Page 48 of Wished

“Even then. I’ve always thought no matter what happens in your life, you’ll always be you. And you’ll always have the freedom to choose.”

The plane dips again, and my stomach rises and falls.

Max considers me, weighing my expression and my words. “I remember when I was twelve. It was my first year away at school. My brother and his friends, they were fourteen. I hung around them. They were already drinking, beating up weaker kids, breaking into the school after-hours, stealing things. I was sitting outside in the commons and my brother came by and said, ‘Let’s go. We’re going to beat the crap out of this kid for showing us up in maths. You can help.’ I remember that moment clearly because I knew without a doubt there were two paths in front of me. If I said yes, I’d be just like my brother. I’d become my dad. And if I said no,”—he lifts his shoulder in a small shrug—“they would hate me. But I wouldn’t hate myself.”

“You said no?” I ask, thinking about twelve-year-old Max, away from home for the first time.

Max nods. “I said no. My brother and his friends beat the crap out of me instead of the boy who showed them up in maths. They kept it up for years. But once I made that choice, I realized I had more choices in life than I’d ever realized. It wasn’t inevitable that I’d be just like my father. Sometimes when I walk past a mirror and see the line of my nose or the tilt of my jaw, I see my father. I mistake myself for him. Years ago it always brought up an immediate self-loathing, but then I thought, ‘Well, what can I do?’ You can’t change genetics. I’ll always look like him. But I don’t have to be him. That you can see that too,”—he gives me a swift smile—“I’m glad. I know our past influences us—you can’t deny that. But we have a trump card, don’t we? We have choice. I like that you see that.”

I’m warmed by the light in his eyes, and I settle into the glow. “I’ve seen too many people come out of terrible circumstances and choose to be kind or do good to not believe it. Doing wrong is easy. Blaming someone or something else is easy. Choosing to do right? That’s not always easy. Taking responsibility for your own life? That’s not easy either. Most people would rather give that responsibility away to someone else.”

Max tilts his head, considering me. “Is that what you’ve surmised from Dickens?”

I laugh. “It’s what I’ve surmised from twenty-five years of living. But also Dickens. I started reading him after I saw all his books on your nightstand and I—” I cut myself off and a prickly heat stings my cheeks.

“What?” Max asks. “You ...?”

I swallow. “I wanted to know more about you.”

Max studies me, his expression searching.

In the silence Francesca strides to our table. She stops at my side, unaware of the currents running between Max and me. “We’ll be landing soon. I’ll clear this, shall I?”

“Thank you,” Max says, handing her his coffee, his gaze still on me.

Soon our plates and cups are cleared and the large table is folded away. As the plane descends into the white mass of clouds, the cabin dims, the sun disappears, and I rub my arms in the sudden chill.

Max shifts in his seat, pulls his jacket free, and then hands it to me. “Here.”

I take his jacket and rub my hands over the soft black leather. It’s warm and smooth, and it smells like soft leather and Max’s fresh-air scent. I slide my arms through the warm sleeves and pull it tight around my dress.

“Thank you.”

“Anna?”

“Hmm?” I tug the jacket closer.

“Why didn’t you ever speak to me?”

I glance quickly down at my hands folded in my lap. “I suppose . . .”—I look back at Max—“I was waiting for you to see me.”

“How could I see you when you were hiding?”

I’m struck by his question, and then the plane is freed from the clouds. We’re soaring above the outskirts of Paris. I let out a surprised puff of air.

We’re north of the city, and it’s spread out below us in shades of beige and sand and gray. From above the roads dart like arteries toward the heart of the city. It’s a crisscrossing web of roads, old buildings, sinuous strips of water, and green parks. And there, standing regally in the afternoon blue, is the Eiffel Tower. My first view of Paris has taken my breath away. I think I’m in love.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I look back at Max. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Max’s lips curve into a smile and he nods. “Yes.”

I think about his question—How could I see you if you were hiding?—and I wonder, was I hiding? Is that what I was doing all those years? When I tied my hair back beneath my handkerchief, wore baggy clothes and big-framed glasses, kept my headphones at full volume, and never, ever, ever spoke to Max. Was I hiding? Would he have seen me if I’d asked him about Dickens or told him how much I liked his winter jewelry line with the emeralds and rubies, or if I’d told him I’d searched the city for the best hazelnut croissant and I’d found it at a little patisserie on the cobblestone paths outside the Saint Pierre Cathedral?

Is the reason Max never saw me because I never showed myself to him? All along I thought I was pressed up against the window of his life, never allowed inside. Maybe it wasn’t a window. Maybe it was a door.

I lean forward and press my hand against the cool surface of the jet’s window. As we fly lower to the ground I make out the outlines of roofs, the slow crawl of traffic, and soon the long line of the runway.

The jet kisses the ground, bumps, then settles. The buildings fly past in a blur, then the jet slows and smoothly pulls to a stop. I wait for my body to catch on to the fact that we’re no longer moving.

---