Page 145 of Ten Years and Then…
He nodded, watching the last stragglers coming into the opera house, just in case he’d somehow recognize whoever Bianca was waiting for.
But of course he didn’t; when you didn’t know who you were looking for, how could you possibly find them?
Nora, the same time
The Opéra Bastille was nothing like what Nora had expected. She’d pictured something old and ornate—the sort of place where you could imagine Erik lurking in the catacombs, murdering anyone who dared look at his Christine the wrong way.
But this? It was all metal and glass outside, and sleek and ultra-modern inside. Almost as if the architect had been given the same design brief as the one who’d built the Louvre pyramid.
Rachel wasn’t paying attention to any of it. She stood near the main entrance, eyes fixed on the doors like she was waiting for someone.
Maybe she was. Could she have a boyfriend? She’d been in Europe for three years now; plenty of time to meet someone. Maybe this was the only night he was free. That would definitely explain the frantic texting over dinner.
If Rachel’s mystery man wanted to sit with her, Nora would happily trade her seat with his. Just because she was single and unable to stop dwelling on Daniel, didn’t mean Rachel shouldn’t enjoy herself.
But no boyfriend—or anyone else Rachel recognized—ever showed. When the three bells rang to signal the start of the performance, Rachel sighed, took Nora’s arm, and led her into the theater.
Daniel, three hours later
“I’m not sure what to think about what we saw,” Daniel said. The ballet had been amazing in a technical sense; the performers did things that it didn’t seem like a human body ought to be able to do. He’d had to look away when the lead male dancer dropped into a split. All Daniel could think about was how many ligaments he’d tear trying that.
“You didn’t like it?” Bianca took a sip of her drink. They were sitting in a comfortable little room in the lobby of the hotel, with a cozy fire burning in the fireplace.
“I did, but—there wasn’t really a story, was there? Or maybe there was and I just didn’t get it?” It hadn’t even been one performance; it was three separate pieces by different choreographers, and the only one he’d ever even heard of was Balanchine—and him only because he’d been an answer on Jeopardy once.
He tried his drink. It was fruity, but he couldn’t identify what fruit, exactly. “What’s in this, by the way?”
Bianca grinned and shook her head. “No idea. The woman in front of me ordered one, and the bartender didn’t speak English, so I just pointed to her and put up two fingers. You like it?”
It wasn’t the sort of thing he usually drank—not that he usually drank much at all—but it was good. “I do. I guess that’s enough, right?” Just like the performance, maybe? Not everything needed to be understood; sometimes it was enough to just live in the moment and enjoy things.
She clinked her glass to his. “I’d call that some real progress. Here’s to not overthinking things and just experiencing life.”
Bianca had only been telling him that since he learned to walk. Maybe he could finally start listening to her.
Nora, an hour later
This was supposed to be a fun trip. A new start. A way to stop living in the past.
So why did she go straight to bed instead of taking Rachel up on her invitation for a late-night drink and dessert in the hotel bar downstairs? And now that she was here, why couldn’t she stop crying?
Why was she imagining herself lying there on the opera house stage, asleep until her prince came to kiss her and start her life again?
Why was the prince in her head a dark-haired, kind of nerdy guy in a button-down shirt instead of the lithe, blond dancer in purple toe shoes she’d just watched onstage?
How could she ever get over Daniel when absolutely everything she saw reminded her of him?
Chapter 48
Paris, Part 3—Paris, France
Daniel, December 30, ten-thirty in the morning
“I didn’t think I’d like this, but—that was unbelievable.” Daniel was whispering; it felt like talking any louder in this room was wrong somehow.
Bianca had signed them up for the “Cocooning Duo”—an hourlong massage, followed by another hour in this calm, quiet space. The walls were a gentle shade of brown, the piped-in music was soft and melodic without ever being intrusive and there was a floral scent in the air. Maybe lavender?
And then there was the bathrobe. It was beyond soft—if you could spin wool directly from clouds and turn it into clothes, this is what he imagined it would feel like.
