Page 178 of The Stranger

Sensation overwhelms me, my mind a haze as her body begins to throb around me and she wraps her arms around my neck.

“Oui,” she whispers. I feel a tear against my cheek. “Oui. J’ai essayé de protéger mon cœur.” I tried to protect my heart.

My heart halts and kickstarts immediately. I’m confused and elated and suddenly very afraid. She speaks French—my little flower is frighteningly fluent.

“I tried not to love you,” she whispers, “but it’s no good. I feel the same, my love. I love you.”

But no more.

I am terrified and confused and elated, and coming like a freight train.

45

LUC

Rose stands at the mirror, fastening an earring. Her hair is swept up, leaving the delicate line of her neck bare. The dress I picked out for her, chosen with tonight in mind, clings to her figure like poured silver.

She looks beautiful. Young. Hopeful. She looks like mine.

The words rise with such certainty that a flare of anger bursts through me. She can’t be mine, regardless of what was said. Regardless of feelings.

She meets my eyes in the mirror. Waiting. Watching. A tiny pinch between her elegant brows. “You okay?”

She knows I’m not. Though I’ve tried since yesterday to seem like I am, and she’s allowed me the comfort.

“Yes.” I cross the room and settle my hands on her waist. “I⁠—”

“I know it’s a lot,” she begins, not for the first time, to attempt to manage my feelings. My fears. “We don’t have to make any decisions now. We should maybe just take every day as it comes. Enjoy what we have.”

“Yes,” I say again, and put my lips to her shoulder. Enjoy what we have while we have it. Which won’t be much longer.

Three small words? I couldn’t even keep my declaration to that. Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve been bewitched by love. Yesterday on the couch, we turned a summer diversion into a promise. Desire into complication. A present into a future without any prospect.

“What I’m trying to say is I know you’re worried—I am too. But we don’t have to come up with the answers right now. Do we?”

“Mon cœur.” My heart. I stiffen, surprised by my choice of words. She sees it too, so I pivot to another topic. “I can’t believe all this time you spoke French.” I try not to make it sound like a reprimand. But, fuck. I should’ve paid more attention instead of hiding behind my mother tongue.

“I’m sorry.” And she looks it. Truly. “I thought I was being clever. In the beginning, at least.”

“Because I was Monsieur le dick head?” I don’t have it in me to be angry. Not today.

She gives a small smile. “You were insufferable.”

And now I must make her suffer. The realization is an aching bloom inside my chest. The place where my heart should be. There is no comfort to be had.

“And later,” she adds, picking up a brush and flicking it across her cheek. Looking at her face so she doesn’t have to look at me. “The things you said to me started to feel like tiny treasures. Pearls of truth and feeling. The things you wanted to say but couldn’t.”

Shouldn’t.

“I knew if I told you I understood, the spell would break, but I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Come now. You’re taking too long to get dressed.”

A flicker of hurt crosses her lovely face before she turns, and I find her in my arms again. “Does this evening, this surprise outing of yours, have a timeline?” She studies my lapels as she slides her fingers over them.

“Oui. So hurry. The jet is waiting.”

“Do I need my passport?” she jokes.