“Rémy,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that this contact was unexpected. I don’t blame him. We’re not really in the habit of deep talk. Or much talk at all. “How are you?”

  “I’m . . .” I press my lips together. I don’t even know how I am, and I definitely don’t feel like my dad and I are in a place where I could freely explain that, even if I could verbalize it.

  “Right,” he says, apparently understanding that it’s complicated. “Listen, I got your message, and I . . . well, I thought it might be easier to talk than text.”

  I nod as though he can see me.

  There’s silence for a few more seconds, but it’s not because he’s waiting for me to answer. I can hear him clicking a pen in the background. I had forgotten that sound, but it’s one that takes me back to my childhood—a nervous habit of his.

  “To answer your question”—he sighs— “I guess we don’t talk much mostly because I didn’t know you wanted to talk more.”

  I’m still quiet because what? “You’re my dad.”

  “Believe me, I know that. I think about it all the time, Rémy. More than you realize. But both of us know your mom doesn’t particularly welcome my influence in your life.”

  I don’t respond because he’s right. Whenever he comes up in conversation, she gets this look on her face—it’s the same one she gets when we talk about my career teaching English. She won’t outright say what she’s thinking, but her opinion comes through loud and clear in the way she talks about Americans and in the way she refuses to speak English at all.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “I guess I got it into my head that you felt the same way as she does. So I’ve tried to let you set the pace and depth of our relationship.”

  “How could you think that I feel the same way?”

  If you look back at my text conversations with my dad, I’m always the first one to text. I feel like I’ve spent my whole life trying to impress him, trying to do things that would make him more interested in me, more proud of me.

  “Do you remember when I left, Rémy?”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t forget that day if I tried. And I’ve tried hard. I held out hope until the very end that he’d change his mind and stay. He didn’t.

  “I told you what time I would be leaving so we could say goodbye after you were done at school for the day. And I waited—almost missed my flight because of it—but you didn’t come.”

  I swallow, memories from all those years ago flooding me. “I said goodbye to you every other week for most of my life, Dad. That was hard enough. I didn’t want to say goodbye again, this time for real. I was young and mad and hurt. I thought you were leaving because—” I can’t even say it. I breathe deeply, trying to rein in my emotions, but they’re chasing me like a swarm of bees whose hive I just knocked down. “Why do you think I’ve focused so hard on English all my life, Dad? I just wanted you to be proud of me, to”—I lift my shoulders—“notice me.”

  He clears his throat, and I could swear I hear a sniffle. “I have, Rémy. I couldn’t be more proud of you. Ask anyone who works with me. I talk about you all the time. I check your school’s website for news on you and your students every week. I printed out a picture of you holding that award you got last month. The one where you’re standing with your students? It’s sitting right next to my desk. Right here.”

  I’m silent. I had no idea. And it makes no sense. Why is he going on the lycée website and cyberstalking his own son when he could text me? Call me? “Why haven’t you said anything? Why not just ask me?”

  “I’m not there, Rémy. And I haven’t been there. In a lot of ways, it feels like I don’t have a right to know what’s happening in your life.” He sighs. “But I probably should have told you. I shouldn’t have assumed you knew I wanted to be in your life more. I’m your dad, Rémy. Of course I want to be in your life.” The pen clicks more. “I just worry that encouraging you in your teaching and in your English will hurt your mother, that she’ll feel I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, drive a wedge between the two of you.”

  We’re both quiet because, once again, I can see why he would think that. It’s a distinct possibility.

  He continues. “I haven’t handled all of this well, as you see. The point is, I do want to talk to you more, Rémy. I’ve thought a hundred times about coming there or flying you here. But I should have told you that myself, and that’s on me.”

  My voice is shaking like it’s trying to set a record on the Richter scale. “It’s not just on you, Dad. It’s on both of us.”

  We sit in silence for a few seconds, and I watch my breath come out in a puff, then disperse and disappear.

  “Well,” he finally says, “tonight is as good a night as any to change things. So . . .” I hear the muffled squeaking of a chair, like he’s getting comfortable. “Why don’t you tell me about life, son?”

  I clear my throat. “Aren’t you at work right now?”

  “It can wait.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  RÉMY

  Pure adrenaline takes me up the flights of stairs at André’s apartment building, but adrenaline cannot make up for the fact that my lungs are not used to this type of exercise. I rest a hand against the door frame for a second before pulling out the keys.

  If Marion had any shred of interest left in me before I took the call from my dad, it was shot to heck when I came back only to inform the group that I was leaving. But I had to.

  Talking to my dad made it clear how much regret both of us had. So many years where both of us wanted more but felt unwanted. All of it could have been solved with some honesty, some vulnerability. And I don’t want any more unnecessary regret like that.

  I unlock the door and open it, not even sure yet what exactly I’m going to say to Madi. I just think it’s best if we can be clear with each other. I should have been more upfront with her about why I chose to spend the day away from her instead of letting her draw her own conclusions. Once she knows how I feel, if she prefers, I’ll go and stay at my mom’s. I just want to be forthcoming.

  She’s sitting on the couch, her cell phone to her ear, but the TV is on. She obviously heard the key in the lock, so she’s already looking at me. It’s only seven-thirty, so I’m sure she’s surprised to see me home so early.

  I close the door quietly, not wanting to disturb her call. For some reason, my heart feels a little sick, wondering if this is Josh calling her, begging her to take him back. He seems like the sort of guy to mess up bigtime and try to patch things up later. And probably succeed, honestly.

  “You don’t have to be quiet,” Madi says. “I’m on hold.”

  “Oh.” I walk over and glance at the TV, where I recognize Cameron Diaz and Jude Law on the screen. It’s not a movie I’ve seen, but I can already tell it’s a romance based on the pregnant pause while they look at one another. I look to Madi, and my brows pull together. She looks . . . different.

  And then it hits me. Her eyes are a little puffy underneath. Her cheeks are red.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Just been on hold forever.”

  “On hold with whom?”

  She smiles. “With whom. You speak way better English than me.” Her eyes narrow. “Than I?”

  “Both are accepted,” I say with an attempt at a smile. Why do I feel like she’s avoiding my question? I sit down on the couch, my gaze still on her. “Are you really okay, though?”

  Her smile weakens, and the way she draws in a breath has me preparing myself.

  “I’m going home,” she says. “Changing my flight.”

  My stomach ties into a thousand pretzels. “When?”

  She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Tomorrow maybe? Or never, I guess, if I can’t get a hold of the airline.”

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  She takes the phone from her ear, showing me the screen. Seventy-one minutes.

  I chew my lip for a minute, trying to ignore the aching in my chest and focus on Madi—what got her to this point. “You could set it down and put it on speaker, you know.”

  “I have been.” She puts it on speaker and sets it down on the coffee table with a smile that rips my heart out. “The hold music changed right before you came in, and I thought it was someone answering.”

  I nod, and the upbeat hold music feels gratingly dissonant with the mood in the room. “What made you decide to change your flight?” Those words are dead words. They don’t mean anything. I can’t comprehend that Madi might be leaving tomorrow. That she’s choosing to leave tomorrow.

  She lifts her shoulders. “I dunno. A lot of things.”

  “Things you want to talk about?” I want to understand this. I need to understand it. But I’m not going to press Madi if she doesn’t want to talk.

  “I think the day just started off weird. There was this photo memory from when Josh and I started dating two years ago, and that was . . . well, it was just not the way I wanted to begin the day. And then later, Siena told me his coworker posted a photo of them, and I’ve always kind of felt weird about her and her intentions. And then I saw all the pictures of people at their Christmas parties with their families and friends, and then you were with your friends—which is great, really, I’m not saying that to make you feel bad at all. But I love Christmas, and I guess I hadn’t really thought about how it will be to spend it alone in a foreign country. I feel awful canceling the photoshoots, but I just don’t think I can stay. Maybe I’ve been in denial or something, but I’m just feeling things more tonight.”

  Feeling things more. Things about Josh, it sounds like.

  Any thought I had of telling her what I came to talk to her about disintegrates faster than cotton candy in front of a fire hose. She’s got enough to process as is. Saddling her with my overeager feelings for her would be selfish.

  “You’ve had a lot to deal with since coming here,” I say. “And this apartment has only added to that.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not about that at all. Trust me. Staying here has been the best part of all of this. You’ve been so good to me, Rémy. So good. Which, by the way, if you wanted any of that baguette you bought . . .” She clenches her teeth.

  I raise my brows. “You ate the entire thing?”

  She rolls her lips between her teeth, looking at me guiltily. “I’m not proud of it, okay?”

  “No, I’m not judging. I’m . . . impressed. And really glad you liked it.”

  “I did,” she says, her expression turning almost pathetic. “So so much. But I feel so so sick.”

  I laugh, and the hold music changes, making our ears perk up for a second. But it’s just a new song.

  Madi sighs and leans against the back of the couch. I wish I had a better sense for how much of what she’s feeling is centered around Josh. She said she thinks she’s been in denial or something. Is she regretting the breakup?

  Just the thought makes me ill—not just because I’m selfish enough to want Madi to want me, but also because I genuinely want her to be happy, and I don’t trust Josh to make that happen.

  “I didn’t expect to see you until a lot later,” she says. “Did you have a good time?”

  I think for a minute before responding. I don’t really know how to describe the evening.

  “Yeah. I mean, it didn’t start out great, but . . .” I fiddle with the button on my coat. “I actually talked to my dad.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really? And?”

  “It was good. I just wish it had happened a long time ago.” I meet her eyes. “Thanks for pushing me to do it.” We finally talked. Really talked. He asked me about my job, about my mom, about dating, which included a short discussion about Madi. It’s not like it fixed the years of surface-level contact we’ve had, but it feels like a good start.

  She smiles at me, and there’s a tinge of bittersweet in it. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to know you better.”

  Except you. You’re leaving.

  The music softens briefly. “Your expected hold time is”—the voice shifts to become more robot-like—“two hundred minutes.”

  Madi’s eyes widen. “What?! No! How is that possible? The last time it said thirty!”

  I grimace my sympathy. “Maybe you should try in the morning. The time of day can make a big difference.” Am I saying that partially because I hope maybe she’ll have rethought things by then?

  No comment.

  She lets out a huge sigh that sounds like it’s about a lot more than just the hold time—like maybe it’s about her entire day, or this entire trip. I know it’s not my fault she and Josh broke up or that he didn’t come through on the whole job thing, but somehow I feel responsible for the fact that Madi’s looking like a deflated balloon. A really beautiful one, but still . . .

  “Yeah,” she says, her voice more tired than I’m used to hearing. “You’re probably right. I’ll set my alarm for early and see if I have any luck then.” She grabs the remote and proceeds to rewind the movie. I had figured she would go to sleep, but apparently not.

  She rewinds it all the way until the beginning, then glances at me. “I wasn’t really watching before, and The Holiday deserves my full attention.”

  I hesitate for a second and then, even though it makes my stomach clench with nerves, I say, “Care for some company?”

  There’s a bit of hesitation in her eyes that makes me immediately regret asking. Whatever happened today, it changed something for her. For us. She wants to watch this movie by herself.

  My stomach feels sicker than ever. “You know, I should probably get to bed anyw—”

  “I’d love some company,” she says at the same time.

  There’s an awkward moment where we both pause, then laugh. And because I want to believe she wants my company, I take a seat on the couch. She’s got the blanket from last night on her lap, but she doesn’t offer it to me, and I don’t ask to share it.

  I watch the movie—it’s about two women down on their luck in love who swap houses for the holidays. I don’t know how much thought went into choosing this movie for Madi, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see some of Madi and me in Cameron Diaz and Jude Law. That’s how gone I am over Madi.

  And all I can think as we watch together is how this might be the last night I have with her.

  THIRTY-NINE

  RÉMY

  Spoiler alert: I didn’t sleep well. Between the talk with my dad and Madi’s sudden decision to leave, my brain is in overdrive. Even when I do fall asleep, it’s the kind of sleep that leaves you feeling even more tired than before. It’s been hours when I realize how hot I am, too. I forgot to adjust the radiator dial back to its usual position once the boiler was fixed.

  My real downfall, though, is checking my phone at one point and seeing that it’s 5:30—a great time to be up for the day, apparently. Madi said she’d be getting up early to try calling the airline again, and my brain assures me this task requires my attendance as well.

  Only, she’s not even awake yet. Too frustrated to try to sleep anymore, I head to the kitchen to make the earliest breakfast any human on Christmas break has ever eaten.

  I’ve got a lot of nervous energy, like I had too much caffeine, except that I didn’t have any. I direct my fidgets into making a more elaborate breakfast than usual. A ham and cheese omelet, berries and cream, and hot chocolate—with extra chocolate powder.

  Madi makes an appearance just as I’m finishing the omelet, the hold music alerting me to her approach.

  Gut punch. It’s safe to say she didn’t change her mind.

  “Only a fifteen-minute wait,” she says.

  I smile even though I want to sabotage the phones at the call center. I hadn’t realized how diabolical I was until this exact moment, but my TV villain impulses are apparently all talk, because I settle for offering Madi some breakfast instead.

  “You’re up early,” she comments as I serve her half of the omelet.

  “Yeah. I”—thought about you for the past eight hours—“was too hot to sleep.” Partially true.

  She’s eaten about half of her omelet when an agent with an incredibly thick French accent picks up. The woman asks Madi a question, and Madi’s expression turns into one I know all too well. I see it on my students’ faces on the first day of class when I start speaking to them exclusively in English. It is utter bafflement. Complete lack of comprehension.

  Madi asks the woman to repeat herself, but ultimately, I have to step in and explain that the woman just needs Madi’s name. Next she wants Madi’s booking number, and as Madi repeats it back to her, I already know it’s going to be an ordeal. The woman is parroting it back, but she’s almost unintelligible. The only reason I can understand her is because of the practice I’ve had with my students’ attempts at speaking English.

  Ten minutes later, I find myself pacing the front room, speaking French with Jacqueline from the airline, which is definitely a more efficient option than whatever botched communication was happening between her and Madi. I’ve turned into an interpreting service, explaining the situation to her and relaying her responses to Madi, who’s standing still and watching me intently as she waits for me to feed her hope.

  Enter Villain Rémy from stage left, whispering in my ear. I could tell Madi there are zero flights departing from France between now and the New Year, and she would never know the truth.

  Okay, that might be a hard sell. But I do have some power here.

  I shove the villain back where he came from and listen to what Jacqueline is saying about changing the flight. I glance at Madi, feeling a bit sick on her behalf.

  “There’s a 250 euro fee to change your flight,” I say. Madi’s hurting for money, and that fee is a pretty penny.

  She nods, her jaw setting determinedly. “I’m gonna pay Siena back for it.”

  Siena’s a good friend, but I kind of wish she hadn’t offered to do that. I get that Madi being forced to stay here isn’t exactly what I want. I want her to want to stay, but I guess part of me is hoping that, in time, she’ll change her mind.