If this is what the next eleven days are going to be like with Rémy, I might need to scrounge up a thousand dollars so that Jacqueline can change my flight to 2030.

  FORTY-ONE

  RÉMY

  “I’ve only planned for five, Rémy.” My mom is less than thrilled that I’ve added Madi to the guests for her Réveillon.

  I’m treading tricky ground here. Just like the position at Bellevue, this is about a lot more than the invitation, and both of us know it. “I know. It’s rude of me to spring this on you, but, Mom, Madi was going to be alone on Christmas. She really wants to experience France, and I can’t think of anyone better than you to show her what a real Réveillon should be like.”

  She sighs audibly. “The turkey I bought is small, Rémy, and she’s American, isn’t she?”

  I laugh. “Yes, Mom. She’s American; she’s not a horse.” She did eat an entire baguette the other night, though.

  “She’ll be expecting a super-sized meal.”

  Okay, now she’s just being ridiculous. “She’s not expecting McDonald’s, Mom. If you’re really worried about not having enough food, I can bring a baguette and some cheese. Madi would be content with that, honestly. I just want her there.” I pause, holding my breath a bit. “Mom, I really like her. I’d like you to meet her because you’re the most important woman in my life.”

  There’s a pause, but I wait. My mom has a crusty exterior, but like any baguette worth its salt, once you break through, she’s soft.

  “Five o’clock,” she finally says. “You’ll have to bring extra foie gras. Have you sent your lesson plans to Monsieur Garnier?”

  I suppress a sigh. One dicey subject at a time, right? “I sent them this morning. Love you, Mom.”

  Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, which means today is the last day for me to get more of the foie gras I’m taking to my mom’s—slightly annoying since I only bought it yesterday. But since Madi is completely on board to come with me on the errand, I don’t even mind.

  On the way there, I hear from André for the first time since we sent him the new pictures.

  André: Rémy, I’m so sorry for not getting back to you sooner. Things have been so crazy, I didn’t even see your email until this morning. I don’t even know what to say. The place looks incredible. I’m uploading the new photos to the listing right now, and I feel like we should give Madison a major discount for her help—at the very least.

  I read the text with a smile. Technically, she’s already had a serious discount, but André has no idea I paid part of her stay. Neither does Madi, for that matter.

  I hesitate before responding, trying to decide whether I should tell him about the change in Madi’s and my relationship. But there’s nothing really official to tell—we’re just seeing where things go. Besides, I know Madi well enough now to feel confident she wouldn’t 2-star the Airbnb even if things did turn sour between us. Telling André would just be causing him unnecessary stress.

  Rémy: I’m glad you like it. I hope it takes some of your stress away and helps get you more bookings. How’s your mom?

  We text back and forth a bit as he gives me updates on his mom’s treatments. Things are starting to look up—and I’m really hoping they continue to do so. André deserves the merriest Christmas he can get.

  After picking up the foie gras, we stop in at IKEA for some string lights and a miniature Christmas tree, which Madi is totally on board with, despite the fact that it’s only two feet tall.

  It takes all of five minutes to set it up, but it’s surprising how much joy it brings to the main room of André’s apartment. The string lights on the windows really bring it all together.

  “We should have grabbed some dinner while we were out,” I say as we gather up the garbage from our decorating endeavors.

  “Oh,” she says, “I actually already ordered some food to be delivered. Should be here any—”

  The doorbell rings, and I give her a look like she might have some supernatural powers I was hitherto unaware of. I press the button to ring the delivery guy in, and a couple minutes later, I open the door to the smell of Finger Lickin’ Chicken on the welcome mat.

  I pick it up and glance at Madi, who smiles and stands there, encapsulating everything I ever wanted in a woman.

  Our fingers are greasy, and we’re halfway through the food when my phone rings with a video call. My heart stutters at the name on the screen. It’s my dad.

  I don’t remember the last time he video called me, which is crazy now that I think about it, but we’ve mostly texted. I hurry to wipe my hands clean, then swipe open the call.

  It’s weird having Madi meet my dad. Weird in a good way. I don’t know what to expect from him meeting a girl I care about, but he’s surprisingly cool as he talks to her. He doesn’t say anything embarrassing or overeager, but I can tell he likes her. That makes one of my parents, at least.

  “Well,” he says after a few minutes, “I won’t keep you two any longer. I figured you’d be busy tomorrow, though—I know how your mom feels about doing a proper Réveillon, so I wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Scott,” Madi says. “Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Madison. Take care of Rémy, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best, but he’s really the one taking care of me.”

  My dad smiles. “That’s my boy.”

  FORTY-TWO

  MADI

  We’re technically still in Paris, but this is suburban Paris, and it’s completely different from the city. Hedges line either side of the street, punctuated at regular intervals to make space for driveways. It’s not that different from an American suburb for the most part, but there’s still something foreign about it. Maybe it’s the narrower driveways and garages, or maybe it’s the look of the windows. It’s just different enough to make a few nerves pop their heads out of hiding like ground squirrels.

  This is Rémy’s domain, so I let him set the pace. I don’t really know what he’s told his mom about us. He keeps my hand in his and squeezes it as we walk up to the door. He coached me a bit on the way here about what to expect.

  The Garnier family is already there, and Rémy has to let go of my hand and set down the baguettes and foie gras in order to greet them, including Élise. I wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that she was going to be here, but it’s actually nice to see a familiar face amongst all the unfamiliar ones.

  Rémy introduces me in French, putting his arm around my waist. Having him act so confident, so . . . possessive, for lack of a better word, calms my nerves a bit. It makes me feel a bit more like I belong, which is a good thing because I stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone else looks so effortlessly chic, while I’m regretting my decision to dress in bright and festive red and green. I look like I’m crying out for attention. If anyone needs me, I’ll just be over here confirming stereotypes about Americans.

  Rémy’s mom is a petite woman with short, brown hair and dark-framed glasses. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I’ve unknowingly stepped in front of a panel of judges at a Miss America pageant. Or a Miss France pageant. Either way, I don’t want to see the score cards. Her stern expression coupled with her extra tidy appearance gives me the urge to fiddle with my clothes and hair.

  “Maman,” Rémy says softly. He lets go of me and steps over to her, pulling her into his arms. She only comes up to his shoulder, and he leans his head over to press a kiss into her hair.

  That sight shifts something in me. I don’t know Madame Fortin, but I’m ready to like her for the sole fact that she raised Rémy. So when the two of them separate, I step toward her.

  “Bonsoir, madame,” I say, hoping more than ever that Madame Wilson wasn’t just trying to boost the bottomless pit of adolescent self-esteem when she told me I had a good accent.

  Even if it’s a bit tight, Madame Fortin’s smile lightens her expression a bit. “Hello, Madison. We are glad you could come.” Her accent is much stronger than Rémy’s, but it makes her sound elegant. I don’t know that I believe her about being glad I could come, but I’m going to pretend I do because otherwise, I’ll spend the rest of the night extra self-conscious, and those levels are already dangerously high.

  She ushers us over to the living room, where there’s a spread of drinks and little snacks.

  “Amuse-bouches,” Rémy whispers in my ear as we sit down. “That’s what we call appetizers.”

  The conversation starts in English, which makes me feel guilty because it’s obvious that it’s a struggle, and if I weren’t here, everyone would be completely at ease, speaking French.

  “You don’t have to speak English on my account,” I say after a couple of minutes. “Hearing you all speak will help me with my French.” My French. That makes it sound like I have any grasp whatsoever of the language. These people all speak much better English than I do French.

  They take me at my word, though, and I immediately lose track of the conversation as it bounces around the room in the fastest French I’ve ever heard. Rémy leans over to translate for me as they discuss the improvements André’s mom is making. I could kiss him right here for being so sweet, but I also feel guilty for being a burden on him. It makes it hard for him to participate in the conversation when he’s busy trying to keep me up to speed while I occupy my hands and mouth with the delicious amuse-bouches.

  “They’re talking about Christmas traditions,” Rémy says to me in a low voice. “The Garniers usually attend a midnight service after the Réveillon. My mom and I have always gone on Christmas Day.”

  “What do you do for Christmas Eve at home, Madison?” Rémy’s mom asks me in English.

  I try to quickly chew the food in my mouth. “Oh, um, our Christmas Eves have always been kind of mellow.”

  Her brow furrows, and I realize she might not know what that last word means.

  “Low-key,” I try. It doesn’t help. I look at Rémy for assistance because every synonym for mellow has completely disappeared from my personal thesaurus.

  “Discret,” Rémy offers, squeezing my hand. “Calme.”

  I smile my gratitude at him. “Yes. Those things. My mom usually works, so the past few years we’ve just done take-out.” I may as well have just told her I use a baguette as a curling iron.

  “Oh,” says Madame Garnier. She’s trying. I’ll give her that. But she just can’t figure out what to say.

  “It would be nice to have a break from all the preparation and cleaning, wouldn’t it?” Rémy says with a smile.

  That earns a laugh, and then Rémy’s mom invites us all to move to the dining table while I let out a breath that’s half-relief half-bracing myself for the next time I have to open my mouth and inevitably betray how culturally depraved I am.

  Rémy’s mom asks for his help bringing things in from the kitchen, leaving me on my own with the Garniers. Élise smiles at me from across the table. Her hair is pulled back in a smooth chignon, revealing pearls in her ears and a long, feminine neck. I can’t say I’ve ever noticed a neck before today, but immediately I know Élise has the neck I should want.

  “It is good to see you again, Madi,” she says. “When Rémy’s mother told me you were coming to dinner tonight, I said, ‘How quickly things change!’ I have known you almost as long as Rémy has.”

  I try for a laugh, even though her words feel a bit . . . pointed. “I guess that’s true.” Strictly, it may be. But I met Élise for all of five minutes when she came to the apartment. I’ve barely spent five minutes away from Rémy in the past few days.

  Despite that, her comment can’t help but lodge itself inside my brain like a catchy but annoying-as-all-get-out song.

  “When did you meet Rémy?” Madame Garnier asks politely.

  I take a drink. “A little less than two weeks ago.” Okay, a week and a half ago, but everyone knows you round up. I’m trying to be a glass-half-full woman.

  She blinks. I’ve surprised her again. Oh joy.

  “And how long do you stay in France?” Monsieur Garnier asks.

  “I fly home January 2nd.” I can’t decide if this conversation would be better or worse with Rémy here. I’m not loving the focus on how short a time I’ve known Rémy or how the clock is ticking on our time together. I’m kind of wishing Christmas Eve was just Rémy and me.

  Everything feels so easy when it’s just the two of us, but here . . . I’m getting overwhelmed with how utterly out of place I am, how little I know of Rémy, and how much separates us. I hate the feeling.

  Monsieur Garnier’s phone dings, and he pulls it out, then confers with his wife beside him.

  Élise leans toward me. “Would you like some advice, Madi?”

  Can I say no to that? I don’t think I can. It doesn’t matter, though. Élise doesn’t wait for an answer.

  “Rémy tends to forget how he feels about women who stay away too long.” She raises her brows. “Take it from someone who knows. One day you are kissing him, and the next time you see him, he is with somebody new.”

  Okay, there’s a definite message in there. I just can’t decide if it’s a warning with a dash of resentment or an actual threat.

  Rémy and his mom enter with two platters—one of foie gras with freshly sliced baguettes, the other with oysters. I look at him, and he catches eyes with me as he sets down the plate. His lip curls up at the edge in a little smile meant just for me.

  It makes my heart race, and I smile right back at him as he comes over to sit next to me, even though my stomach is unsettled.

  The conversation takes off in French again, and I’m left on the tarmac, observing as it goes places I can’t follow. Élise directs her conversation at Rémy, which means he can’t translate for me like he was before. The feeling at the table is one of cheer and sociability, and I try not to detract from that, keeping what I hope is a generally pleasant expression on my face.

  Rémy glances at me at one point, confirming my suspicions that I’m the subject of conversation between him and Élise. Under the table, he puts a hand on my thigh. He keeps his eyes on me as he talks. They’re soft and warm, and the whole thing is just . . . sweet—and it’d be even better if I could understand what he’s saying.

  I swallow, suddenly overwhelmed with how bittersweet this all is. It’s a little bit like hiking. You get to a place where you can see the most amazing views—and then you turn back to the trail ahead and realize you’re nowhere near the top. You’re not even sure what getting to the top will entail or if you’ve got it in you to make it there.

  I wait for a lull in the conversation between Rémy and Élise. “Hey, where’s the bathroom?”

  “Down the hall and to the right.” Rémy’s eyes scan mine. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “I’ll be right back.”

  I excuse myself from the table, hoping it’s not a solecism to leave during the meal for the bathroom. It’s hard to imagine someone like Élise or Madame Fortin having anything as primal as bodily functions.

  I make it to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, then close my eyes and lean against the sink. It’s blessedly quiet in here, giving my brain a rest from trying to parse out words from a foreign language. And this isn’t Madame Wilson’s slow, clear French. This is Busta Rhymes-speed talking.

  I pull out my phone, hungry for something familiar—and also because it’s impulse at this point to pull it out in the bathroom, which is really gross, now that I’m thinking about it. What is wrong with humans? Or maybe it’s just Americans.

  I open social media because that’s what my fingers are programmed to do. A couple of notifications pop up, and I tap on them because, using the bathroom may be primal, but no instinct is more urgent or constant for my generation than the one to get rid of pesky notification badges.

  It’s Linnae from the photoshoot yesterday. She posted a bunch of the photos and tagged me in the photos and the caption. The post has—what?!—five hundred likes. I look at the timestamp on it. It’s only been up for twenty minutes. Who is this woman?!

  I click on her profile, and my eyes bulge. She has two hundred and eighty thousand followers.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and I tense. Is this Madame Fortin, coming to inform me that she can’t have the equivalent of Tarzan ruining her Christmas Eve dinner?

  “Madi?”

  I let out a relieved breath. It’s Rémy.

  I open the door, and Rémy looks back at me, concern in his eyes. “I came to check on you.”

  “I haven’t been in here that long, have I?”

  He shakes his head. “I just . . . felt like something might be off.”

  How can he read me so well after such a short time knowing me?

  He takes my hand. “Is it?”

  I don’t answer right away because I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to ruin Christmas Eve for Rémy. In fact, that’s the last thing I want to do. It was really nice of him to invite me in the first place.

  But I also don’t know how to go back out there. I don’t know what I’m doing or how to behave. I’m flying in the dark.

  “Come here.” Rémy pulls me by the hand and into the hallway. We walk a bit farther, away from the dining area, then go through a door on the left. It takes us into a bedroom. It smells like Rémy, which makes it feel familiar. Besides the tidy bed, bedside table, and a dresser, it has two tall bookcases against one wall. They’re full of books mostly in English.

  Rémy leads me over to the bed. He sits down and tugs on my hand to pull me next to him.

  I resist. “I don’t wanna take you away from dinner.”