Page 31 of Meet Me in Paris

“Fine.” A lie. Things weren’t the same anymore. That night last year changed everything. The night I’d watched a comet and let him hold my hand and allowed myself to dream. Even now I couldn’t tell whether he would have letme kiss him or not. He’d leaned slightly forward, but what did that prove?

More importantly, what did it matter? The moment was long gone, and it was for the best.

Hunter had sent a hundred texts and even came by several times, but I always told Jillian to send him away. It wasn’t fair to associate him with Mom’s diagnosis and my trip being canceled. I knew that. But sometimes the heart had its own ideas.

I had plenty of grief to wallow through before I could even think about happiness.

“You’re lucky to have a friend like that,” Mom said. “He is a friend, right?”

Was he? For the past ten years, yes. But the past few months, not so much. With everyone else, I could pretend. I could put up a strong front and smile all the fake smiles. I could endure the weight of our fractured family slated to tear in half yet again in the coming months. But Hunter could see through my hastily erected fortress. He alone could carve through the illusion, straight to my heart.

I couldn’t see him. Not anytime soon.

“I’m not sure,” I admitted.

Mom nodded. “It’s hard when you know someone so well, figuring out where friendship ends and something more begins.”

I stared at my hands. Mom always sensed these things. How did she do it?

“You know what?” she said suddenly. “Let’s pull an all-nighter. Go get a notebook and pen. I could do with some kettle corn too.”

I raised an eyebrow, but I obeyed. Mom looked too tiredto finish one movie, let alone several. But she had me at kettle corn, and we both knew it.

I hurried into the kitchen to heat the vegetable oil. When it started shimmering, I added the kernels and white sugar. Then I shook the pan like crazy, watching as one kernel after another popped. When the popping slowed, I removed the pot and shook it for another minute, taking in the delicious aroma. My mom’s method was the only one that got the taste right.

When I returned with a bowl and two cups, Mom sat taller in her perch on the sofa. She looked determined. On the TV, I recognized the opening credits ofSabrina.

“We’re watching all of them,” she announced. “And you’re making a list.”

I handed her a cup of still-warm kettle corn and pulled out my pen. “A list of what?” The list of Paris locations I wanted to see was already burned into my consciousness. Writing it down would break my heart all over again.

“Romantic moments in Paris,” she said. “The ones we see over and over. The type of romantic things I thought I’d get to experience and never did. But you, Kennedy,”—she leaned forward—“youwill experience every single one.”

I let her words sink in. “Romantic moments? Like, um, a romantic river ride?”

“Yes.”

“Wandering cobblestone streets together in the rain?”

“Exactly. What else?”

I thought hard. “Dinner at an expensive restaurant. Coming down the stairs in a pretty dress as the man you love watches.” My tone grew more animated. “Getting serenaded at the airport as you’re trying to leave forever.”

“You’ve got it.” Mom’s eyes shone. “Baby, you deserve all those things. Don’t you settle for anything less, like I did.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“No, this is important. Kennedy, promise me. Don’t say it unless you mean it with all your heart.”

I gripped my notebook paper tightly in both hands, feeling the gravity of this moment and knowing I would never forget it. Mom had been fooled into accepting less than she deserved from the man she loved. If the idea of my future happiness resulted in her happiness now, then I resolved to be the happiest woman in the world, just for her.

“Nothing less,” I told her. “I promise.”

Claude procuredan entire dinner boat tour just for us. Not even a small one—a full-sized fifty-seater complete with two dozen other empty tables. We sat alone next to the windows on the main level, not far from the stairs leading to the open deck.

Even more amazing, a woman in a red, off-the-shoulder dress sang songs in French with a white-bearded man on an electric guitar accompanying her from his plastic chair. A server stood behind Claude’s shoulder, leaning over as they discussed something in French. This huge production probably felt a little cheesy for a Paris citizen annoyed by the constant barrage of foreign tourists. But he’d put it together because he knew I would like it, and I found it utterly and completely charming. Maybe even romantic.

Claude ordered for us and even poured the champagne while we enjoyed course after course. I reminded myself to sip the champagne slowly, feeling drunk with happiness.

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