“That’s what I wanted to do as a kid. Egyptology. Bet you get that a lot.”
I peeked at him quickly, but he still looked dead ahead at the painting. He was right, of course; half the people I encountered told me they’d wanted to be an Egyptologist. It was the kind of thing I usually just grinned and bore, though sometimes I wanted to jump down their throats and explain there was a huge difference between thinking and starting to do something and actually, say, doing it.
Not that I would ever say anything like that to Ryan Carter. “It’s not uncommon.”
He let out a breath of laugher. “Nice way of putting it. You finding a lot over there? At Kilkarten?”
Oh, boy. He knew about Kilkarten. “Not yet. I mean, we’ve found the basic stuff you’ll find digging anywhere in Ireland, but no burials or building remains.”
He nodded at the painting. He kind of looked like one of the busts we had walked past earlier, an idealized youth from the Classical Era. “Rachael really likes you.”
What did I say to that? “Thanks?”
“Because you’re smart and focused and dedicated to your work. That’s what matters to Rachael.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like it boded well. “And I’m guessing you’re telling me this because you value other things.”
A small smile slipped out. “I figure it makes sense to check up on anything not part of the pattern.” He paused. “And so I wanted to know if you’re dating Mike out of convenience.”
Because I wasn’t part of Mike’s pattern. I turned so I stared straight at Carter, and waited until he turned and faced me. He stared me down, blue eyes cool, and I could see why opposing teams faltered under his steadfast gaze. Instead, I locked my shoulders and lifted my chin. “It’s not out of convenience.”
His eyes didn’t even twitch as they studied me, just scanned back and forth, like he was trying to read every move I’d made in the past and everything I planned for the future. “Good.”
I let out a breath. “Okay. I’m just gonna, go...” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.
“Cool.” He locked his hands behind his back and turned back to the painting.
Holy shit, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.
I walked over to Mike. I almost wanted to make a joke, like “Your quarterback just interrogated me about my intentions towards you.”
But instead, I slipped my hand into his, and tugged slightly until he looked my way with a questioning lift of his brows. I raised my mouth to his lips. “Hey. I like you. You know that, right?”
He kissed me.
All the walking-and-stopping of the museum starved us, so we followed Rachael up to the Marais to get falafel. The Marais felt like Williamsburg, or maybe the West Village—trendy and hipstery and filled with boutiques. Rachael led us next by the Hôtel de Ville, the massive and stunning seat of Parisian government, then through winding streets toward the two tiny islands in the middle of the Seine. She got distracted by the Mémorial de la Shoah, turned bright red as she tried to dissuade the rest of us from feeling like we had to go in with her, and muttered to herself when Ryan grabbed her arm and towed her inside with the rest of us following. Then she squeezed Ryan’s hand hard enough that that I could see the white imprints from her fingers and nails.
We crossed a bridge onto a tiny, practically pedestrian island, where we stopped for ice-cream and to watch several street musicians. Then it was onward across another bridge to Notre Dame, which we came up at from behind, giving us the chance to admire the swooping flying buttresses and a small garden filled with roses.
While we waited in line in the grand plaza before the cathedral, the boys started wrestling. It began when Ryan started ribbing Mike about Notre Dame, Mike’s alma matter, and Mike had come back with some equally snarky remark about Ryan’s and now all three of them were jumping and turning, displaying a strength and flexibility that appeared almost unreal. People stopped to watch—not people who knew they were celebrities, just casual tourists struck by the beauty of their bodies, by the amazing abilities of the human form.
I watched them laughing. Watched Mike, the brightness in his eyes, the joy on his face. And my heart flipped. Just flipped over and said, yes, that’s right. That’s him.
Somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with Michael O’Connor.
I turned away, my heart beating wildly. What was I supposed to do now? What did you do when you ended up over your head?
I tried to focus on the church, on the saints and the gargoyles. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Rach and Bri, who had also paused to watch the boys, small smiles on their faces. Smiles I doubted they knew were there.
They had figured it out. Most people figured it out. Emotions were part of human life.
But I dealt with people and places long gone, not modern love. Not things that could affect me. And I stood by what I’d said; I agreed that the emotion of love was real. I was chock full of dopamine and norepinephrine and serotonin. But that didn’t make it lasting.
What did I do now? Let it run its course, enjoy it while it lasted, love Mike with all my heart—well, with all my complimentary brain-produced chemicals? That was surely the healthy thing to do, the way most people functioned.
But if you knew pain was coming—how did it make sense to put yourself straight in the path of all that agony and depression? Wasn’t it stupid to stand on train tracks, even if you couldn’t hear the train?
I lifted my gaze above the Cathedral’s three arched portals to the gallery of kings, all carved drapes and endless crowns. But there were no answers in the stone.
I was beginning to think that was always the case.
We returned to Ireland, and rain.
The O’Connor women picked us up at the airport. They’d cancelled their northern trip due to the endless downpour, and spent the weekend in Dublin, where they could stay dry in museums.
They were not thrilled to hear about France’s lack of rain.
I found all the water soothing. The way it streaked across the windows, the way the ocean pounded against the land and sent up angry white sprays. The world was bleached of every color but green and gray, turned into some strange altered landscape where everything blurred together.
Back at the inn, we settled before the fire, talking about our trips and drinking hot tea and devouring the pastries we’d brought back. I studied Mike’s face, the curl of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. The dimple when he laughed out loud.
Maybe I could just tell him and follow up by saying I didn’t expect anything. That I just wanted to share. That I was trying to be emotionally open, but I didn’t want to tie him down or anything.
A knock sounded. Jeremy leaned on the doorframe. Scruff roughening his jaw, and two lines folded the skin between his brows. “Natalie. You’re back. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.” I uncurled and stood. I could feel Mike’s eyes as I followed Jeremy, who led me up to his room. “How was your weekend? Is everything okay?”
He shook his head and dropped into his desk chair. I hovered nervously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
He kept his eyes steady on mine. “An article was published about you this morning.”
I actually placed my hand on my chest, I was so surprised. “Me? What did it say?”
His head wavered back and forth. “About Tamara Bocharov’s daughter, actually.”
My throat dried up. “I don’t understand.” Why would anyone write an article about me as my mother’s daughter? And if they did, why would Jeremy care?