"I found Thomas."

The words came more easily than I'd thought. A long, tangled speech had half-formed in my mind, ready to be delivered in my best New England debate champion tones. But before it was finalized, the words simply spilled from my lips, plain and without preamble.

Michel gave a violent start. "What?" he said, staring at me as he had never done before.

"I found Thomas," I repeated, oddly calm.

Michel seemed to be having difficulty processing the concept. "You…" he began, then trailed off and lapsed into a new line of questioning. "How?"

I smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in my clothes. "He was at the concert Catherine assigned me to," I said. "Or in the concert. He plays the saxophone."

Michel looked as though he was running rapidly through an entire repertoire of emotions. He composed himself and asked, "Did you…"

He hesitated. I waited.

"Did you…talk to him?"

It was my turn to hesitate. Something inside of me closed up; another part of me seized control of my tongue and said, as honestly and plainly as I could, "Yes."

He looked as though he was debating whether or not to ask the next question. "What was he like?"

My mind was screaming at me to tell him that that wasn't the end of it, that there was more to the story I wasn't revealing. I squashed that inner voice and turned his question over in my mind, searching for the right words. "He doesn't look like you," I said finally.

He gave a brief nod. He wasn't interested in his looks; he wanted me to continue.

"He was really…nice," I finished, knowing even as I spoke that that could hardly satisfy Michel's urge to know more, that that could hardly sum up the whole of Thomas's personality that night: how charming and intelligent and interesting and yes, nice, he had been.

I rushed to add more. "I liked him," I said. "And everyone else seemed to like him, too. I talked to him for awhile and he's very smart. He's a junior in college and he's studying economics, but what he really loves is music…he's been playing saxophone for years, and piano as well, I think. And he was so interesting to talk to, he's read all these books and – "

I came to an abrupt halt, worried I was saying too much. But Michel sat there, enthralled. He was drinking it in.

"I got his phone number," I said carefully, not yet revealing the exact circumstances under which I had managed to get that number. "Do you want it?"

I jumped up before he could answer, eager to avoid looking at him. My purse was hanging on a hook of the closet. I rummaged through it until I came upon a folded piece of paper, which I handed to Michel.

He glanced down at it, then refocused his eyes back up in my direction. "You didn't tell him about me," he said, in a questioning sort of voice.

"No!" I said immediately. "Of course not. That's…that's your decision."

"So he doesn't know – "

"He doesn't know anything."

Michel nodded. He looked at the paper again. "Thanks."

"Of course," I said, although I wasn't certain what he was thanking me for. I hesitated before I asked the next question, unsure whether I should be asking it. Tact and curiosity battled silently in my head; the latter won out. "Will you call him?"

He lifted his gaze up to me again and raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?" he said.

"I don't know," I said, honestly.

Michel folded the paper in his hand. "I'm going to go take a shower," he said, and stood. He looked directly at me. "Thanks."

This time, I knew what he was thanking me for. "Of course," I said, for a second time.

He lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on me. Then he clasped his hand firmly on the doorknob, ready to go.

I bit my lip. I couldn't let him go. I had to tell him the entire story.

"One more thing," I said.

He turned. "What's that?"

"He asked me out to dinner tomorrow night."

Silence.

I decided to risk looking at him. He was staring at me.

"I'm not kidding," I added.

"I know you're not. I know you don't have a sense of humor."

I was briefly offended until I realized he was kidding. Perhaps that was a good sign.

He was still looking at me, with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Well," he said, "what did you say?"

The question threw me off-guard, although it shouldn't have, really. I forced out an answer. "I said yes."

"Oh."

An eternity passed. His hand was still on the doorknob.

I had to break the silence. I opened my mouth to say his name, but he spoke before I could.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks for telling me."

He was out of the door before I could say another word.

And I was left to turn the conversation over and over again in my head, mentally dissecting every fragment and chastising myself over all the ways I could have handled it better. I wondered briefly whether he would call Thomas before tomorrow evening, then shoved that thought aside. The better question was whether he would call Thomas at all – especially now that I had gone and thrown myself into the situation like an unwanted visitor.

I spent the rest of the night at my desk, tapping away at my laptop and polishing my college applications. I sat in an empty room next to a phone that did not ring, listing all of my awards and accolades as though they were a protective coat over what lay inside, my personal failures.

Catherine heaped praise upon me the next day at work. "Gabriel said he found you a very charming young woman when he met you at the concert," she reported as I entered the office.

"He did? That's very nice of him," I said as I set down my bag and settled in at the desk. "Thank you for sending me, Catherine. I had a nice time."

"Yes, well, I had to send you, did I not?" she said crisply. "It was an emergency. I'm pleased you were able to fill in for me. You're a very reliable girl."

"Thank you," I said, surprised and pleased by the rare compliment.

Apparently it was strange for Catherine as well, because she frowned before turning and sweeping into her office. "Send me my messages through e-mail," she called over her shoulder.

"Of course," I said to her leaving back. As though on cue, the phone rang. I picked it up. "Coeur magazine, Catherine Baer's office…"

It occurred to me, between calls, that I hadn't told Michel when I was having dinner with Thomas. I hadn't spoken to Michel all day, as a matter of fact – I wasn't sure if it was due to his skillful avoidance or regular old circumstances. He had not been in the dining hall for our usual lunch; I had had to eat with Iliana and Annabel.

Michel usually showed up to walk me back to the university after work, but he didn't know that I was leaving for the restaurant directly from the office. I bit my lip.

My hand inched toward the phone as though of its own accord, but before I could close my hand over the receiver, it rang. I jerked.

Of course, I told myself sternly as I took the call. This was the magazine's phone. And I certainly couldn't handle personal business during office hours.

That was the excuse I used to convince myself to assuage the twinges of guilt. Whenever one came on, I threw myself further into my work. Catherine would certainly never tell me so, but I was a model intern. Just as I was with nearly everything else.

When my break finally rolled around, however, my better conscience won out. I hadn't bothered bringing food, as I would be eating dinner in an hour's time. Instead I pushed back my chair and left the building, craving some fresh air as long as I was on the phone.

My wish for fresh air was answered, but my call to Michel was not. His now-familiar voicemail sounded in my ear: "This is Michel DuMoulin. Leave a message if it's important. Leave something entertaining if it's not."

I closed the phone with a small pang of irritation. The irony of repeating virtually the same situation twice within three days was not lost on me.

Having failed to get ahold of Michel, I reentered the building and returned to the office. Under my chair sat a plastic bag next to my usual black purse. I slipped it over my wrist and walked quickly to the bathroom, where I locked myself inside a stall.

Inside the plastic bag was the outfit I had carefully chosen for my date with Thomas. I had called Greer again that afternoon, and under her long-winded guidance, I had settled on a espresso-colored dress that fell to the knee, with thin straps and ivory trim.

"Do you think the color's a bit boring?" I had asked her, turning in the mirror to survey myself from all angles.

"It's classic," she had responded in a very authoritative voice. "And classy. How old is he, again?"

"Twenty-one, I think."

She groaned. "I just despise you sometimes. All right, the color is classic, not boring. If he's twenty-one, you don't want to look like a little girl."

I slipped the dress over my head now and zipped myself up neatly. Opening the door, I stepped out of the stall and gave myself a cursory once-over in the mirror. My hair spilled in waves onto my shoulders; I lifted it with my hands and turned once to survey the dress. It fit snugly against my skin.

Satisfied, I hurried out of the bathroom and back to my desk. A quick glance around confirmed that no one was there, so I opened my compact and touched up my makeup very quickly. I never wore very much: tonight, only mascara and a coat of rose-colored lip gloss.

My things lay sprawled across the desk. I gathered them up into my purse, which I slung over one shoulder, then knocked lightly at Catherine's personal office door. "Catherine?" I said. "I'm leaving now."

"All right," her voice traveled from behind the door. "I will see you tomorrow."

Anxiety began to creep through my nerves as I stepped into the elevator. It stayed with me all the way down to the ground floor and across the linoleum tiles of the lobby. Michel's reaction – or lack thereof – when I had told him about Thomas hadn't been especially encouraging. I wasn't eager to tell him that he had made the trip out to walk me home for nothing, that I was leaving for my dinner with Thomas.

And, I registered with an odd pang, it looked as though I wouldn't have to. Outside, my eyes automatically gravitated toward the spot where Michel typically waited for me, usually with that ridiculous harmonica of his. But as I swept the area with my eyes, neither Michel nor his harmonica were anywhere in sight.

Almost unconsciously, I straightened my shoulders. That was fine. It was much better this way.

I hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the restaurant where I was meeting Thomas. "How far is it from here?" I asked, concerned for the time.

"Perhaps ten minutes, mademoiselle. Don't worry, it is not long."

A quick glance at my watch revealed that I would show up at the restaurant a few minutes early. I didn't mind. Despite my mother's best training, I wasn't hung up on all the little societal rules and regulations about being fashionably late. I trusted that Thomas was sensible enough not to care, either.

I did care about my appearance, though, and in a silent admission to the shallow nature that lurked in the best of us, I suspected that Thomas would, too, even just a little. I slipped off my clunky old watch and tucked it into my bag, then pulled out my compact and cast an anxious glance over my reflection.

A slight twinge of nervousness ran up my spine, mixed with something else that took me a moment to identify. Excitement.

I hadn't been on a date since Greer had roped me into a double date with a friend of Kevin Rhodes, whom she'd been pursuing avidly at the time. That had been an affair. I remembered very distinctly how uncomfortable I had felt the entire time, from the practically offensively mindless action movie the boys had chosen to the tacky burger joint we had gone to afterward.

I had had a very brief, very short-lived relationship with Jake Rossum, but it had broken off about three months in. He had been a freshman at Connecticut College at the time and was swept up in college life, and I, as always, had had far too many things on my plate as well. It really had been for the best – any relationship set up by the involved parties' mothers was likely doomed from the start.

Thomas was neither a gawky high-schooler with tremendously bad taste in movies, nor the son of my mother's best friend. There was no outside baggage here. No expectations, no childishness. It was just me, in this beautiful, incredible city. Another new chapter of my new life.

The taxi dropped me off in front of the restaurant. I smoothed down the skirt of my dress and walked inside, anticipation bubbling up inside me. Immediately I spotted Thomas sitting at a corner table, and felt myself smile. He was early, too.

I lingered for just a moment before joining him. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and his hair was tousled just slightly as he studied the menu before him. I bit back another smile as I crossed the room.

His head lifted at the sound of my presence, and his mouth curved into a smile. "Good, you found it," he said.

"Oh, no. The cab driver found it. I just paid him to do the honor," I said, sitting down across from him. "I still don't completely trust myself around the city, even though I do love it."

"It's hard not to love it," he said. "Of course I grew up here, so I am biased. But I know I could not imagine living anywhere else."

"I'd love to grow up in a city like this," I said, a slightly wistful tinge to my voice. "Paris has been one of my dreams for the longest time. I was so excited when I got my Le Huit acceptance letter."

He began asking questions about Le Huit and I answered them, happy to talk about something that meant so much to me.

"Is it strange being so far from your family?" he asked.

I hesitated. I settled for an answer somewhere in between the nebulous area of honesty and diplomacy. "A bit," I said. "I suppose. It's mainly not being able to watch over my two younger sisters that bothers me. I'm so used to taking care of them."

"How old are they?"

"Twelve and fifteen," I said. "So they really are fairly self-sufficient already. It's just – "

I paused. He was watching me, waiting for me to finish.

I made myself smile, and picked up the menu. "Never mind," I said, with concentrated effort. "So, do you know what you're going to order?"

I found to my relief that I didn't need any coaching through the items on the menu. I sent an involuntary thank you to my mother, whose penchant for ostentatious dining had made me easily familiar with all sorts of foreign dishes.

The waiter took our orders, and we settled into a comfortable, pleasant conversation that meandered from subject to subject. My eagerness to get off the topic of my own family led me to ask Thomas about his.

"Me? Well, I am an only child," he said. I tried not to flinch. "My mother brought me up until I was five, which is when she married my stepfather, Adrien. He's a wonderful man. I've never met my real father."

I nodded and continued to sip my water, thinking that perhaps his family wasn't such a good conversational topic, either.

"Your mother must be an awfully strong woman," I said.

"She is." Something passed through Thomas's green eyes. "I never appreciated it when I was younger, of course, but I owe her very much."

I looked at him, feeling myself soften. For some inane reason a picture of Greer flashed involuntary through my head, in lecture mode as she often was. If he loves his mother, Shannon, he's a keeper.

By the time the food arrived, our conversation had turned to my internship at Coeur. "Catherine, the editor I work under, is just this wonderful, forceful woman," I said. "I'm learning so much just soaking up the atmosphere."

I took a bite and continued. "I know it's a bit much, since I have classes and college applications to worry about as well," I went on, "but I really just love it this way. I don't feel right unless I have a hundred things to do."

"I understand," said Thomas. "I am not as busy as you, I think, but I'm the same in some ways. That's why I took up music when I was younger. I don't like being still. My fingers itch for something to do."

"Yes!" I said, looking at him with appreciation. "That's exactly it."

We lapsed into a discussion about music – Thomas had been playing piano since he was eight, but he had fallen for the saxophone and jazz music in his teens. "I've never been much for jazz," I confessed to him. "I like listening to it, but I've never felt I've managed to get that much out of it."

"Well, I'll have to help you see the light," he said.

I smiled at him. "I hope you do."

We talked and talked until the check arrived. I was glad to see Thomas reach for his wallet and pay for his own half of the meal. Jake had always insisted on paying for me no matter what I said, and it had always bothered me to no end.

By the time we stepped outside into the cool night air, I was in no mood to leave. I glanced up at him, wondering what he would say.

To my surprise, he took my hand. I felt a warmth surge through me. "You attend Université Rousseau, right?" he asked.

I nodded without speaking.

"I know where that is," he said. "It isn't very far from here. May I walk you back to your building?"

I nodded again, and forced myself to form actual words this time. "Of course," I said.

We walked hand-in-hand through the Paris night, picking up our conversation from the restaurant. Thomas named the streets as we walked through them, pointing out certain things along the way and helping me grow acquainted with the city.

The Université Rousseau campus soon loomed before us. This time I guided him through, pointing out buildings in which I had classes and places that had become special to me in my time there.

Finally we came to a stop outside of my dorm building. I tilted my face up to look at him.

"Thank you for walking me," I said. "And for such a lovely time, of course."

He didn't respond, but bent down and kissed me lightly on both cheeks. I felt a little thrill run through me. "Thank you for letting me walk you home," he said. "I'll call you later on in the week."

I stood watching him walk away for a moment, fighting down the idiotic smile that threatened to take over my face. Finally I entered the building. I stepped into the elevator and leaned back against the wall, feeling ridiculously happy.

The elevator beeped. I stepped out onto the floor and immediately froze.

Michel was in the hall, his back to me. He was coming out of the bathroom. In a moment he would head toward his room and see me.

I made no attempt to move. His eyes fell on me.

"Hi," I managed.

His eyes flickered. "Hi."

I had no idea what to say. It was the first time I had seen him all day.

He gaze dropped down to take in my dress and rose back up to my face. "Did you have a good time?"

My mouth was frozen. I made myself speak. "Yes," I said.

He nodded. "That's good," he said. Without saying anything else, he let himself into his room.

My stomach twisted. I walked down to the hall to my own room and shut the door with a snap.