“Because—” I start, then break off in frustration. I don’t have an answer, not really. By now I’m fully aware I’m being a complete dingbat—quite seriously, what kind of spoiled brat throws a tantrum at the prospect of three unexpected cost-free days at a giant house in the Parisian suburbs?—but the truth is I just feel sofoolish. I want Ian to feel foolish, too.
“Look,” he says, when all I can come up with is a belligerent shrug of my shoulders. “You told me at the very beginning of our relationship that there were limits on what you were willing to tell me about yourself—limits on how close you’d let me get to you.”
That stings. “It’s not about not wanting to be close,” I promise for the hundredth time. “It’s just—”
“But I don’t push you, do I?” Ian cuts me off. “I assume you’ll tell me what I need to know, when I need to know it. Irespect the fact that your life is yours to share or not.”
I cross my arms, staring at the complicated tile work on the backsplash. The worst part is how I know he’s right. The things I’ve chosen to keep from him—the fallout from my mom’s book, getting pregnant, the fact that Gabe and I were together at all—are way more significant than something as ultimately meaningless as money. And deep down in the smallest, darkest caverns of my heart, I know that’s the real reason I’m so upset. “You’re right,” I finally say. The words taste like ash on the back of my tongue. “I’m sorry.”
Ian shakes his head. “I don’t want you to apologize.”
“Whatdoyou want, then?”
“I don’t know.” He breaks off then, stays quiet for a long, loaded minute. Through the window I can hear a bird singing something lonely, the faint hum of the pool filter out in the courtyard. Finally he lifts his head. “You want to hear a story?”
“Um,” I say, not sure what he’s getting at. “Sure.”
“Okay.” Ian lets a breath out, boosting himself up onto the island before he begins. “Look,” he says again, “I’m sure this is going to be shocking to you, but I wasn’t the coolest, most popular dude in high school. I didn’t get, like, shoved into lockers or anything, and I had some friends, but mostly I just kind of... faded into the wallpaper. Does that make sense?”
It’s hard to picture, actually—Ian is such a magnet around campus, with friends from all different social groups—but Inod. “Sure,” I say again. “Keep going.”
Ian nods. “Anyway, there was this girl Alyssa I’d liked basically since middle school. She was a math genius and on the dance team and she had exactly zero time for me, which wasn’t her fault since mostly I was, like, sitting at the bus stop readingLord of the Ringsfor the fiftieth time.” He looks down for a moment, picking at the skin around his thumb. “But junior year I got this car. And it was my dad’s old car, he’d gotten a new one, but it was still probably a nicer car than a sixteen-year-old kid had any business driving.”
“Aha.” Suddenly I think I might know where this story is going. “And out of the blue Alyssa was like,hey boy how you doing?”
Ian smiles. “Not just Alyssa,” he admits. “Also all of Alyssa’s dance friends. But it was lesshey boy how you doingand more like,hey boy can you take us to Starbucks, and since you’re in the driver’s seat would you mind paying?”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“I mean, it was my own fault,” Ian says with a shrug. “I’m the one who kept saying yes. And she was always kind of different when it was just the two of us, you know? She was funny and smart and cool, and she always had great music on her phone. So I kind of didn’t mind buying her lunch, or spotting her cash at the juice place or wherever.” He makes a face. “It wasn’t until she asked if I’d mind driving her boyfriend home too that I figured out sheprobablywasn’t sitting up every night waiting for me to make my move.”
I clap a hand over my face. “Oh noooooo.”
“The worst part is I didn’t even say no,” Ian continues, smiling a little ruefully. “I drove them both home like every day of senior year.”
“Oh,Ian,” I say, wanting to travel back in time and protect his vulnerable high school heart. “That’s miserable. I’m sorry.”
Ian shrugs again, easy; it’s the gesture of a person who has learned his lesson the hard way. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad for me, or think my life is so tough or whatever. Clearly I know my life isn’t tough. And I should have told you the truth from the beginning. But once I got to Boston I decided that I was going to be absolutely sure that anybody who liked me was in it for my sparkling personality, and not ’cause I drove a stupid nice car or whatever.”
I nod slowly. It makes perfect sense: he wanted to be a new version of himself, free from his old blunders and baggage. How can I possibly blame him for that when it’s exactly what I wanted, too? “I get it,” I tell him. “I really do.”
“I thought you might,” Ian says. He reaches out and nudges my knee with the toe of his sneaker; I loop my finger through the laces, yanking once.
“So,” I tease, looking up at him and smiling a little. “What kind of carwasit, exactly?”
“Jerk,” Ian says, but he’s smiling back.
The four of us lay low that afternoon, Sadie floating on her back in the swimming pool and Gabe taking off on awalk around the leafy green neighborhood, a pair of borrowed headphones jammed into his ears. My book was in my suitcase, so I find a battered paperback copy ofThe Tempeston one of Ian’s parents’ bookshelves and post up in a lounge chair, struggling through the old English with my brow furrowed and my jaw clenched in determined consternation. I feel guilty for not rushing out to see the Eiffel Tower and the gardens at the Rodin Museum—both of which were on the itinerary for today, I remember grimly, cringing at the idea of all those boxes left unchecked—but in the end I’m too wrung out to care.
“You hungry?” Ian asks in the early evening, appearing at the back door as the sun sinks behind the olive trees and the air takes on a cool dampness that tempts fall. He called the airport police about an hour ago for an update: Gabe and I were standing in a security-camera blind spot, he reported when he hung up, though they said they were going over footage from other parts of the terminal and wanted us to stay together for the rest of the night in case they found anything. “There’s a neighborhood place my parents like not too far from here—we could ask those guys if they want to go.”
I drop the book on my chest, eyes cutting in Sadie’s direction.Do we have to?I almost ask. “That sounds great,” I say instead, holding my hand up so he can pull me to my feet. “Just let me wash my face first.”
The restaurant is tucked at the end of an alley off the main drag in town, a tiny bistro with white penny tile on thefloor and flaking gold-leaf lettering on the windows. A long marble bar runs along one side of the room. Tea lights flicker inside tiny glass jars on the tables, casting the room in yellow and rose and amber; there’s a giant chalkboard on one wall covered with a map of the wine regions of France.
“A neighborhood place, sure,” Gabe mutters as the maître d’ leads us to a small table near the window. “It’s basically a TGI Fridays, no big deal.”
I’ve been thinking the same thing—what kind of life do you have to live for this to be the kind of place you come for a casual dinner?—but something about hearing Gabe say it pisses me off. After all, if it wasn’t for Ian, where would the rest of us be right now? Not here, that’s for sure. “You know what?” I snap, quietly enough so only Gabe can hear me. “Chill out, how about.”
