Page 100 of Impulse Control
René said something else in French to Rachel—short, clipped, but not unkind. She nodded automatically, already half turning back toward her desk.
He lifted a hand in a small, decisive gesture. “Eat,” he told her.
Then he looked at me again.
“And you. Feed her. She forgets.”
That one caught me off guard.
Not because it was rude—because it wasn’t. It was… jurisdictional. Like he was asserting standing over her well-being. Not threatening. Just establishing precedent.
Then he turned and walked away without further comment, case closed.
I leaned closer to Rachel. “So… was that a good French warning or a bad one?”
She smiled faintly. “That was aconcerned French warning.”
I nodded solemnly. “The most dangerous kind.”
She snorted quietly. “He was being gentle.”
“Deeply unsettling.” I handed her the bag. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Margaux watching us with open interest. At my raised brows, she just grinned before returning to her work. It wasn’t until after Rachel and I had lunch—well, I had lunch, she ate in fits and starts, but she did eat—that Margaux drifted over in my direction.
“René approves of you more than most.”
I wasn’t sure if that was reassurance or a veiled threat, but either way—I felt absurdly proud.
Because I had just been evaluated by the human embodiment of professional disapproval… and apparently, he didn’t hate me. He could give my whole family lessons.
We walked back toward her apartment later, slower this time. The city had shifted into afternoon light, softer, warmer.
“I feel like I should apologize for my life,” Rachel said suddenly.
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious. It’s… a lot.”
“I didn’t come for easy,” I said. “I came for you.”
She didn’t answer right away, but when she did, she said, “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
The hours melted away, and she promised the stop at the Sorbonne would be quick.
“One hour,” she’d said, already pulling me toward the métro. “I promise.”
I believed her. Mostly because she looked like she meant it—and partly because I wanted to see this version of her too.
Campus Rachel was different in subtle ways. The same person, but sharper at the edges. She walked faster. Listened harder. Switched into French without thinking, the language settling into her voice like it had always been there.
I sat in the back of the lecture hall while she presented—quietly, respectfully, trying not to look like the obvious outsider with the accent and a jacket folded over my arm.
She was good.
Not polished in a rehearsed way, but focused. Engaged. She used a remote to flip through the photographs. All of them were hers, I suspected. I tried to see what she did, what the other students did. I could only follow part of the conversation—and it was one. She asked questions and the students responded as thoughtfully. Watching her work through ideas out loud—even in another language—felt strangely intimate, like being allowed into an exclusive club room most people never saw.
