come on, it was years ago. I’m over it.”
Étienne raises his eyebrows, his expression telling me that he doesn’t buy a word of my denial.
“Didn’t he get married?” he asks as I pull up a stool.
I’m more interested in hearing about him, but I guess we’re still talking about Jackson.
“Yes, but they’re getting a divorce.”
“And you still want him, even after all that.”
His tone isn’t judgmental; nor is his expression. If anything, he looks weary.
“What makes you think that I still want him?” I ask uncomfortably.
“It’s written all over your face.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the window, making it clear that he’s had a perfect view of our table.
