Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [90]
When I finally walk back to the tarp, my teeth are chattering. “It’s amazing. Thank you,” I say as I sit down and pull the blanket around me.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
If he was going to make a move, this would be the time. But he doesn’t. Which is probably just as well. I mean, he lives in Paris and I live in Brooklyn. And I’m leaving tomorrow. And that’s pretty much that.
I’m shivering like mad. The sun’s up, but it’s not making anything warm yet. I reach for the thermos of coffee at the exact same time Virgil reaches for another bite of bistella and we smack heads really hard. I’m swearing and rubbing my head. And so is he. And then I’m laughing. And so is he. And his face is so close to mine. And suddenly I’m not laughing. Because suddenly, he kisses me.
45
Lips and breath. The smell and taste and feel of him. The nuclear warmth of him. I want these things like I’ve never wanted anything.
He pulls away and looks at me. “I hope that’s not too forward for you … son,” he says, a smile on his beautiful mouth.
I pull his face back to mine. I don’t want him to talk. I just want him to kiss me again. I lean close to him, and touch him, and I can feel his heart under my hands, beating so fast.
We stay like that. Until an old lady, out walking her dog, stops and raps her cane on the walkway and huffily tells us that this is a house of God.
I know it is. For sure. Because a miracle just happened.
But the sun’s out and people are walking up and down the path and the city of night is now the city of light, and making out in public is high on my list of heinous crimes. So we just sit close together and stare at the dawn sky.
“When are you going back?” he asks me. Even though he knows.
“Tomorrow night,” I tell him.
“I’ll call you.”
I laugh at that. Not merrily.
Ever since I got here, I’ve wanted to go back. Now I don’t. I don’t want to leave Paris. Or this place. Or him. And it hurts. Badly.
Push him away. Now, a voice inside me says. Before it hurts even more.
“I don’t want you to call me,” I say. “I want you like this, like we are right now, not over some crap cell-phone connection.”
“Why can’t you stay?”
“I just can’t. There’s a situation at home. With my mother. It’s complicated.”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
How can I tell him? How? I told the police what happened. And my parents. And then I never spoke about it again. Not to anyone. Not to Nick or Dr. Becker. Not even to Vijay or Nathan. I can’t do it. I just can’t.
“I’ve got to go,” I say abruptly. “I’ve gotta get back before my father wakes up and wonders where the hell I am.” I cap the thermos. Wrap up the rest of the bistella and put it in his bag. Then I fold the blanket and hug it to my chest. “I’ve really got to go,” I say again. “Now.” We both hear the pain in my voice.
“You’re so sad, Andi. So angry. It’s in your face. In your eyes. It’s in every word you say. Every note of your music. What the hell happened to you?”
“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t care? Bring you here? Kiss you, but don’t care about you?” he says.
I get up and walk away from him, then I stop and cover my face with my hands. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to push him away, to hurt him. Everyone else in the world, yes, but not him. But I don’t know how not to. Talking about it will kill me. I know it will. Just thinking about it nearly has.
I walk back to him and kneel down on the tarp and take his hands in mine. “I’m worse than sad. And worse than angry, Virgil. A lot worse. And you don’t want to know what happened. Trust me on that.”
“Andi …”
“Please, Virgil. Please just take me home?”
I’ve got tears in my eyes now. He wipes them away with his sleeve.
“Okay,” he says, and I can see the hurt in his own eyes. “If that’s what you want. Let’s go.”
46
“Wait,” Virgil says.
He