London plops down on the sofa and eats one. “These are actually good.”
I sit down across from her. The chair is a little less comfortable, but with the window open I can smell the Parisian air. I open the book I’m reading on my phone, but my mind isn’t on the black-and-white words. I’m distracted by memories of green eyes and burnished brown hair.
His phone number’s saved as only E.
That way if my family found it, I could make up some excuse. Though I’ve never been good at lying. I’m supposed to call him when I can meet up. Will I do it? Maybe. Probably not.
If I did call him, if we did meet up, he might hold my hand. He might kiss me.
He might do more than kiss me.
“How far did you get?” my sister asks.
“What?” My cheeks heat, thinking about how far I want to go with a stranger I met only a few hours ago. Further than kissing, honestly.
“In the museum. Did you look at all the paintings?”
“Oh… no. That would take days. Maybe weeks.”
“You didn’t see any more paintings, did you?” she asks, her voice accusing.
“No, I saw—a lot of them.” Worst liar award goes to Holly.
She makes a face. “I knew it. You just stared at Mona Lisa for like two hours.”
“Yes,” I say, relieved. “That’s what I did.”
She sighs. “You’re hopeless. I’m going to rest up for the Catacombs.”
Another shudder. The Catacombs are a perfect example of why I don’t fit in with this family. The remains of more than six million people have been arranged into walls, columns, ceilings, and sculptures. And for some reason my sister’s excited to see them.
I try to get into my book, which is about mermaids who are closer to piranhas than goldfish. It’s a good book about their war against dragons and the atrocities committed on both sides, but my mind keeps sliding back to reality.
Whenever I think about Elijah, I feel restless. Warm. Itchy.
Is this how it feels to be turned on?
I always thought of myself as mature. That’s what everyone always said to me. My parents. My teachers. Random people who saw me at the grocery store. She’s so mature! And it’s not like I’m oblivious to boys, even if they’re usually oblivious to me. There are boys I think are cute. Or hot. Boys I think about kissing. Or more. Though the more is hazy, more of a dream.
This doesn’t feel anything like a dream. It’s intensely physical.
After a couple hours have passed there’s a gentle knock at the door downstairs.
My mother comes up, looking refreshed. “What’s up, Holly bear?”
This is a nickname it would be best if she never used in public. Especially if she were ever to meet Elijah, which she obviously won’t. “Nothing. Did you have a good nap?”
Her cheeks flush. Being terrible at lying? I got that from my mother. Both my dad and my sister can lie with a straight face. They once kept a trip secret from us until we were on our way to the airport. Her flush means that she wasn’t napping with Dad. “It was great.”
“Mom, listen.”
She sighs. “Don’t start.”
“It’s gross.”
“You don’t have to touch them.”
“Why would anyone touch them? They’re bones.”
“Your sister’s really looking forward to this. And she went with us to the Louvre. She saw the Mona Lisa because you wanted to.”
“The Mona Lisa isn’t made of bones.”
My mother gives a slight, barely there smile. A Mona Lisa smile, actually. She’s wearing a white dress that makes her look innocent, along with her wide eyes. In a lot of ways I look like her, but somehow the effect appears muted on me. “You don’t want her to miss seeing it.”
“Of course not. But, Mom. I’m sixteen.”
The Mona Lisa smile disappears. “Holly.”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
My dad comes up the stairs and gives my mother a kiss on her forehead. He’s dressed to go out in jeans and a gray T-shirt, his usual uniform. Even when other men wear suits, he shows up like this and no one dares say anything. “Nothing is going to happen where?”
Mom gives him a private look. “She wants to skip the Catacombs.”
He glances at me, his eyes sharp. When I was eight years old, I begged to skip the family trip to Costa Rica. They finally gave in and let me stay with our full-time nanny. Only, the day after they left, a storm took the city by surprise. The streets flooded. Power lines went down.
Lightning struck a tree and sent it crashing through the roof. Right on top of Mrs. Brigac. She died right away, but I was trapped in a house with a dead woman for two days. My parents were frantic when they couldn’t reach us. At least I was in capable hands, they hoped. Only when they arrived at the airport did they learn that I’d been removed by the cops.
