Sabine burst into tears. She rushed to the bed and curled up into Aubin’s arms.
“Tighter,” she said as she sobbed. He wrapped his arms right around her and pulled her in until it subsided. It felt good to be hugged so hard by him.
“I’m ruining everything,” she muttered into his shirt.
“No, you are not. Hear this from a ruiner of many things.”
That made her laugh. She wiped her nose on his shirt.
“Is it hard? Yes. Are you reaching for things? Yes. You deserve to have both parents if you want. You deserve all the love everyone has to give you.”
It was the perfect thing for him to say. She spent a long time in his arms. She could hear both his heartbeat and Rue Xavier Privas below. Tourists. Revelers. The lovers of beer pong.
“I know it’s only, like, nine o’clock,” she said, “but I’m so tired. Can we go to sleep?”
“Sure.” He set up his pillows and blanket on the floor, then went to brush his teeth. She lay back. It was hot. She had no desire to get under the covers, no desire to get changed.
He turned out the lights, took off his pants and T-shirt, and lay on the floor.
“Can you come up here?” she asked. He did, lying beside her, no part of his body touching hers. Respectful. “Can you come closer?”
His hand, lying there, was touching hers. She intertwined her pinky with his. Then she turned on her side. He did the same. They faced each other.
“Closer.”
He moved closer. She put her hand on his chest. He felt strong and lean, muscles defined even at rest. Her hand wandered up his neck, felt his Adam’s apple and jaw line. Her fingers traced the contour of his face. He had a bit of stubble after two days of not shaving.
“I want to kiss you,” she said.
“OK.”
She did. It was good. Full of electrical charge. She let her hand roam some more, but never below the waist. He didn’t move.
“Can we do more than kiss?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to take the advantage. You have too much happening. There is time for that if we want to go more.” He kissed her again, soft and slow, and moved back to the floor.
“Are you sure?” she said over the edge of the bed.
“No.”
They laughed, and she lay back, saturated with desire, but also comfort.
The valley got dark. Marlow thought about calling Violet, or calling Noah, but in the end did neither. She didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation and going through the emotions all over again.
She went home, hovering on the step between her house and Luc’s. His door was ajar, candles were lit—the power likely wasn’t back, but it was also clearly a romantic invitation. She was tempted to let herself walk through his doorway, fall into his arms, and then his bed: a place where she could feel good and forget about everything else, especially Sabine’s choices and feeling abandoned by her own kid.
Instead, she stepped inside her dark house, closed her curtains and crawled into her own bed. Tomorrow, she had to get the transfer papers. Once she’d submitted them, should she paint the house for Ruth? Or go to Paris and steal back her daughter?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Luc, still only in boxers, stumbled into his kitchen to find Marlow making pancakes. A lot of pancakes.
“So you don’t come last night,” he said, “with the invitation of my front door left open, but you come at six in the morning and make food?”
