To say that I cried…

Well, yes, I cried, but only after I climbed the stairs, slowly, deliberately, so that my family suspected nothing; only after I closed the door behind me, hearing the latch click calmly in place; only after I fell face first onto the bed, resisting the urge to look out the window.

Yes, I cried, and in crying, I heard myself. I could not believe the sounds.

What has happened? I thought. Where has she gone? Am I a fool? Was it all some cruel trick?

My mind tossed these questions over and over, the same way my mother would toss old rags in a bucket of dirty water.

Something's wrong, I thought. She was worried. She was scared. She must have a reason. She must have a reason! She will explain everything tomorrow.

For a moment, I would be satisfied. I'd take a breath and wipe my nose. I'd relax my face into the pillow, staring blankly at the stitching on my quilt. For a moment, I would believe myself; it was all just a miscommunication.

But then, I'd think of her face - of the shadows of the cherry trees on her face. I'd think of the moment she said, je veux; that uncanny moment when I was sure that I wanted whatever she wanted. It was a synchronicity that I'd never experienced before.

Was it all a lie? I thought. Was it all just some cruel trick?

And there I was, plunged back into the dingy waters of self doubt.

I don't know how long I cried, or what time I fell asleep, but I do know my mother only came once, speaking softly through the door. I told her that I didn't feel well and she left me alone.

I do know that as I started to drift to sleep, I thought of Laurent; of all the times I'd seen him worked up over a boy he'd only just met. I thought of how much I used to pity him.

I'm sorry, I thought. I didn't understand.

And when I woke the next morning, I woke up late. My room was bright and hot, and I knew that I must have slept right through breakfast. I almost stood up. I almost walked to the window.

Instead, I rolled over, pulling the blanket up over my head. I didn't want to look out the window. I didn't want to see that field, or anyone who might be in it.

I've only just met her, I thought. I don't really know her at all. She means nothing to me. And if she is only a stranger, who means nothing, then why should I care if she is outside my window or not? Why should I care at all?

And then (only because it was so hot and stuffy under that quilt) I stood up, walked to the window and pulled it open. The air outside was stifling. The day seemed to match my mood. There were no clouds. Instead, the sky was an angry shade of gray, and the air was humid and demanding.

Just strangers, I reminded myself as I looked down on Lumiere's field. Why should I care at all?

I counted five people. My father sat up on the tractor. Laurent, Felix and Cosima stood behind the wings of the plane, pushing with all their strength, their toes digging into the dirt. Monsieur Lumiere stood by with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

I told myself that I didn't notice her first; that her silhouette wasn't instantly distinguishable from the rest. I told myself that her mannerisms were unfamiliar and unappealing - the way she leaned all of her body weight against the plane, the way her knee bent gracefully, even as she struggled and strained, the way she stood up straight, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

I told myself she was just a strange girl, that her very arrival in Rosheim was a mistake in navigation; a mistake that would soon be righted.

But then, I could have sworn I saw her turn toward the house. She was too far away to know for sure, but I thought I saw her scan the drive that led to my front door, as if she were waiting for something. Or, someone.

It was only a moment before she turned back to Felix, but it was enough.

She is waiting for me! I thought. She is waiting for me and she will explain everything!

It was that thought that drove me into the shower, and that thought that later propelled me down the stairs. I went so fast, I nearly rolled my ankle.

By the time I had made myself decent and pushed open the front door, there was not a single person, nor plane, left in the field. I took a step toward the barn.

"There you are!" my mother called from behind me. "Just in time."

"Just in time?"

Reluctantly, I turned around.

"Yes, just in time to help me with lunch," she said from the doorway.

"Oh? Is it lunch time already?" I asked.

I walked back toward the house. There was no way to wiggle out of the job.

"Maybe not for you, but it is for the rest of the world," she said. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, much better," I said.

"Maybe you had too much wine," my mother said.

"Maybe," I said and I headed straight for the kitchen.

I worked as fast as I could, but there was an entire bucket of dirty potatoes standing between me and my freedom. They needed to be washed, peeled, cut and cooked into a gratin.

My mother laid out an enormous pike fish on the table. It was wrapped in newspaper and it smelled like river moss.

"Can you believe it?!" she said. "I got this fresh from the market today. The man said he caught it just this morning! It can't get any fresher than this! Perfect, don't you think? Now I can prepare my famous brochet au four!"

I tried to get as excited as her, but it was hard for me to concentrate. I kept my hands on the potatoes, dunking them in the dirty water and rubbing away the dirt with my thumbs.

She was waiting for me, I thought. She is still waiting for me. She will explain everything.

But then darker thoughts would mix in.

But what if she was looking for me because she didn't want to see me? I thought. What if she wants to avoid me at all costs?

The thought made me squirm with embarrassment.

And still my mother chirped on.

"You should have seen it this morning at the market!" she said. "Everyone was asking me so many questions! 'What is that thing? Is it a real plane? Whose plane is it? How did it get there?' No one believed me when I said that it was a British boy's plane and that his American girlfriend had crashed it into Lumiere's field! Everyone nearly died of shock! They couldn't believe it!"

I looked up then.

"She's not his girlfriend," I said.

My mother shrugged her shoulders.

"We don't know that," she said.

"Yes, we do," I said. "She would have told me. Besides, he's like her brother. It would be gross!"

"Well, you know what they say, 'Two hearts in love need no words.'"

"Mother, they are not in love. Please stop!"

I hadn't meant to shout.

My mother looked up. She looked at the knife clenched in one hand and the potato clenched in the other hand. She looked at the way I stood, with both fists on the table.

"Alright," she said with another shrug of her shoulders. "If it bothers you."

We carried on in silence. I hacked at the potatoes haphazardly, until finally I cut right through the tip of my finger. A gush of blood rushed out of the tip. It happened so fast, I lost track of where the missing skin had gone. It was probably already shaved away into the bucket.

I screamed.

My mother screamed, too. She ran to me, grabbing my hand and squeezing my finger in a death grip. She led me to the kitchen sink, where the blood dripped down the drain. She grabbed a cloth and pushed down on the bloody tip, and instantly the cloth was soaked through with red.

"You must squeeze here," she said, pushing down.

I screamed again, louder.

"You must squeeze it to stop the bleeding," she said.

It hurt. Every time she pushed, it hurt. I screamed and clenched my teeth, but I did not cry.

"You silly girl," my mother said, pushing the hair back from my forehead. "All of this over some boy? You're getting just as bad as Laurent."

"What?"

"That's what this is about, right? Last night? And this morning? And now being so distracted that you nearly cut off your finger?"

"That's not what this is about."

I knudged her away from me, taking the cloth into my own hand and applying pressure. I leaned over the sink, resting my elbows on the cool porcelain edge.

"No?" she said, glancing into the bucket of cut potatoes.

"No."

She walked away.

"I'm just tired, that's all," I said.

"Well, I guess I can finish up the gratin," she said. "Why don't you take care of that finger? We don't want you to bleed all over our guests."

"Merde," I whispered to myself.

I made my way to the bathroom.

I pulled the bloody cloth away, and for a moment, my finger stood bare and raw. The pink flesh was still, and I thought the bleeding had stopped. But then, the blood rose up and brimmed over the tip, running down the side of my finger. I replaced the cloth and squeezed until my eyes went black.

"Merde!" I shouted.

I kicked the wall.

"Merde!" I shouted again.

I stood facing the mirror, huffing and puffing.

There was a knock at the bathroom door. I didn't move.

"Qu'est-ce?" I said.

"Delphine?"

It was Cosima. I stood upright with my back to the door.

"Merde!" I whispered to my reflection.

I was a mess. There was blood all over my hand, and drops of blood on my dress, and even a streak of blood on my cheek. I tried my best to wipe it off onto my shoulder.

"Delphine? Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said through the door. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

"No, you're mom said you were having an emergency."

"Oh, no, I'm fine," I said.

"Are you sure? I'm trained in first aid."

Her face was close to the door. I know because my face was close the door, and my ear was nearly pressed against it. Her voice came gently, softly, through the crack. She was so close I could hear every aspirated "s."

"Of course you are," I said softly.

"What?"

I pulled open the door.

"Of course you're trained in first aid," I repeated.

"One of my many talents," she said with a smile.

But when she looked down, her smiled faded. She reached for my hand right away, grabbing it by the wrist and lifting it up.

"Well, first of all, you've got to keep it elevated, preferably above the heart," she said.

She pulled it right up to her face to get a better look.

"May I?" she said, reaching for the bloody cloth.

"Yes," I said.

She pulled the cloth away, just for a moment, but it was long enough for one drop of blood to trail down my palm.

"Oops, sorry," she said, replacing the cloth.

"It's okay," I said.

"Well, first, you've got to stop the bleeding."

"I'm trying," I said.

"You've been pushing it here, but that's not good enough. You've to apply direct pressure...here."

She pushed down directly on top of the open wound, so that there was nothing between her thumb and my raw flesh, nothing except a thin layer of cloth.

"Merde!" I cried out.

"I'm sorry!" she said, half-laughing and half-wincing. "It's the only way!"

I squirmed beneath her, then leaned back against the wall. She held my finger like that, firmly, for several protracted minutes.

I couldn't look at her. I looked at the floor. I looked at her dusty boots. I looked at the seam of her trousers, now more convinced that they were handmade. I let my eyes wander as high as her leather belt. I looked at the way it hugged her hips.

It was suddenly very stuffy in that bathroom. I took a deep breath.

This is ridiculous! I thought. I can't just ignore her. She's holding my finger!

I mustered my courage. I looked up. Our eyes met.

"What do we do when it stops bleeding?" I asked.

"Well," she said, looking at my finger, instead of into my eyes. "If it ever stops bleeding, then we should clean the wound, then cover it with a sterile bandage or cloth. Do you have any rubbing alcohol?"

"Yes, I think so," I said.

We were quiet again. She sighed and her breath landed hot on my wrist. The hairs there stood up.

"Looks like you hurt yourself pretty bad," she said.

"Yeah," I said, laughing. "I'm a fool."

"No, no," she said. "It happens to all of us."

We were quiet again, so quiet that I could swear I heard her swallow.

"Um," she started to say, looking down. "Uh, I think maybe…"

She looked into my eyes, and this time I was certain she swallowed, because I saw it. I saw her jaw set. I saw her Adam's apple drop. I heard her exhale through her nose.

"I think maybe I hurt you, too," she said.

The pain in my finger gave way to the pain in my chest. She was applying direct pressure to a completely different wound. I let out a laugh instead of a scream.

"I…" I started to say, but I knew it would be stupid to lie.

So I said nothing. I looked away.

"I thought so," she said.

Slowly, she started to pull the cloth away from my hand.

"But I hope," she said, as she peaked at the wound. "I hope that…"

She pulled the cloth away completely. We both peered at the raw pink skin. The wound was surrounded by dried blood that was so dark it was almost black.

"...you will give me a chance to explain."

The wound still hurt but it had stopped bleeding.

"Bien," I said softly.

"Bien," she said with a smile.