“Don’t I?” Gabe asks. Then, angling his chin in my direction like he thinks he’s caught me at something: “Don’tyou?”
My skin prickles in irritated recognition; I don’t like the implication there. “We’re not talking about me,” I remind him, chafing a bit. “We’re not supposed to be talking about any of this, actually, if you recall.”
Gabe looks at me for another long moment. Then he nods. “Fair point, Heidi von Krinklestein,” he says, holding his hands up. “What do you want to talk about instead?”
“The history of this arch,” I announce, pulling up a guide on my phone and pointing to it. “Did you know, for example, that it honors those who fought and died for France in theRevolutionary and Napoleonic Wars?”
“That’s fascinating,” Gabe says, in a voice like he still wants to be talking about the other thing. I shrug, looking away.
Eventually we make it to lunch after all, a tiny falafel place with the softest pitas I’ve ever eaten, the warm air pungent with the smell of oregano and dill. We sit outside on a tiny patio to eat, the midafternoon sun toasting the back of my neck.
“I emailed my mom about what you said, by the way,” Gabe tells me, offering me a napkin and motioning to the smear of tzatziki sauce on my face. “Your ideas for the shop, I mean.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I thought you said it was all too serious for any of that stuff to work.”
“I’m a cranky ass, remember?” Gabe shakes his head. “That was me being a cranky ass. They were good ideas.” He plucks a stray tomato out of his tinfoil wrapper, shrugs. “Anyway, she said to say thank you. She said she always knew you had a head for that stuff.”
My eyes widen. “Shedid?” It’s hardly an absolution, but still I’m hit with a pang of longing for Connie as physical as if someone had reached into my body and squeezed. “Wow,” I say, casting my eyes downward, embarrassed by how much I still ache for her approval. “That’s really great, Gabe. I’m glad.”
Gabe sits back in his metal chair then, all long limbs andskepticism. “Yeah, well,” he says, lips twisting wryly like looking hopeful makes him weak. “We’ll see if we’re too far gone.”
Just for a second it sounds like maybe he’s talking about something besides the pizza shop. I clear my throat, crumpling up my wrapper and rattling the ice in my plastic cup. “Okay,” I say, bright and impersonal as a tour guide charged with a bus full of sandaled retirees. “Where to next?”
Gabe scoops our garbage up off the table, holds his hand out for my empty cup. “You’re going to make fun of me,” he says, tossing it all into a trash can at the corner of the patio, “but there actually was one thing I wanted to do that we didn’t get to yesterday.”
“Why would I make fun of you?” I glance over my shoulder and make a face at him, teasing. “Is it something really shameful and touristy, like going to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
Gabe blanches. “Uh,” he says.
“Oh my God, is it really?” My jaw drops open, recognition and giddy delight. “Do you really want to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Fuck you,” Gabe says, but he’s smiling. The sight of it is like a warm cup of coffee the morning of the first snow of the year. “Not anymore.”
“No, it’s just—” I break off. I want to explain about Ian, about what happened yesterday, but I don’t know how to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t be some kind of betrayal.Instead I only grin back at him, already keying the destination into my phone. “We’re totally doing this.”
And that’s exactly what we do—though not before we ride the Metro in the wrong direction for two stops and walk a block and a half out of our way like a couple of bozos. “How does this keephappening?” Gabe asks, both of us laughing at the ridiculousness of it, annoyed with ourselves but also, I think, notthatannoyed. “I can literally see the fucking thing!” Eventually we find the ticket booth and take a crowded elevator to the top of the tower, my stomach flipping dizzily as we step out onto the observation deck.
Ian was right, of course—it’s packed with a million people speaking a million different languages, all iPhone cameras and ugly sneakers and squabbling families elbowing for the best view. It’s alsostunning. When we finally make it over to the railing I can see for ages in every direction, verdant green parks and tall, filigreed buildings and swaths and swaths of dense blue sky.
“Okay,” Gabe says with the kind of quietly delighted astonishment I haven’t heard out of him since his dad was alive. It makes me think of being out on Chuck’s boat in the summertime, of fat fish pulled from murky brown lake water. “You can call me whatever you want, like maybe I really am a filthy American or whatever, but. This isawesome.”
I laugh, his excitement contagious. “It is, right?”
“Yeah!” He’s grinning openly now, gesturing out at the view withno trace ofthebriny skepticism he’s beenmarinating in all week long. “Like, look at that, Molly Barlow. That’sspecial.”
“Yeah,” I agree, letting myself wonder for a moment at the tremendous improbability of us winding up here together. In the west the sun is just starting to sink, Gabe’s skin going golden in the warm, toasted light. “It’s pretty special.”
He glances over at me then, holding the eye contact a beat too long for it to feel strictly casual. My whole body warms in spite of the stiff, chilly breeze ruffling my hair. “So what happened, huh?” I can’t help asking, clearing my throat a bit and taking half a step away from him, reminding myself what a bad idea it is to get too close. “Sadie wasn’t into this?”
Gabe makes a face, glances out at the skyline. “She’s afraid of heights, remember?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not really an answer.” I feel bad for ruining the moment, but not bad enough to keep on pretending like everything’s fine among the four of us. I don’t know if it’s the bird’s-eye view or what, but something about being up here makes me feel like it’s time to cut the crap and tell the truth. “Come on, dude. What’s going on with you guys, huh?”
“What happened to not talking about anything personal?” Gabe asks; his tone is teasing, but underneath is a flash of the craggy irritation I’ve gotten used to from him over the last few days. Then he sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits, shaking his head. “This has been... not a great trip for us, clearly. Like I said, most of it is my fault. I think shethought I was a certain way, back at school? And maybe I was, a year ago. But now I’m not.”
My heart pings with recognition, a circuit lighting up inside some complicated machine. “You seem the same to me,” I tell him honestly. “Like you’re going through a thing, maybe. But not, you know. Fundamentally altered.”
Gabe smiles—not as broadly as he was a minute ago, but it’s something. “Thanks,” he says. “I mean, I think.”
