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I smile. "That’s very poetic," I say. "Are all the people in Elanda so proud of who they are?"
Thomas shrugs. "I don’t know," he says. "I haven’t been there for a long time."
I frown.
"Until now, I had the feeling that you weren’t that excited about your country and maybe going back one day."
Thomas looks out over the scenery. He doesn't respond to me.
"I didn’t mean to intrude," I say.
Thomas shakes his head. "You weren’t. You’re right–it seems I’m quite conflicted about my own country."
I don't respond. I don't know what to say. We drive in silence for a while. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage mingle with the sounds of children playing and the chatter of the pedestrians walking. It's peaceful to be out in nature, seeing Central Park the way people used to for more than a hundred and fifty years.
It's Thomas. I'm not under any illusion that the setting is the only thing that makes me feel at ease. I'm comfortable around him in ways I haven't been with anyone else. Whenever I'm around people, I always feel a little bit different, a little bit stra
nge, a little left out. With him, I don't.
Being with Thomas is a lot like coming home.
And I'm falling for him. Yes, it is quick. It's unexpected. I haven't thought I'd fall for someone this quickly, and at first, I hadn’t wanted to admit it. But it's true.
I find that when I'm away from him, I can't stop thinking about him. I'm excited to see him again when we arrange our dates. When I wake up in the morning, I want to hear from him. When something funny happens, he's the person I want to tell.
Don’t worry about love, I hear Lisa say. Just have fun.
I can't do that, though. I can't go around and have fun with Thomas without giving a part of me to him.
Everything about him is different than any of the other guys I’ve been with. Not only is he charming and handsome, the kind of person you can stare at all day long. Something about the way he carries himself and approaches things, the way he looks at life, is almost regal. I have the sense that he's above it all, but not in a way that is arrogant or snobbish. Thomas has an air of importance about him that has to be inherent.
I glance at him. His eyes slip over the scenery, and his mouth curls into a smile. This has been a surprise for me, but he's enjoying it just as much.
I reach for his hand and interlink our fingers. He glances at me and smiles, pressing my knuckles to his lips.
He does this often. It makes me feel special, important, delicate. I understand now what it's all about, feeling cared about by someone.
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez de beaux yeux," Thomas says.
I giggle. "I don’t know what you just said, but it sounded nice. And it sounded French?"
Thomas smiles and nods. "What beautiful eyes you have," he says. "That’s what it means."
I blush. No matter how well I get to know him or how much time we spend together, he manages to get me to blush every time.
"I didn’t know you spoke French," I say.
Thomas shrugs. "My country is on the border between Germany and France. We are all fully bilingual. I'm fluent in French and German, and thanks to my education here, English."
I laugh. "That’s impressive. I can barely speak English properly."
I look at Thomas. He isn't laughing with me. Instead, his eyes are soft, his face gentle. He looks at me like he hasn't seen me before. I fight the urge to squirm.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.
"Tu es la femme la plus belle au monde, il n'y a pas de mots pour le dire." He lifts his hand and touches my face. His fingers are sure on my skin. I shiver. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world. There are no words to describe it."
I melt. Everything about Thomas is magical. Every time we spent time together, it just becomes more so.
