arse. Why don’t you mind your own bloody business and leave her alone!”

Leave her alone, alone, alone! His shout echoes through the crypt. Euro Disney, startled by the outburst, backs into his wife, who yelps. Everyone else stares, mouths open. St. Clair yanks my hand and drags me to the stairs, and I’m nervous, so scared of what will happen. Adrenaline carries him an entire spiral up, but then it’s as if his body has realized what’s happening, and he abruptly halts and dangerously sways backward.

I steady him from behind. “I’m here.”

He squeezes my fingers in a death grip. I gently march him upward until we’re back under the domes and columns and arches, the open space of the

main floor. St. Clair lets go of me and col apses onto the closest bench. He hangs his head, like he’s about to be sick. I wait for him to speak.

He doesn’t.

I sit on the bench beside him. It’s a memorial for Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who wrote The Little Prince. He died in a plane crash, so I suppose there aren’t any remains for a tomb downstairs. I watch people take pictures of the frescoes. I watch the guard who yel ed at us earlier. I don’t watch St. Clair.

At last, he raises his head. His voice is calm. “Shal we look for a turkey dinner?”

It takes hours of examining menus before we find something suitable.The search turns into a game, a quest, something to lose ourselves in.We need to

forget the man in the crypt.We need to forget that we aren’t home.

When we final y discover a restaurant advertising an “American Thanksgiving Dinner,” we whoop, and I perform a victory dance. The maître d’ is

alarmed by our enthusiasm but seats us anyway. “Bril iant,” St. Clair says when the main course arrives. He raises his glass of sparkling water and smiles.

“To the successful locating of a proper turkey dinner in Paris.”

I smile back. “To your mom.”

His smile falters for a moment, and then is replaced with one that’s softer. “To Mum.” We clink glasses.

“So, um.You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but how’s she doing?” The words spil from my mouth before I can stop them. “Is the radiation therapy making her tired? Is she eating enough? I read that if you don’t put on lotion every night, you can get burns, and I was just wondering ...” I trail off, seeing his expression. It’s as if I’ve sprouted tusks. “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy, I’l shut—”

“No,” he interrupts. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . you’re the first person who’s known any of that. How . . . how did ...?”

“Oh. Um. I was just worried, so I did some research. You know, so I’d . . . know,” I finish lamely.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

I look down at the napkin in my lap. “It’s nothing—”

“No, it is something. A big something. When I try talking to El ie about it, she has no bloody clue—” He cuts himself off, as if he’s said too much.

“Anyway. Thank you.”

I meet his gaze again, and he stares back in wonder. “You’re welcome,” I say.

We spend the rest of dinner talking about his mother. And when we leave the restaurant, we keep talking about her. We walk along the Seine. The

moon is ful and the lamps are on, and he talks until it’s as if he weighs an entire person lighter.

He stops. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

I breathe deeply, inhaling the pleasant river smel . “I’m glad you did.”

We’re at the street we’d turn on to go back to the dorm. He looks down it hesitantly, and then blurts, “Let’s see a film. I don’t want to go back yet.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. We find a theater showing a new release, a slacker comedy from the States, and stay for the double feature. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard, and beside me, St. Clair laughs even harder. It’s two in the morning before we get back to the dorm. The front

desk is empty, and Nate’s light is off.

“I think we’re the only ones in the building,” he says.

“Then no one will mind when I do this!” I jump onto the desk and parade back and forth. St. Clair belts out a song, and I shimmy to the sound of his

voice. When he finishes, I bow with a grand flourish.

“Quick!” he says.

“What?” I hop off the desk. Is Nate here? Did he see?

But St. Clair runs to the stairwel . He throws open the door and screams. The echo makes us both jump, and then together we scream again at the top

of our lungs. It’s exhilarating. St. Clair chases me to the elevator, and we ride it to the rooftop. He hangs back but laughs as I spit off the side, trying to hit a lingerie advertisement. The wind is fierce, and my aim is off, so I race back down two flights of stairs. Our staircase is wide and steady, so he’s only a few feet behind me. We reach his floor.

“Wel ,” he says. Our conversation halts for the first time in hours.

I look past him. “Um. Good night.”

“See you tomorrow? Late breakfast at the crêperie?”

“That’d be nice.”

“Unless—” he cuts himself off.

Unless what? He’s hesitant, changed his mind. The moment passes. I give him one more questioning look, but he turns away.

“Okay.” It’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “See you in the morning.” I take the steps down and glance back. He’s staring at me. I lift my hand and wave. He’s oddly statuesque. I push through the door to my floor, shaking my head. I don’t understand why things always go from perfect to

weird with us. It’s like we’re incapable of normal human interaction. Forget about it, Anna.

The stairwel door bursts open.

My heart stops.

St. Clair looks nervous. “It’s been a good day. This was the first good day I’ve had in ages.” He walks slowly toward me. “I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Uh.” I can’t breathe.

He stops before me, scanning my face. “Would it be okay if I stayed with you? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“No! I mean ...” My head swims. I can hardly think straight. “Yes.Yes, of course, it’s okay.”