He tugs more insistently. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not worried about that.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not the one trying to make a good impression out there.” I surrender to his pulling and take a seat next to him.

  “Neither should you be. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “What? Christmas Eve takeout Madi?”

  He smiles and puts a hand on my cheek. “Are we talking FLC takeout?”

  I chuckle softly and shake my head, leaning into his hand because it feels good to connect with him after feeling so disconnected from everything and everyone.

  “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

  I breathe out slowly. “I just feel a little one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other-y, you know? And by a little, I mean majorly. That and the fact that everyone thinks it’s crazy for me to be here when we’ve known each other such a short time . . . it’s just a lot. I can’t blame anyone for thinking that. I mean, a week ago, I was in a relationship with Josh.”

  He nods. “It’s moved quickly.”

  “And I don’t even know what it is,” I say. “I mean, my flight leaves in nine days.”

  “I know,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “Believe me, I know.”

  I shut my eyes and swallow. “I came here tonight hoping to feel closer to you—getting to know your mom, seeing your home, participating in your traditions—but now I’m realizing how much of it feels out of reach. I don’t speak French, I’m not scoring any points with your mom, I’m pretty sure Élise has it out for me, and there’s just no time.”

  He pulls back to look at me. “No, you don’t speak French fluently. And I don’t expect you to, Madi. I’m here to help if you want to learn. That’s all. As for my mom . . . she’s intimidating, I know. She’s had to be tough to make it through. It’s a façade she puts on until she knows people better, and I have no doubt at all she’ll love you if you just be you.” He sighs. “And Élise . . . if she wants to get to you, she’ll have to go through me first.”

  I laugh. “Um, pretty sure that’s exactly what she’s hoping for. She basically said if I stay away too long, she’ll steal you back.”

  “Well, first of all, you can’t steal something back you never had.”

  I cock a brow. “She told me last time she saw you, you kissed her.”

  He tips his head from side to side. “That’s wording it differently than I would. We kissed, yes. I felt like I owed it to her or something. It was my attempt to resurrect feelings I’d had for her in the past. And it didn’t work. She knows it, too, because I told her I didn’t want anything with her. She’s just seeing if you’ll scare off easily.”

  He looks at me intently, his gaze running all over my face. When he talks, his voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. “Please don’t scare off, Madi.”

  “Rémy?” His mom’s voice sounds somewhere down the hall.

  He looks at me, and taking my face in his hands, he kisses me soft and slow, a seal to his plea, an assurance that nothing has changed for him. I’m powerless against his sweetness. If he is at the top of the peak I’ve been staring at all evening, his kiss makes me want to sprint up there.

  But I’m not a sprinter—not even on flat surfaces—so I guess that means a long, trudging hike to the top. It feels well worth it for Rémy, and I return his kiss, hoping it tells him what I need him to know: we may only have nine days to decide what happens next, but I want to give it what I’ve got.

  “Rémy?”

  We break apart reluctantly as his mom knocks on the door, opening it slowly.

  “Ça va?” she asks. For the first time this evening, I understand something someone’s saying—she wants to know if things are okay. Her gaze shifts between us.

  “Ça va,” I reassure her. My French might be terrible, but I’m not going to worry about that. I want her to see me trying, however pathetic my efforts might be.

  “Ready for the main course?” she asks.

  I nod and stand up. Rémy follows suit, then leads the way out, while his mom lets us pass in front of her.

  I slow as we near the dining area. “Can I help you bring things out, Madame Fortin?”

  She hesitates for a second with a quick glance at Rémy. “Of course. Thank you.”

  I follow her into the kitchen. Dirty dishes are stacked in and next to the sink. On the counter, there’s a pile of the plates we used for the foie gras and oysters. In short, it looks like the kitchen of a woman who’s been working all day to feed a complicated meal to guests. It’s relatable. And, boy, have I needed some relatable tonight.

  Madame Fortin moves around the kitchen with confidence, giving me a stack of plates to hold while she transfers meat to them from a covered casserole. Then we work side by side, adding a little garnish to the plates to make them look more finished.

  She glances at my work and, to my pleasure, looks almost impressed. Not all of my ventures into product and food photography were wasted, then!

  She adds a final sprig of parsley to the plate in front of her, then uses a nearby dish towel to dab at the beads of sweat on her brow. “Voilà. We can take them in now.”

  I nod and take two dishes in hand, starting to walk toward the door. I pause halfway there, then turn. “Madame Fortin?”

  She’s taking the other plates in hand, but she looks up at me, her brows raised. It’s a look that I could easily choose to be intimidated by, but I let Rémy’s words replay in my mind. She’s had to be tough to make it through.

  “I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate the wonderful son you’ve raised.” I feel a little emotion rising in my throat and swallow it back down before it can commandeer this moment. “I grew up without a dad for most of my life, so I know some of the sacrifices it takes to do what you’ve done for Rémy. And I know how instrumental my mom has been in the person I’ve become. So I guess I just wanted to say thank you. Or maybe congratulations.”

  It’s not my best work. I’d say six out of ten for eloquency, but ten out of ten for sincerity.

  Madame Fortin blinks a couple of times, her hands still poised under the plates, ready to pick them up. She clears her throat. “Merci, Madi.”

  I give a little smile and turn to take the plates to the table.

  FORTY-THREE

  RÉMY

  I was hesitant when Madi offered my mom help in the kitchen. No one loves my mom more than I do, but no one knows her better, either, and she can be . . . difficult. But when they emerge a few minutes later, Madi seems fine. In fact, she seems better than when I found her in the bathroom.

  As for my mom . . . it’s hard to tell what she’s feeling or thinking because it’s always hard to tell with her.

  Madi continues to seem better, despite the fact that le Réveillon is one of the longest (and most delicious) meals in history. My mom likes to do it “right,” which means it lasts at least four hours. More than once during those hours, she looks at me, then shifts her eyes in a very not-inconspicuous way toward Monsieur Garnier.

  It’s out of character for her, actually. She is a subscriber to the notion that work should not be discussed at the dinner table, and it seems Monsieur Garnier is, too, because he doesn’t bring up my email or the position.

  Or maybe he saw my lesson plans and thought they were garbage, and he’s hoping the subject is never brought up so he doesn’t have to let me down. While the second option doesn’t appeal to my pride, it does appeal to the part of me that wants an easy way out of the situation a.k.a. not telling my mom I don’t actually want the job at Bellevue. Because I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that I don’t. I want to stay at Lycée Michel Gontier.

  I realize it’s a lot to bring an American girl home with me and destroy my mom’s career hopes for me all on a holiday, though, so I’d like to avoid that. I’m hoping Monsieur Garnier will hold off until after the Christmas break if he wants to discuss things.

  When ten o’clock rolls around and things wrap up, I keep my eye on Madi while she and Élise say goodbye. They exchange bises—Madi’s got it down now—and Élise pulls away and says, “Don’t stay away too long, Madi.”

  Madi glances at me, but my mom pulls me with her to walk Monsieur and Madame Garnier to the door.

  “We hope you have a very enjoyable time at midnight mass,” my mom says as they step outside. “Oh, Monsieur Garnier, I meant to ask . . . did you receive Rémy’s email?”

  I clench my jaw and stand aside to allow Élise to step out with her parents. Madi’s disappeared, and I’m really hoping Élise didn’t say anything else to scare her off.

  “I did receive it,” Monsieur Garnier responds. “You’re a very promising candidate, Rémy, and I will certainly be in touch about the position once I’m back in the office.”

  My mom recognizes the hint that he doesn’t want to discuss this on Christmas Eve, and with more thanks, holiday wishes, and a lingering kiss on the cheek from Élise, we send them off into the crisp night.

  “How can you expect to be given the position if you don’t show any interest in it, Rémy?” my mom asks as I shut the door.

  “I didn’t think he’d want to discuss it here.” I sure didn’t want to.

  “Well, it sounds like we should feel encouraged, at least.” She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me. “Élise was looking very beautiful.”

  I shoot my mom a look. For someone who can insult people with such impressive passive aggression, she is terrible at subtlety in other areas.

  She sighs. “Madi looks beautiful too.”

  “She does. But she’s a lot more than just beautiful, Mom. Thank you for letting me bring her.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just nods. But a nod from my mom isn’t too shabby.

  “I’m going to take her to midnight mass,” I say. “Would you like to come?”

  She targets me with a brow. “I attend mass on Christmas Day, Rémy.” She starts walking back toward the dining room. “Besides, I have a mountain of dishes to do.”

  To be honest, I’m relieved she doesn’t plan to come. I want some alone time with Madi. I think we need it. We turn out of the entryway, and I look for Madi, but she’s nowhere to be seen, and my heart drops. Is she in the bathroom again? Did she leave?

  “Madi,” my mom says, stopping on the threshold of the kitchen. “You are a guest. You should not be doing the dishes.”

  My shoulders relax, and the fear disintegrates that Madi decided this was all too much for her and just left.

  “Madame Fortin,” Madi says as she scours a casserole dish, her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back in a scrunchie, “I insist on doing the dishes. I have never had such an amazing meal. I can’t imagine how much time you spent on it today. Why don’t you go relax with Rémy for a bit?”

  My mom isn’t one to back down easily, but after a bit of coaxing from Madi and me, she gives in and makes her way to the couch. The way she drops down onto it speaks volumes about how tired she is. She’s getting older.

  I watch Madi from the doorway for another few seconds, hyperaware of the way my chest feels almost painful at the sight of her. And it hits me right there and then: I’m in love with her. After ten days of knowing her. It’s insane. But it’s also true.

  When we start our walk to the nearest train station half an hour later, it’s cold and quiet outside. No more silverware and dishes clanging, no more convivial conversation. Just me, Madi, and the street lamps and Christmas lights.

  I feel . . . strange. Nervous, maybe. After acknowledging to myself that I’m in love with Madi, I face a conundrum. Now more than ever I want her close, to hold her hand. But now more than ever, the thought that she’s not in the same place as I am, that she might never be in that same place—it’s scary.

  “We didn’t really get to finish our conversation from earlier,” I say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head, but she grabs my hand and looks up at me with a soft smile.

  You’d think I’d just dropped out of an airplane for the way my heart responds to that combination of gestures.

  “Let’s just enjoy Christmas,” she says.

  I hold her hand tighter and nod.

  It’s not the most comfortable Christmas Eve I’ve spent, sleeping on the couch next to Madi after midnight mass, but it’s the best one I can remember.

  It feels slightly shifty of me, though. This—waking up next to Madi—is what I want more and more, and the fact that she doesn’t know just how fast or hard I’ve fallen for her makes it almost feel like I’m taking something that’s not rightfully mine.

  But what’s new? I’ve been ahead of Madi in my attraction to her and my feelings for her since the beginning, so I guess this is just who I am now.

  Madi has her photoshoot today, and I’ll attend mass with my mom. Knowing I won’t be with her for those hours makes me impatient for her to wake up. But since attending midnight mass kept us up until 1:30, I resist waking her.

  It’s past nine o’clock when she starts to stir. It’s normal for her to be this exhausted. Listening to a foreign language for hours on end is the mental equivalent of running a marathon.

  Madi shifts, her head turning from side to side as her lids start to flutter. I hold my breath, waiting for the moment she realizes she’s next to me. She stills, her eyes suddenly growing alert as she looks up at me.

  And then she smiles sleepily and snuggles her face into my chest. I wish I could bottle this feeling and sell it to myself for the rest of my life. It gives me some hope that maybe she can feel for me what I feel for her.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as she burrows even further into me.

  “I’ve got morning breath,” comes her muffled response.

  I chuckle. “Me too.” I try to sit up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get us some gum.”

  “Not yet.” She pulls me back down and puts her head back in the hollow of my chest. “Christmas morning snuggles take precedence over good breath. I’ll just keep my head like this.”

  I relax back down and wrap my arms around her, content to lay like this all day. I can’t think of a way I’d rather spend Christmas morning.

  It’s a slow day—a leisurely breakfast followed by watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Madi gets a Merry Christmas text from Josh (eye roll), and because the movie has me feeling very charitable and Christmassy, I urge her to throw him a bone and wish him a Merry Christmas too.

  Way too soon, both of us are getting ready for our separate Christmas Day activities. I come out of my room, adjusting the collar above my sweater. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to mass with my mom and me?”

  Madi’s got her gear laid out on the table and is changing out SD cards in her camera. “I mean, of course I’d love to. But I think it’s best if I don’t. That way, you can have some good mother-son time. Plus, it won’t really work with the photoshoot, and I would hate to let Ashleigh Jo down by canceling. Especially on Christmas. Also, I need the money.” She rubs her thumb against her fingers and wags her eyebrows.

  “That hand gesture means something else here, you know.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh. Is it crude? Super offensive?”

  I smile. “No, it just means you’re afraid.”

  She lets out a huge sigh of relief. “You’re the only thing making me afraid. Don’t scare me like that.”

  “Just helping prevent future miscommunication. Your photoshoot is at the Champs de Mars?”

  She grabs her phone and swipes and taps a few times, then reads something. “No, it’s at the . . . Trocadéro?”

  I nod. “Opposite side of the tower from the Champs de Mars. It’s a great view of the Eiffel Tower, but it’s a busy place. It might be hard to get photos without people in them. But maybe it’ll be calmer today. People will be busy with Christmas activities and all.”

  “If it’s crowded, I’ll work my magic and move us elsewhere. A key skill as a photographer is the art of convincing people to accept my vision of their session rather than theirs.” Her mouth draws up in an evil smile, like she’s about to skin a hundred and one dalmatians rather than ensure her clients are happy with the photos she’s going to take of them.

  I can tell by the way she’s obsessing over the cleaning of her equipment that she’s excited for this session. Only Madi can spend Christmas day taking photos of strangers and be thrilled about it.

  We agree to meet afterward, and I make my way to meet my mom for mass. We’ll be catching the last of the day’s services.

  I stand outside of the church, saying hi to familiar faces from the neighborhood until my mom walks up. Her eyes scan the area around us, which is full of bare bushes, and I raise my brows.

  “I thought Madi would come,” she explains.

  “And that she’d be hiding in a bush? She thought you and I could use some time together.”

  My mom doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s secretly impressed. She should be. Madi is thoughtful and kind and fun and all the best things. I’m confident my mom will see that with time.

  “I really like her, Mom.”

  “You barely know her.”

  “I know it seems like that. We’ve spent a lot of time together, though. And I want to keep spending more time with her.”

  “And how do you plan to do that? She’s leaving.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets. “I don’t know yet.”

  I’ve got to find a way, though.

  My mom says nothing, and I glance over at her as we walk inside the church. She’s not the type of woman who lets her face betray her, but I can see by the tilt of her chin that she’s fighting some emotion. I think I know what it is.

  We sit down, and after a few seconds, I put my hand over hers.

  She looks over at me, eyes alert. She’s not the touchy-feely type.

  “Mom, you know I’ll always be here, right?”

  Her eyes stare into mine, and behind the strong, determined woman, I see a wisp of vulnerability peek through.