“I told you not to mess with her. I told you—”
“Jules,” he said sharply, though his voice broke halfway through the name. Tears prickled in his eyes when he looked up at her.
Juliana’s expression turned contrite, then softened immediately. She sat beside him on the chaise, drawing Bastien into a hug. He hid his face into the crook of her neck, where the faint, yet familiar scent of cinnamon comforted him.
“I’m such a prick, Jules.” His voice was muffled. “I ruined it.”
When they pulled apart, she swiped her fingers across his cheeks, wiping his tears away. Juliana took a good look at his eyes, bright grey now and glistening. “Oh, you really love her, don’t you.”
“It doesn’t matter now. She hates me.”
She pushed his hair back, baring his forehead. The coolness of her fingers soothed him. His entire body was shivering, and he wasn’t sure if it was the fever or the heartache or a mixture of both. But Bastien closed his eyes and simply breathed.
Eventually, Juliana asked, “Then why didn't you tell her?”
“Suppose I did,” he replied. “Then what? What if I couldn’t love her the way she expected to be loved? She has spent a whole year with Jacques fawning and simpering over her and getting used to it and I’ve never done any of that.” The next thought had terrified him the most up on that rooftop. “And…what ifshecouldn’t love me? To lay my heart out for her and to find that it’s not good enough—”
“Bas...” Juliana’s voice was gentle. “You have already shown her what’s in your heart. And she already likes it.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” she said. “I am all knowing—quite god-like. You just have to believe me.” Bastien was hardly amused. Juliana puffed her cheeks. “Because,” she said seriously this time, “you have always shown a different side of yourself to the people youcare about. And from what I’ve heard, you’ve shown a great deal of that other side to Celine. EvenIhaven’t seen that studio. She was the first person you decided to let in.”
Bastien jolted back. He hadn’t told Jules about the studio.
“I told you,” she said, “I am all knowing.” She brought his face in her palms, lifting it so he could meet her eyes. “Celine loves you, and from what you’ve told me, I know you feel it in your heart that she means it.” She picked up his mug again. “Drink.”
Bastien sniffled, “Merci, Jules,” and took a sip. The tea had cooled down, so the warmth that spread through his body was sedative. He leaned back on the chaise, head supported by the backrest. “I am such a fool,” he sighed.
“Maybe. But that is something that can be fixed.” Disappearing into her room briefly, Juliana came out again dragging Bastien’s trunk near his feet. Popping it open, she started rummaging.
“What are you doing now?”
“Finding you a shirt that doesn’t saydepressed boy, give hugsall over it.” Bastien resisted rolling his eyes, only because his headache would return if he did. Once she found what she deemed proper, Juliana tossed it over his head. “Okay, get up. I’ll drive you over to tell her the truth.”
“I’m sorry”—he looked at her blearily—“but what part ofI messed updon’t you understand? She doesn’t want to see me again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was using my picture as a darts board.”
“Do you love her?” Juliana insisted.
“But the board—”
“Forget about board and the darts—do you love her?”
“Yes.” His voice nearly cracked as he said it. He was sure that his soul had though. Bastien’s next breath shuddered in his chest. “Of course I do.”
“Then let’s go. Anaïs said the proposal has been postponed for tomorrow morning. You still have time to tell her you love her. Use it.”
“But—”
“There are nobuts.”She pointed at the shirt in silent command and changed her slippers for a pair of heels. “Come on. I can’t look at you like this anymore. A broken heart does not become you Bastien Ménard.”
Chapter 32
Spring Torrents
Rain dribbled down the window, blurring the view of the city and its lights into an impressionist painting.
Celine slammed her sketchbook shut, making sure all the pieces of fabric and magazine clippings she had stuck to it were secure, and tossed it unceremoniously into the container that held the rest of her belongings at the abandoned house. There was not a soul up here, save for her and a few flickering candles that struggled to hold the flame. Spring torrents continued to pester Paris, and with nothing better to do than wallow, she had found refuge in the dampness of the attic, cleaning away her materials.
