Page 60 of The Two of Us

Sensing the reproach in his voice, my mom quickly agrees and gives us each a peck on the cheek before escaping through the front door. I can’t decide what impresses me more; the fact that Jean-Paul has pushed back with my mom or the fact that he remembered my love of film.

Hoping my mom’s exit will conceal my own, I backtrack toward the guest room, reaching out to snag one of the croissants on my way. Before I can wrap my fingers around the delicious piece of heaven, Jean-Paul intercepts, lifting the entire plate into his arms.

“Have breakfast with me.”

I narrow my eyes as if to say well played and he grins smugly as if to say I know. We squeeze into the tiny kitchen nook and I waste no time stuffing my face with the croissant. The filling is dark chocolate—warm and gooey. We eat in comfortable silence.

“So. You have a boyfriend, yes?” He uses a napkin to brush the crumbs off his shirt.

“Yes,” I say, taking another bite.

He grins. “What is the name of this lucky gentleman?”

I speak around the chunks of croissant in my mouth. “Brandon.”

Jean-Paul lifts his eyebrow in amusement and begins to laugh.

I bristle. “What’s so funny?”

He laughs again, reaching for another croissant, this time one with assorted nuts over the top. “Usually when a lady speaks of the one she loves, she glows like the Seine River at night. I ask you about your love and you’d think I asked you about the weather.”

I shift in my chair, which isn’t actually a chair, but a repurposed stool. It’s uncomfortable as hell.

Artists.

“Of course I love Brandon, he’s my boyfriend,” I say.

“Ah. Because you cannot have one without the other?”

His question is more inquisitive than harsh and I take a moment to mull it over. Do I assume I love Brandon only because we’re in a relationship?

Jean-Paul interrupts my thoughts by gently tapping my hand. “Don’t let my curiosity alarm you. I’m nothing but a rambling old man. I’ve been letting the poetry get to my head.”

I grimace. “I should go get ready.” I go to put my plate in the sink and snag another croissant for later.

“Mara,” he calls, and I turn at the waist. “Keep me updated. On what you learn of Joan of Arc.”

My smile is genuine then. I give him a quick nod and close the door behind me.

***

The bookstore is smaller than any I’ve seen—even in Speck Lake—which is saying something. But despite its modest size, the tiny nook houses more books than any other bookstore I’ve visited. Books of all genres are haphazardly strewn about, stacked on chairs and tables and even the floor. How a person can find what they’re looking for is beyond me and eventually I come to the conclusion that the purpose of this place may be for the book to find you.

I wander around the two aisles, careful not to knock over the stacks at my feet and before long I’m staring sideways at a tower of biographies, not one indicating Joan of Arc as its subject. I refrain from sighing in frustration at the place’s lack of organization, afraid the sound will echo around the tiny space. There’s another bookstore I found on my map that’s only a few blocks down. Maybe I’ll have more luck there.

“Can I help you find something?” The woman’s voice is unnervingly close and I jump back in surprise, bumping into the nearest book tower, causing a few to fall onto the floor.

I apologize profusely and bend over to retrieve the books. I hope they aren’t damaged considering I only have thirty euros to my name right now.

“Leave them.”

I stand from my half-bent position and gawk. Leave them? Leave the precious new books on the floor like dirty old shoes? The horror in my expression causes the corner of her mouth to twitch. Not quite a smile, but more of a suggestion of one.

“If a person cares only for the words inside when the outside is pristine, the person doesn’t care very much at all to begin with.” And with that, she turns on her heels, heading back to the front counter.

“Wait!” I stumble after her.

She busies herself pulling books out of a big brown box but raises an eyebrow to indicate she’s listening.

---