“Yes, I will. I wanted to go into town for a little today… Do you think…?”
“No, it’s too dangerous, Sara. It’s been too quiet, it’s not over.” His eyes darken with fear, and I know we face it all together, but there was one thing nagging at my soul that I needed to do… For me, for goodbyes, for forgiveness.
“Can you maybe have one of your guys follow me?” I ask shyly. His jaw tightens and his forehead rests on my shoulder as his hands cup my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
“You don’t know what you’re asking me, Sara…”
“Liam, no one is going to do anything in plain daylight and there’s the market on Place Des Lices, there will be so many people.”
“Okay… but I want you to text me when you get home. I’ll have Max go with you, he’s new but Riviera trusts him.”
“Thank you. I love you.” I cup his face and kiss him.
He walks to his bedroom and turns on the shower. I smile as the water runs, this fragile peace between us feels so new, so precious. I turn back to my coffee, taking a slow sip and letting the warmth flood through me as I walk over to the pile ofmail, bills, catalogs for indoor decorations, gardening, and more. Everything slightly more depressing than the other when I feel at the brink of a brand-new life yet can’t fully build one.
That’s when I spot it—a baguette sitting on the kitchen counter. I frown, trying to remember if it was there last night. The golden-brown crust looks perfect, untouched. I haven’t been able to eat the delicious bread since…
“Hey,” I call toward the bathroom, raising my voice over the shower. “Did you get a baguette?”
Liam pokes his head out, shirtless. “What baguette?”
“This baguette on the counter.”
He peeks out and shrugs, unconcerned. “Probably Damien. He was here yesterday on a conference call with me. Must’ve left it.”
I nod, but something doesn’t feel right. I run my fingers along the bread’s surface. It’s crisp to the touch. I break off a tiny piece, examining it as any French girl would. This isn’t day-old bread, it’s fresh, likely from this morning. A chill runs down my spine and my mind leaps to dark thoughts, but I brush them off instantly, laughing a bit at my idiocy. Liam is probably right.
“Everything okay, baby?” Liam calls, shower still running.
“Yeah,” I answer, trying to steady my heart. I walk to the bathroom, close the door behind me, strip off Liam’s shirt I slept in, and step into the shower.
He turns, halfway rinsing shampoo from his hair, one eye open. I wrap my arms around him and he doesn’t falter. He’s my warmth in winter, through highs and lows and when his eyes turn stormy and his words cut me open, I just know his presence has tattooed itself onto my existence, a cemented constellation of unmovable emotions. His hand presses against my naked back, anchoring me as his chest gives me the peace I desperately always need. Once more, we lose ourselves in the ravenous need of each other’s touch.
Liam kisses me goodbye, his lips lingering as if reluctant to break away, but I shoo him out eventually. The house feels empty the moment the door clicks shut. Touching where his mouth was seconds ago, I realize it’s been months we’ve been attached at the hip. We’re in April now, peak season starting again in just a few months.
I hesitate, knowing what I must do. We all have ways to cope with grief that defy belief, right and wrong, the unanswered burden of death we’re bound to face. Sometimes letting go quietly isn’t enough. Some wounds demand more than acceptance to heal on an endless path of missing pieces while hope, waits patiently to bloom again.
I grab my purse, open the front door, and nod to Max, Liam’s security, briefed not to leave my side today. If this gives me a little freedom to breathe, I’ll take it.
The car door clicks shut behind me as I settle beside Max. I tell him our destination, lean back against the leather seat, and watch Saint-Tropez come alive.
Market day has transformed Place des Lices into a maze of color with silk scarves fluttering, silver jewelry catching sunlight, cheese wheels, so many different food vendors releasing their aromas. I love this place, I've missed coming here to do my groceries. But I don't miss the narrow streets collapsing into gridlock and honking.
When a car abruptly pulls out of a rare parking spot just ahead of us, I tap Max’s shoulder. “Take that spot,” I urge. “We’ll walk from here.”
Max’s face tightens, but I insist. The sooner I finish, the sooner I return home.
“I don’t think we should walk,” he grumbles.
“Lighten up, Max. It’s a circus out here. No one will do anything.” I open the door and step onto the curb.
We walk, smile, nod at acquaintances who can’t hide their surprise at seeing Max with me. I see their wheels turning.
'That girl sure gets around. Trauma will do that.'
As we quicken our pace, my shoulder slams into someone with a jolt feeling electric and a violent chill shoots down my spine. I whip around, nearly collapsing before Max’s iron grip steadies me. My heart hammers as I try to glimpse who ran into me, but we’re stopped by a villager eager to catch up. I try to dart my eyes around him, but he is insistent on me purging my secrets on the pavement. As wholesome as the interaction is, I’m so preoccupied, so I smile and assure him I’m thriving, reading books at home until his concerned expression softens with each carefully crafted lie.
We continue down the main street, Max shadowing my every move. I can’t shake the unsettling feeling from that collision, but I come to conclusion that my nerves feel raw, exposed, and that it’s normal for me to be on high alert. It’s been a stressful half of year.
