Page 43 of Wished

“Because you told me. It’s real then?”

I nod. “My dad made the tradition back when I was a kid. His was a simple roast chicken guy. I modified it and kept it going.”

Max stills, tilting his head. A lock of hair falls over his brow. “Your dad died when you were a kid.”

I clutch the edge of the sheet in my hand. “Yes. When I was eleven.”

Max watches me, a somber expression on his face. “You miss him.”

“Sometimes. Other times I miss the future I thought could’ve happened. Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.” Max scoots closer on the bed and leans against the headboard, folding one knee up. His hand rests on the comforter between us.

I look down at his open palm and the soft curve of his fingers.

We’re separated by six inches. The warm bubble of the bed, the soft sheets and the cushy down comforter, folds around us. Outside the sun has peaked over the lake and the wood thrush are calling out their morning song. Their notes fill the silence.

“You’re from Detroit,” Max says, and I nod even though he doesn’t look at me. He continues, his face turned toward the curtained window and the stream of light warming the room. “Your mom lives in the city, and you have a little sister named Emme. You like people and you’re always doing things for others. You love art museums for people-watching more than the art. You like exploring medieval villages and getting lost on purpose. You’ll read anything you can get your hands on, and you’ll try anything once. You’re honest to a fault. You love Paris, wine from small, unknown chateaus, and chocolate. How am I doing?”

He looks toward me then, and the bed shifts at his movement, tilting me closer to him. The warmth of the bed and the coolness of the air brushing over my skin creates a peculiar sensation.

I nod. “That’s all true, except ...”

“What?”

“I’ve never been to Paris.”

Max’s shoulders fall and he leans back again into the bed frame, dropping his head against the wood. He stares up at the ceiling. His neck is long and lean, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Right,” he says. “I took you there for the first time.”

He took me there seven years ago, and apparently, we liked it so much we got married right away.

“You didn’t try to steal the necklace, did you?”

I look over at Max, but he’s still staring at the ceiling.

“I only ask because in my memories of you, you’re honest to an appalling degree.”

I smile. “That’s what my mom says too.”

He turns toward me when he hears the laughter in my voice.

“She says I have an inconvenient penchant for honesty.”

He grins at my admission, a quick flash of white teeth. I’m more awake now. In fact, my whole body has woken up, and I’m glowy and warm and tingly like the vibrant, shimmery reflection of the sunrise on the golden lake.

“I know exactly what she means,” Max says.

We lean toward each other—a smile in his eyes; a smile on my lips.

“I didn’t steal it,” I say, just to make sure he knows. “I don’t know how the box opened, and I don’t know how it ended up in my pocket.”

“I believe you.”

His warm breath, tinged with mint, tickles my upper lip. I blink. How did we get this close? An inch more and our lips will be touching. Neither of us lean back. Neither of us move.

“I did make the wish though,” I say. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I took it back right away. Clearly, that didn’t work.”

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