“They weren’t in love either. They stayed together until Casey left for college,” he said, then shared more details of his parents’ marriage.

  “They weren’t in love at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “And that just seemed normal to you then,” she said, as if she were presenting him with the answer to two plus two. Gently. Holding out her hand and offering him four.

  Could he take it from her? Could he accept such a simple answer? One that had been under his nose his whole life? That he’d simply done all he knew? “I suppose,” he said, trying it on for size.

  “That was the model you had before you. Even if your relationship was different, the marriage you saw was one not based on love, but on obligation,” she said, and he was surely being counseled by her now. He was the patient. She was the shrink. And the shrink understood all that the patient didn’t. The shrink guided him through that dark forest to the clearing on the other side. He could see a small sliver of light, and he wanted to grab it, hold onto it. He didn’t want to slide back into the darkness. Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t broken. He just hadn’t known anything else.

  “So you’re saying I stayed with her because of my parents?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, wishing he didn’t feel like the guy on the psychiatrist’s couch right now. But hell, he wanted to understand what was wrong with him. Or not wrong with him.

  “That’s why it took you until a week before the wedding to call it off. Because you stayed with her, since you didn’t know the alternative. Love looked like obligation, not like some—” she paused, as if hunting for a word, “— incandescent thing.” That word hit him hard in the gut. Like a revelation. He’d called her incandescent in an email. It wasn’t a word you heard often. But it was the fitting adjective to describe the difference between how he’d felt for Aubrey, and how love was supposed to be.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding, and he felt just the tiniest bit lighter. With her insight he understood his own motivations. His worries. His fears. He hadn’t wanted to wind up like his parents, but he didn’t know any other way to be, so he did what they did. “I guess I didn’t. But I must have been doing the same thing. I never thought about it like that.”

  “It’s my job to help people see things in a new light. In a light that might help them understand,” she said, and she seemed to be returning to the woman he went to Paris with, not the shrink. He wanted to reach out to her, hold her, ask her if they were going to be okay.

  But he had to focus on Michelle, not on himself. “You’re not mad that I kept this from you? That I didn’t tell you right away?” he asked, the worry roaring back into him that once again he’d taken a misstep. A big one.

  She shook her head. “No. I understand that it was difficult to process. That you had to tell me in your time, and in your own way.”

  “And you don’t hate me for not loving her?” he asked, his shoulders feeling lighter, his heart freer again. Because of her.

  “No. That was your normal. That felt normal to you. It took you a while to realize it, but you did come to that on your own. You did realize that love doesn’t have to be based on obligations. That takes a lot of guts to call off a wedding, when you realize you’re not in love.”

  But, but, but. There was still that big overhang. There was still that empty ache in his chest that guilt had set up camp in. He might understand why he’d stayed with Aubrey now, but that didn’t exonerate him from the damage he’d done. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and said the hardest thing of all.

  “But it’s my fault she died,” he muttered.

  She shot him a sharp look, as if his statement didn’t add up. “I’m going to be blunt with you.”

  Blunt was good. He could handle blunt. He needed blunt. No more circling around the cold, hard truth. Dive in headfirst. “Please. Be blunt.”

  “Get over yourself,” she said firmly, her eyes fixed on his. She was intensely serious. It was a command. It was an order, and it floored him.

  “Whoa,” he said, holding up his hands, surprised by the crassness of her comment. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that it’s really narcissistic of you to think you caused her death,” she continued in the same strong voice that left no confusion about how she felt.

  “How is that narcissistic?”

  “Jack,” she said, as she slid back into full shrink mode again. “You took her to the mountains. You brought her to a safe place for her. You gave her bad news in the most loving way possible, given the circumstances. You did the best you could and no one the whole world over would think an Olympic skier couldn’t handle that run,” she said, giving voice to his own justifications. That is why he’d taken Aubrey to Breckenridge. He’d thought he was giving her a safe landing. Could it be that he was right? That he had? That the rest was simply—

  “It’s called luck,” she continued, filling in the questions that were in his head. “It’s called a risk. You didn’t cause her death, and you need to get that out of your head right now.”

  With her words, he felt the heavy weight lift. He didn’t know it until now, but he had been seeking absolution. He had wanted to be washed clean of his regret. He’d needed to hear that sometimes, terrible things happen, and you don’t cause them because of what you said fifteen minutes before. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say the hard things.

  “So we’re okay then?” he asked, the world seeming to come into focus again. The sun dared to shine through the window, the sounds of an early Paris morning floating into the room. They could have their croissants, get a coffee, go to a museum, find a secret nook . . .

  She laughed once, then shook her head. “Not so fast.”

  “Wait. You just said you understood,” he said, furrowing his brow. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t bear it. She was his anchor. She was his sanity.

  “I do understand. I understand as a therapist. I understand as a professional. But as a woman who loves you? It’s a lot harder. I understand in my head, but my heart wants to retreat,” she said, placing her hand on her chest, already shielding her own heart from him. From the way he could wield malice without even trying, apparently. “And not simply because of what you told me. Because I don’t want to be part of a pattern. I don’t want to be the next woman you care for, but don’t love. I know you were only doing what you learned. But I’ve been putting myself on the line for far too long. This isn’t separate for me any longer, Jack. I wish it were. I truly wish I didn’t feel all that I do for you. But it happened. I fell in love with you, and I need to really think about whether I want to keep putting myself out there when you’re not even sure if you know how to love,” she said, reaching across the table, and grasping his hands. “I have given you my whole heart, all of my body, and everything in my soul. And I have never felt so wanted. But I need to be loved.”

  “But Michelle, you are. I swear,” he said, wanting desperately to convince her, but failing, judging from the way she winced, as if his words had wounded her. They sounded weak even to him. You are was not how you told a woman how you felt. “Let me rephrase that,” he said, wishing it wasn’t so damn hard just to say it.

  She stood up, smoothed out her shirt, and held up a hand. “I’m going out for the day. Just to walk. To be alone.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked, his heart racing with worry.

  “I don’t know. But I need some space. And to be frank, you probably do too. Maybe you need to spend some time processing. It’s kind of a big deal what you shared with me,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

  “When will I see you again?” he asked, hating the way he sounded, but needing to know if this was the end.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you . . . are we still staying together?” he asked tentatively, because it seemed as if the entire trip had been upended now, turned on its head.

  “That’s a good question. And I don’t have the answer to that. This is why I need some time alone right now to think. All I know for certain is we have an expiration date in a week anyway. So, really, what’s another week?”

  It was a damn good question. They’d already gone further, pushed more, fallen harder than they were supposed to. What would happen in another week? Too much, too little, not enough? Or did she mean what did it matter now if they shared their final days? Maybe they’d done all they could for each other and it was time to move on.

  She seemed to be waiting for an answer, but he didn’t have one.

  She walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Closed

  She was used to being alone. Had grown more than comfortable with her own company so it was only natural for her to leave, wet hair and all. She hadn’t expected the pain though. The ache in her chest from walking away. It felt like a fresh wound, bleeding and tender, seeping crimson tears into the rest of her body, a trail of her unrequited love for him.

  She pushed on sunglasses even though the sky was turning gray. Typical Paris weather. But she needed to hide her eyes or everyone could see the sadness. With her arms crossed over her chest, she walked through the mid-morning crowds on rue Royale, past the designer shops, past Cartier and Lanvin, wishing she wasn’t sore in her ass. She shook her head, frustrated with herself, and nearly bumped into a woman walking a small Terrier mix.

  “Pardon,” she mumbled as she kept up her pace.

  It seemed an indignity to have gone there with him last night, only to have him decide the next morning to suddenly confess all his goddamn guilt. She’d tried so hard to be rational, to separate herself from all he’d shared, to be the consummate professional. But inside, she’d been reeling, sent back to the starting line. Do not cross go. Do not collect $200. You are once again in love with a man who doesn’t love you.

  Fine, fine. The situation was vastly different from Clay. He hadn’t even known how she felt, and he never reciprocated. With Jack, she knew he cared. She knew he wanted her. But was he even capable of love? That’s what terrified her. He hadn’t returned her words the other night, and he certainly hadn’t left her with any reassurances this morning either. He’d only said You are.

  A slight reassurance, but it didn’t cut it.

  She understood why he’d left Aubrey, and she didn’t fault him for that. But she had to wonder if the man could ever take a big step, and she needed a big step. She’d taken it with him. Not through sex, but by loving him. Loving him desperately. She didn’t want just sex with him anymore. She wanted it all, and she barely had anything.

  But that was her own fault, wasn’t it? She’d overstepped the conditions of their deal.

  Typical. So damn typical of her. She always fell for the wrong guy. She always felt too much. She needed a straightjacket for her heart. Cage the damn thing up, and wrap chains around it. Stupid organ was working overtime, and she needed it to work less.

  She marched past a cafe with a red awning, and peered inside at the plates of eggs and bread being served. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry, and she was mad for being hungry. Didn’t her stomach know that her heart and her head were a terrible mess?

  She spotted a couple in the corner, the man happily feeding the woman a slice of potato. The woman rolled her eyes in pleasure. His arm was draped over her shoulder.

  Michelle wanted to hiss at them.

  She looked away, resuming her walk, but suddenly lovers were everywhere. Around every corner. On every bench. In every cafe. She didn’t want to be surrounded by lovers. She wanted to escape from her head, and all these thoughts pounding at her, begging for attention.

  At the next taxi stand, she grabbed a cab, and sped off to Gare Saint Lazare. An hour later, the train rattled into Giverny, and she caught another taxi to Monet’s Gardens.

  She bought a ticket, and crossed into another world, a kaleidoscope of colors with reds, yellows and oranges that blazed under the sun. She wandered through lush fields of purple tulips, red irises, pink poppies and reached the pond where the water lilies floated lazily in the glassy blue waters, under the watchful gaze of a weeping willow.

  She walked through the fall morning mist, staring at the endless beauty before her, at the pinwheel of colors—rich purples, pale blues, emerald greens. She wished love were as easy as this garden. As easy as knowing this was as close to perfection as the world would ever get.

  But love was not a garden. It was a war zone right now, and she had no notion of whether to retreat or rejoin the battle. She only knew that it would be wise to have her own hotel room. She phoned the Sofitel and booked a second room for the next few nights, biting out the words so she wouldn’t break down and sob. This was not how she’d planned to spend five days in Paris with him.

  Apart.

  * * *

  He buried himself in work for the next few hours. He couldn’t do anything else. Thinking about her hurt too much.

  He put on blinders, and narrowed his focus solely to running his company. Tending to matters. Dealing with suppliers. Even reviewing the plans he’d put together to “change the conversation” when it came to Denkler. The plans were good, solid, strong.

  Casey had sent over the marketing strategy. Henry and Eden were fully on board too. But honestly, it wouldn’t take much to get the word out. A few well-placed signs outside Henry’s Upper East Side store, a few online ads, and some social media mentions. Then word would spread of exactly how Eden and Joy Delivered contributed to the community.

  Conroy was winning with a message that appeared positive. Denkler and company would overtake him, with a far, far better one.

  The approach would work; he was as sure of that as he was of anything when it came to business. He knew how to navigate the choppy waters of the business world. Show him a problem, he’d show you the solution. That was his specialty. Applying logic. Studying the map and seeing a new route through. Finding the path that others hadn’t spotted yet.

  With Michelle, he was sure of nothing. He felt so damn much for her. It was like a geyser inside of him, overflowing, and he didn’t know what to do with all these thoughts rushing at him. Confessing about Aubrey was like sloughing off the past, shedding all that had held him back.

  So why couldn’t he take the next step with her?

  Michelle vexed him. His feelings for her had thoroughly and completely thrown him off. He had to solve the problem. He had to figure this out. He slammed his laptop shut and paced the room. To the window. To the bathroom door. To the couch again.

  The whole damn room smelled of her. He grabbed her red dress from last night; it had been tossed onto a chair by the window. It probably landed there when he tugged it off her. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled her. She was in him. She filled him. She flooded his nostrils, and permeated every pore of his body.

  He dropped the dress on top of her suitcase, missing her, even when she’d only been gone a few hours.

  He grabbed his phone, just in case she’d texted him or called. But his screen was quiet, and it pissed him off. He stared at the phone as if it were the phone’s fault, then he gunned it at the ground.

  It clunked dully on the carpet.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. He couldn’t even throw a phone properly. He couldn’t even break a piece of technology. He swiveled around, hunting for a glass, a vase, something. But then he stopped, shoving his hand through his hair. Throwing shit wasn’t the solution. He knew better.

  He slid the room key into his back pocket, grabbed his phone and wallet, and then left, hoping the distance would mute the longing.

  He reached the lobby, and then walked out the revolving doors onto the Paris sidewalk, the sounds of the French language falling on his ears. He invited it in, hoped it would quell the confusion in his head as he walked and walked and walked. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have a destination.

  There was only the sidewalk. And the gray sky. And the noises and sights of the city. The clink of espresso cups at cafes, the lush raspberries on a tart in a bakery window, the silvery necklaces on display in a jewelry shop. The beauty for beauty’s sake.

  Her.

  Everywhere.

  In front of him.

  Behind him.

  In his head.

  And here, right here, in the perfume bottles in front of him.

  Because maybe, somewhere, deep down he’d had a destination. He hadn’t known it consciously, but somehow he knew. He’d found himself in the passage with the mosaic floor and the latticework ceiling and all the shops that were now open, including this one where he’d been with her. Where he’d begun his unraveling.

  La Belle Vie was the name. A beautiful life. He stopped at the window, pressing his fingertips against it, like a kid staring longingly inside a candy shop. There they were—mirrored shelves upon shelves of perfume bottles like he’d seen the other night. He squinted, and swore that in a far corner of the shop he could see a sapphire-blue bottle.

  The one she’d wanted. He ran for the door, and stopped short when a hunched over man in a faded blue sweater was locking the door, then swinging around a sign that said FERMÉ.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Consumed

  Enough tears were shed. Enough emotions were spent. Enough time was devoted to all this space. Space sucked. Feeling sucked. Loving sucked. She left the gardens and walked into the gift shop, desperate for a book to help her get out of her head. Something to numb all these feelings in her chest.

  She wandered past calendars and mugs with water lilies on them, and found a tall set of white shelves with books about art history, and coffee table books of Monet’s paintings, and a huge tome about the Impressionist masters. She spotted a small sturdy paperback on the gardens themselves. Opening it, she flipped through the pages, bursting with details about all these flowers. How to grow tulips like Monet, climbing roses like Monet, even lilies like Monet. Information, facts, details. Nothing more. It was precisely what she needed. To blot out everything else.

  She walked up to the cash register and bought the book, wishing her trip hadn’t come down to this moment.