I gaze at Aphrodite for another long moment. There’s something about her that calls me closer: the cool, clean smoothness of the marble, the honesty and self-possession on her face. I look from Ian to the fountain, back to Ian again. “I kind of want to get in,” I hear myself confess.
Ian laughs; then, looking at me in surprise: “Wait, really?”
I shrug, suddenly bashful. “I mean, a little bit.” I was joking, truthfully, but as soon as it’s out of my mouth I realize how badly I actually want to do it. My feet are aching from all the walking we’ve been doing; my hands and arms feel gritty from the dirty city air. More than that, though, I keep thinking of what Gabe said the other day:you’re always up for an adventure. That fountain—thatgoddess—is calling, and I want to go. “Why not?”
“Well, because I don’t want you to get arrested and wind up in a French prison like Jean Valjean, to start with,” he points out.
“Do you see any cops?” I ask, gesturing around the deserted courtyard as I slip out of my sandals, wiggling my blistery toes: no matter how hard I tried to break them in, these shoes never got any comfier. “They’re probably all busy looking for our lost luggage.”
Ian considers that. He still looks a little nervous—but not, I note with a warm lick of pleasure, entirely put off. In fact he’s watching me with interest, head tilted just slightly to one side and a half smile playing across his mouth. MaybeI’ve been underestimating him, all these months that I’ve been so quiet and demure and receding. Maybe he could love the person I really am after all.
“Come on,” I tell him now, leaning down and bracing my hands on his shoulders, planting a kiss on his curious mouth before I turn and head for Aphrodite. “It’s a kuddelmuddel!”
Ian laughs then, the sound of it warm and rumbling. “I guess you’re right,” he agrees—or at least, I think that’s what he’s saying. I can barely hear him over the sound of my own splash as I jump in.
It’s full dark by the time we get back to Saint-Cloud that night. The house is quiet save the low hum of the refrigerator, the door to Gabe and Sadie’s room shut tight. I wonder what they did today, if they fought, if Gabe was happy to be rid of me. Then I remind myself I don’t actually care.
Upstairs in Ian’s parents’ giant bathroom I spend an extra-long time brushing my teeth and washing my face, anticipation blooming like a climbing vine inside me. Last night I was so exhausted and brattily cranky that I collapsed into bed as soon as we got back from dinner, mumbling a good-night into the pillow when Ian came upstairs a little while later. But now...
By the time I make it into the master bedroom my heart is thumping expectantly, my whole body warm and alert. Ian is lying on the bed watching French television, one sturdy arm propped behind his head. “Hey,” he says sleepily, hisvoice the tiniest bit slurred. We split a bottle of wine at a café on the way back from the Metro, though I think he actually drank a lot more of it than me.
“Hey,” I say, barely resisting the urge to explode into hysterical giggles. Ugh, why am I sonervousall of a sudden? I stand awkwardly at the end of the bed, watching as two Parisians argue on a street corner on-screen, all wild gesticulations and the angry red slash of the actress’s lipstick. “So you understand all of this, huh?” I ask.
Ian smiles at me a little crookedly, like he knows I’m making small talk to cover my own anxiousness but finds it charming. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, and turns off the TV.
I take a breath. There’s nobody to interrupt us now—no alarms going off or friends knocking on the door or marching bands playing “The Entertainer” parading through the room. It’s just the two of us, Ian and me.
“Molly,” he says quietly. “Come here.”
He reaches for me as I climb under the covers; his mouth is warm and eager and wet. I scratch my fingernails through the hair at the nape of his neck, running the bottom of my foot along the back of his calf and trying to relax. After all, it’s not like I’m ever going to find a more romantic venue: the moonlight makes patterns on the plush Oriental carpet. The duvet is cumulus-fluffy and soft. If ever there was a perfect moment to have sex with your boyfriend for the first time—if all my hesitation really has been about waiting for one—alone in his parents’ French vacation house is probably aboutas ideal as a reasonable person could hope to get.
Still, as we lie there with our limbs tangled together I’m surprised to find myself wishing for the grungy comfort of Imogen’s cottage. I find myself wishing for my mom’s place back in Star Lake. The muscles in my shoulders are balled tight as socks underneath my skin, my fight-or-flight instincts all humming; when Ian reaches for the drawstring on my pajama bottoms, I freeze.
I take a steadying breath and kiss him harder, knowing even as I do it that I’m overcompensating, that it feels fake and forced and strange. God, what is mymalfunctiontonight? It’s Ian. I love him. We had an amazing day together. Our whole trip has been leading up to this moment—in a lot of ways, our whole relationship has.
In theory the reason is obvious, of course, and for a moment I imagine just sitting up and blurting the whole truth, or at least more of it than I let slip this afternoon: that I got pregnant last year and had an abortion, that I’m gun-shy and terrified to make any more mistakes. But something stops me. Even in my head, that explanation feels like a cop-out: what I’m feeling isn’t as simple as worrying I’ll get pregnant again. It’s not as straightforward as shame or regret for the choices I made. I might not be entirely sure what’s going on here, but I know it’s broader and deeper and messier than that.
I remember how much I wanted Gabe the other night in the alley outside the bar in Kerry, the force and ferocity of it.I remember how I could feel it in my teeth. I think again of what Imogen said, about perfection not mattering if you’re with the right person, and cringe. There’s nothing wrong with Ian, I think, even as he’s trailing a neat row of kisses along my stomach. But no matter how much time I’ve spent the last few days trying to convince myself otherwise, I know something aboutthisisn’t right.
“Wait,” I say, sitting up finally, my feet sliding against the starchy sheets as I push him gently away. “Hang on a sec, I just—”
“Hm?” Ian’s voice is a tiny bit slow, distraction, or maybe he’s drunker than I thought. He goes for my waistband again, smiling a little like he thinks we’re playing a game.
I shake my head. “Easy.” Then, more forcefully, wrapping my hand around his wrist: “Hey.”
Ian’s smile falls. “What?” he asks.
“Just hold up a minute, okay?” I take a deep breath. “I just—I don’t—” I break off. “I don’t know if tonight should be the night.”
“Oh.” Ian sits up, scratching at the back of his neck. He exhales, something that might be a normal breath and might be a sigh. “All right.”
I wince. “Don’t be mad, okay?”
“No, I’m not mad. But, like—this trip is almost over, you know?”
I blink. “Meaning what, exactly?”
Ian shrugs; his T-shirt is in a puddle at the foot of themattress, and he makes a fist in it with one hand. “Meaning we’ve been together a long time, we’re exclusive, we’re inFrance—”
