“I did,” I answer, recalling her question. “It was the best practice I’ve had in a while actually.”
Otto’s presence during practice was a reminder of the player I’m capable of being. Soccer involves constantly shifting factors. Teammates, coaches, opponents, refs? Those can all change. But the only factor controlling how I play? Me.
“I don’t know this place.” Mom puts it out there, plain and matter-of-fact. Similar to how she shared the news about the divorce and that Cassidy was pregnant.
Except, this time, she’s looking to me for answers instead of the other way around.
I swallow hard, attempting to dislodge the lump that’s appeared. “I know. You just moved here. Cassidy and I thoughtit was someplace you’d like. You have a balcony to write outside on and?—”
Mom interrupts with, “Cassidy is in Florida.”
“Not anymore. She’s back in Boston. She’ll—we’ll be here this weekend to visit you.” I glance at the wall beside the opening that leads into the bedroom. “You know this place. Your painting is here.”
It’s a print, technically, purchased by my parents on their honeymoon. My father used to joke that Mom loved the piece of artwork more than him. Not very funny now, if you compare the current state of my parents’ relationship to how I knew the print was the one item, aside from her laptop, that Mom would want to stay with her.
Mom follows my gaze.
“It used to be in your bedroom, above?—”
“Above the dresser,” Mom finishes.
“Exactly,” I say, relieved. “It’s here, with your clothes and your favorite books and the squirrel feeder.”
Mom continues staring at the painting.
“It’s even more beautiful in person,” she tells me. “Make sure you go one day.”
“I will,” I promise, my throat thickening as soon as the two words slip out.
I’ve been to the Louvre. I’ve seen that painting in person.
Mom didn’t forget.
I never told her because I went with Otto. And because, after we ended, talking about the beginning or the middle hurt too much.
13
CLAIRE
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
Atext from Otto was waiting as soon as my phone’s black screen flickered to life, checking to make sure I’d made it back to my room okay. I replied—after screaming into my pillow for at least a minute about the fact that he’d texted. Since then, we’ve messaged constantly.
About soccer—football, as he relentlessly corrects.
But not only about the reason we’re in Paris.
The group stage commences, officially kicking off the Olympic competition. Part of me expected that would be when our texts tapered off, when he started replyingI’m busyor not responding. No matter how often my phone dings, my heartbeat quickens every time. If the message isn’t from him, I’m disappointed. When it is, I soar.
I’m a cliché—crushing on the rich, hot, famous superstar, alongside what I’m sure is a healthy percentage of Germany’s, if not the world’s, population. I’ve never been adept at flirting. The few guys I’ve dated always pursued me. And I was always flattered but rarely invested. I was too focused on making it tothis point. Now I’m here, and I’ve been counting down the final minutes of practice so I can check and see if Otto texted me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I walk down the hallway toward my room. My pulse flutters, heart hoping it’s him, as I adjust the box under my arm—a care package from my mom—then round the corner. I nearly trip when I notice the tall figure leaning against the wall next to my door.
He’s facing away, head down, yet I recognize the broad shoulders instantly.
“How did you get in here?” I hiss, casting a quick glance over my shoulder as I rush the remaining steps toward my room.
