Page 77 of Wished

Heat creeps over my cheeks as I think back.Was I happy?I thought I was. I loved my family, my friends, my job.But was I happy?Perhaps there’s a demarcation between acceptance and happiness and I didn’t realize the difference between the two. Like Max said before, I was all in on making others happy, but for some reason I hesitated when it came to doing things for myself.

“I think I have my answer,” he says, studying my expression. “And me? If this other world is real, was I happy?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “You seemed lonely. You were often ... alone.”

“I didn’t have anyone?” He seems to find this idea unfathomable.

I shake my head. “Not after Fiona turned down your marriage proposal.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I was turned down?”

“Shocking, I know,” I tell him, unable to hide a smile.

He smiles back. Squeezes my hands. “Then if I were to give you advice, I would say ... stay. Don’t try to fix this. I’m happy. You’re happy. I don’t want to go back somewhere where you’re not.”

My heart gives a painful hard thud in my chest. “Even if this isn’t real?”

He gives me a heartbreaking smile. Around us the sun lights up the cheerful kitchen, and outside a late-spring wind blows, whistling jauntily over the old stone.

“Who’s to say what’s real and what isn’t?” He leans forward and brushes a kiss over my mouth. His lips taste of cherries and apricots.

He wants to stay. But if he remembered his old life he wouldn’t want to. I know this because he felt that way only yesterday.

When Max pulls away, he smiles. “There. How did I do? I always enjoy playing out your philosophical debates. You keep me on my toes.”

Wait.“What?”

He frees my hands. Gives me a crooked smile. “I quite like the ‘not married’ angle. What do you think about me chatting you up in a bar, using terrible pick-up lines, and then coming home for some hook-up, one-night-stand sex? We haven’t done that in years.”

And that’s when I realize, if we’re going to get out of this mess, I’m going to have to figure it out myself.

26

What doyou do when all your wishes come true?

This is the question I contend with as Max winds through the narrow stone streets of Saint-Tropez. The Mediterranean sun bounces off the seashell-pink, butter-yellow, and sherbet-orange buildings and slides over the red-tile roofs. All the old stone and stucco houses are light and bright against the sharp blue sky. We’re in the center of the town, where the old fishing village and the luxury beach resort come together in a marriage of irresistible charm.

For years my mom wanted to bring my sister and me to the French Riviera. It was her dream holiday. Emme’s too.

The azure water, the pebbled beaches, the sandy ones. Vibrant, wine-deep sunsets spilling over rustic fishing boats bobbing next to sleek yachts. Cool sea breezes blowing through open doors in an old stone house overlooking the harbor. Picnics on the beach. Painting on the boardwalk. Lazy mornings, afternoons that draw out like treacle, and sunsets that last for hours.

Anytime there was a show on television about the French Riviera, my mom would watch it, the remote clutched in her hand, her eyes glued to the screen. She would drink in the panoramas of crescent-shaped beaches and turquoise water, glistening white hotels and rustic villages. The fig and olive trees, the oranges and lemons growing in the bright sun. The villages adorned with flowering pink bougainvillea, fragrant jasmine, and golden mimosa.

Somehow, instead of representing a stretch of beaches and harbors along the coast, the French Riviera began to represent something else.

Freedom.

If we ever made it to the French Riviera, it would mean my dad’s hospital debts were finally paid off. It would mean we had enough money to spare to take a trip to the beach. It would mean my mom had vacation time.Ihad vacation time. It would mean we’d finally decided that instead of always doing what was practical and right, we would do something impractical and perhaps wrong. Just because we wanted to. Because it was a dream.

If we ever made it to Saint-Tropez, we would know we’d climbed out of what happened after my dad died, we’d discarded what happened after Emme’s dad left, and we were finally free.

It was a years-long dream, and now we’re here.

The car tires vibrate over the cobblestone, and I turn my face to the open window, breathing in the subtle hint of seawater, jasmine, and spring breeze. The sunshine flashes through the tile roofs and the tightly clustered three- and four-story old buildings. The street is narrow, twisting through an old part of town, leading down to the harbor. Even here I can feel the cool air rising off the water, winding through the sunbaked streets. It echoes like the sound of motorbikes, engines, people, and sea birds, all calling out in the late afternoon.

The sun has sunk into the stone and it warms the village like a tight embrace. I let the cool air drift over my face and drag through my hair.

Max squeezes my hand. He has one hand on the steering wheel and his other holds mine, resting on the shifter.

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