Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss #1)(23)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

“What?”

“It’s on our syllabus for next semester in English.You’d need to buy it anyway. Open it up,” he says.

Confused, I do. There’s a stamp on the front page. SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY, Kilometer Zero Paris. I blink. “Kilometer Zero? Is that the same thing as Point Zéro?” I think about our first walk around the city together.

“For old times’ sake.” St. Clair smiles. “Come on, the rain’s stopped. Let’s get out of here.”

I’m still quiet on the street.We cross the same bridge we did that first night—me on the outside again, St. Clair on the inside—and he keeps up the conversation for the both of us. “Did I ever tell you I went to school in America?”

“What? No.”

“It’s true, for a year. Eighth grade. It was terrible.”

“Eighth grade is terrible for everyone,” I say.

“Well, it was worse for me. My parents had just separated, and my mum moved back to California. I hadn’t been since I was an infant, but I went with her, and I was put in this horrid public school—”

“Oh, no. Public school.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “The other kids were ruthless. They made fun of everything about me—my height, my accent, the way I dressed. I vowed I’d never go back.”

“But American girls love English accents.” I blurt this without thinking, and then pray he doesn’t notice my blush.

St. Clair picks up a pebble and tosses it into the river. “Not in middle school, they don’t. Especially when it’s attached to a bloke who comes up to their kneecaps.”

I laugh.

“So when the year was over, my parents found a new school for me. I wanted to go back to London, where my mates were, but my father insisted on Paris so he could keep an eye on me. And that’s how I wound up at the School of America.”

“How often do you go back? To London?”

“Not as often as I’d like. I still have friends in England, and my grandparents—my father’s parents—live there, so I used to split my summers between London and San—”

“Your grandparents are English?”

“Grandfather is, but Grandmère is French. And my other grandparents are American, of course.”

“Wow.You really are a mutt.”

St. Clair smiles. “I’m told I take after my English grandfather the most, but it’s only because of the accent.”

“I don’t know. I think of you as more English than anything else. And you don’t just sound like it, you look like it, too.”

“I do?” He’s surprised.

I smile. “Yeah, it’s that . . . pasty complexion. I mean it in the best possible way,” I add, at his alarmed expression. “Honestly.”

“Huh.” St. Clair looks at me sideways. “Anyway. Last summer I couldn’t bear to face my father, so it was the first time I spent the whole holiday with me mum.”

“And how was it? I bet the girls don’t tease you about your accent anymore.”

He laughs. “No, they don’t. But I can’t help my height. I’ll always be short.”

“And I’ll always be a freak, just like my dad. Everyone tells me I take after him. He’s sort of . . . neat, like me.”

He seems genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong with being neat? I wish I were more organized. And, Anna, I’ve never met your father, but I guarantee you that you’re nothing like him.”

“How would you know?”

“Well, for one thing, he looks like a Ken doll. And you’re beautiful.”

I trip and fall down on the sidewalk.

“Are you all right?” His eyes fill with worry.

I look away as he takes my hand and helps me up. “I’m fine. Fine!” I say, brushing the grit from my palms. Oh my God, I AM a freak.

“You’ve seen the way men look at you, right?” he continues.

“If they’re looking, it’s because I keep making a fool of myself.” I hold up my scraped hands.

“That guy over there is checking you out right now.”

“Wha—?” I turn to find a young man with long dark hair staring. “Why is he looking at me?”

“I expect he likes what he sees.”

I flush, and he keeps talking. “In Paris, it’s common to acknowledge someone attractive. The French don’t avert their gaze like other cultures do. Haven’t you noticed?”

St. Clair thinks I’m attractive. He called me beautiful.

“Um, no,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well. Open your eyes.”

But I stare at the bare tree branches, at the children with balloons, at the Japanese tour group. Anywhere but at him.We’ve stopped in front of Notre-Dame again. I point at the familiar star and clear my throat. “Wanna make another wish?”

“You go first.” He’s watching me, puzzled, like he’s trying to figure something out. He bites his thumbnail.

This time I can’t help it. All day long, I’ve thought about it. Him. Our secret.

I wish St. Clair would spend the night again.

He steps on the coppery-bronze star after me and closes his eyes. I realize he must be wishing about his mother, and I feel guilty that she didn’t even cross my mind. My thoughts are only for St. Clair.

Why is he taken? Would things be different if I’d met him before Ellie? Would things be different if his mom wasn’t sick?

He said I’m beautiful, but I don’t know if that was flirty, friends-with-everyone St. Clair, or if it came from someplace private. Do I see the same St. Clair everyone else does? No. I don’t think so. But I could be mistaking our friendship for something more, because I want to mistake it for something more.

The worrying gradually slips away at dinner. Our restaurant is covered with ivy and cozy with wood-burning fireplaces. Afterward, we stroll in a comfortable, full-bellied chocolate mousse trance. “Let’s go home,” he says, and the word makes my heart drum.

Home. My home is his home, too.

There’s still no one behind the front desk when we get back, but Nate peeks his head out his door. “Anna! Étienne!”

“Hey, Nate,” we say.

“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Nate,” we say.

“Do I need to check up on you guys later? You know the rules. No sleeping in opposite-sex rooms.”

My face flames, and St. Clair’s cheeks grow blotchy. It’s true. It’s a rule. One that my brain—my rule-loving, rule-abiding brain—conveniently blocked last night. It’s also one notoriously ignored by the staff.

“No, Nate,” we say.

He shakes his shaved head and goes back in his apartment. But the door opens quickly again, and a handful of something is thrown at us before it’s slammed back shut.

Condoms. Oh my God, how humiliating.

St. Clair’s entire face is now bright red as he picks the tiny silver squares off the floor and stuffs them into his coat pockets. We don’t speak, don’t even look at each other, as we climb the stairs to my floor. My pulse quickens with each step. Will he follow me to my room, or has Nate ruined any chance of that?

We reach the landing, and St. Clair scratches his head. “Er …”

“So …”

“I’m going to get dressed for bed. Is that all right?” His voice is serious, and he watches my reaction carefully.

“Yeah. Me too. I’m going to . . . get ready for bed, too.”

“See you in a minute?”

I swell with relief. “Up there or down here?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to sleep in my bed.” He laughs, and I have to turn my face away, because I do, holy crap do I ever. But I know what he means. It’s true my bed is cleaner. I hurry to my room and throw on the strawberry pajamas and an Atlanta Film Festival shirt. It’s not like I plan on seducing him.

Like I’d even know how.

St. Clair knocks a few minutes later, and he’s wearing his white bottoms with the blue stripes again and a black T-shirt with a logo I recognize as the French band he was listening to earlier. I’m having trouble breathing.

“Room service,” he says.

My mind goes . . . blank. “Ha ha,” I say weakly.

He smiles and turns off the light. We climb into bed, and it’s absolutely positively completely awkward. As usual. I roll over to my edge of the bed. Both of us are stiff and straight, careful not to touch the other person. I must be a masochist to keep putting myself in these situations. I need help. I need to see a shrink or be locked in a padded cell or straitjacketed or something.

After what feels like an eternity, St. Clair exhales loudly and shifts. His leg bumps into mine, and I flinch. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

“…”

“…”

“Anna?”

“Yeah?

“Thanks for letting me sleep here again. Last night …”

The pressure inside my chest is torturous. What? What what what?

“I haven’t slept that well in ages.”

The room is silent. After a moment, I roll back over. I slowly, slowly stretch out my leg until my foot brushes his ankle. His intake of breath is sharp. And then I smile, because I know he can’t see my expression through the darkness.

Chapter twenty-two

Saturday is another day of wandering, food, and movies, followed by an awkward conversation in the stairwell. Followed by a warm body in my bed. Followed by hesitant touches. Followed by sleep.

Even with the uncomfortable bits, I’ve never had a better school break.

But Sunday morning, things change. When we wake up, St. Clair stretches and accidentally smacks my boobs. Which not only hurts but also mortifies us both equally. Then at breakfast, he grows distant again. Checks his phone for messages while I’m talking. Stares out the café windows. And instead of exploring Paris, he says he has homework to do in the dorm.

And I’m sure he does. He hasn’t exactly kept up with it. But his tone strikes me as off, and I know the real reason for his departure. Students are arriving back. Josh and Rashmi and Mer will be here this evening.

And so will Ellie.

I try not to take it personally, but it hurts. I consider going to the movies, but I work on my history homework instead. At least that’s what I tell myself I’m doing. My ears are tuned to the movements above me in his room, tuned to distraction. He’s so close, yet so far away.As students arrive back, Résidence Lambert gets louder, and it becomes difficult to pick out individual noises. I’m not even sure if he’s there anymore.

Meredith bursts in around eight, and we go to dinner. She chatters about her holiday in Boston, but my mind is elsewhere. He’s probably with her right now. I remember the first time I saw them together—their kiss, her hands tangled in his hair—and I lose my appetite.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mer says. “How was your break? Did you get St. Clair out of his room?”

“A little.” I can’t tell her about our nights, but for some reason, I don’t want to tell her about our days either. I want to keep the memories for myself, hidden. They’re mine.