ME: You’re ridiculous.
LIAM: *shrug emoji* I can live with ridiculous.
“What?” Maria smirks as a soft titter escapes me.
“Oh. Nothing.” I shove my phone back into my pocket and sigh. “Liam, well, he’s kind of weird sometimes, isn’t he?”
Passing Église Saint-Séverin, Maria slows, knowing the deal. I freakin’ love this church. Roman meets gothic meets late-gothic architecture. Flying buttresses and gargoyles, mixed with stained glass windows, cover every inch of the outside, and a small, modern playground sits on the corner of the park area, wrapping around the church. A relic of the past, a player in the present. Proof that the present is a minuscule moment in reality, never fixed. We are the past. We become the future in a literal blink of an eye. Life continues on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a big grin plastered on Maria’s face—a dangerous gleam in her icy blue stare.
“Hey, Evie?” she asks in her I’m-about-to-ask-you-a-leading-question-and-shatter-everything-you-know-about-life-in-the-process voice. It’s the voice she used when I was struggling to manage to work full-time, and she found me passed out on the bathroom floor.“Do you think this is a sustainable way to live, dear? Or do you think it’s time to find a vocation that fits your flares better?”
“Yes?” I tepidly approach her sweet, sing-songy ruse, which undoubtedly proves she’s about to hurl a QMD (question of mass destruction) my way.
“Liam is particularly goofy sometimes, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I just said that—”
“And from the stories you’ve shared recently, he has taken a liking to puns all of a sudden.” She restarts our trek to The Quays.
“Well, yes . . .” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. Whatever this is, Maria better not ruin puns for me.
“And as far as people you know from back home are concerned, he’s the only person you haven’t considered who could be sending you these personalized postcards, right?”
“I mean with good reason, though,” I say with the conviction of a monumental executive telling Lina Lamont she has a beautiful voice. I have allowed my brain to question this exactly once. And the ramifications of tainting the one thing that brings me joy with the possibility of this being an elaborate prank grew too strong, so I closed it down and never let myself travel that path again. “But he hates me,” I manage.
“Does he, though?”
“Yes, we have an understanding that our animosity is mutual.”
“Do you, though?”
I clear my throat, hoping it doesn’t close. I’m allergic to stressful lines of questioning, and honestly, after our past few interactions, after the way he’s taken care of me, Maria’s making some valid points. At the very least, I can confirm he doesn’t hate me.
“You’re so off. Get out of here.” I laugh, deflecting and turning my attention to the window of a pâtisserie to hide the flush creeping up my neck. Like hell I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she might be onto something.
Maria’s eyes widen in the reflection and an annoying, albeit infectious smile spreads across her face. Dammit, I forgot how reflective materials work.
“You want it to be him!” She claps.
“What?” I rake my hand through my loose strawberry curls, pivoting back to her and praying Saint Honoré, patron saint of bakers everywhere, will take pity and rescue me from this situation. “That’s beyond ridiculous. Why would I? What?”
“Yeah, that was convincing.” She snorts.
“Doesn’t make you less wrong,” I grumble.
“Evelina Rose O’Shea.” Maria puts her hands on her hips. “What’s my job?”
“Annoying meddling stupid head.” I roll my eyes so far in the back of my head, I’m sure I can see my brain. It’s a rather dark place, not much happening.
“Oh no, that’s my hobby.” She chuckles. “In case you missed it, I’m a wedding planner. And what do you say I have a second sense for?”
“People in love.” I shift to avoid a bike chained to a side rail on the sidewalk. A mass of tourists perusing the boarded menu of a red-painted café forms a narrow wedge ahead of us. Maria steps in front of me, and we pass through the tourist sieve single file.
“Best man for the Lafeyette wedding?” she shouts back at me.
“Married to the bride now—pardon—” My shoulder digs into the back of a halted photographer, attention devoted to a cherry blossom tree juxtaposed against a cream background.
