A/N: I made some revisions to this chapter in January 2012. The most notable, if you've read it before, is toward the beginning. I've imagined St. Clair's depression to be far greater than what Anna explained – and that he kept it hidden from most of the people around him.
The shock is gone.
The unpleasant reality of mum's condition remains.
My room's a disaster. I want to do nothing and avoid everything. For the first time in my life, I'm ditching class – regularly – and my grades are failing. Sometimes I just spend hours, staring at my computer, going through old photos of mum and me and all the little trips and excursions we used to take together while father was away.
Everything feels so pointless now.
Ellie and I don't really talk about it. I've tried a few times, but she always changes the subject. Those stupid parties are almost a welcome distraction now – and, sometimes, when we're both pissed, we'll end up having sex there, in some closet or abandoned room. It's the only thing that makes me feel alive, the only thing that makes me forget – if only for few moments – why I'm even here.
Anna and I talk only briefly these days, but we've stopped going to the cinema together like we used to. Sometimes, we laugh a bit together, but most days, I feel absolutely horrible just looking at her.
I'm not brave enough to choose her. It's just too complicated.
Besides, Anna denied that I ever said anything about my feelings for her on Halloween. And I know it happened. Josh wouldn't lie to me. So why is she lying to me?
Maybe I've misread this whole thing. Maybe I just saw what I wanted to see and was betrayed by the illusions I'd created in my mind.
Ugh.
To make matters worse, I'm stuck here in Paris for Thanksgiving, while my father is in San Francisco. Of course it angers me – I mean, he doesn't even celebrate the damn thing nor is he even married to mum anymore.
Christ.
My father refused to let me go because of my failing grades, which SOAP was kind enough to inform him about a few weeks back. Clearly they didn't know who they were dealing with. I could have told him why that happened – and how it was all his fault, anyway – but I've lost my interest in fighting with him.
The stakes are too high now.
So here I am, alone, in bed, attempting to sleep – while everyone else is half a world away. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.
My half-awake state is soon interrupted by surprise holiday greetings.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you!" Anna sings outside my door. "Happy Thanksgiving to youuu! Happy Thanks-giv-ing, St. Cla-aair –"
I look at my clock. Yep. It's definitely Thanksgiving morning. But why is Anna still here?
I stumble toward my door and open it. She's been here before, but it feels strangely intimate this time. My room, my demeanor – everything's gone straight to hell.
"Stop. Singing," I say. I am in no mood for merriment or cheer, even from her.
"Did you know today is a holiday?" she asks.
"I heard," I say. She walks inside my room, observing the mess. I flop myself back onto my bed, burying myself in my pillow, but she eventually screams at me, shocking me out of all-consuming depression.
I clean myself up, tidy the room a bit, and head out to explore the city with her once again. We explore the Pantheon and manage to find a Thanksgiving-style dinner at what may be the only restaurant in Paris to serve such things.
It makes Anna so happy that I almost feel happy myself.
"I'm really glad you dragged me out," I say, finally, as we sit down.
"It was nothing," she says. "Besides, what else were you going to do all day?"
"Reading," I say. "Lots and lots of reading."
"And miss out on turkey and stuffing and apple pie?" she asks. "That sounds like a terrible idea."
"It was the only one I had," I say.
We continue talking as if nothing's changed, as if we are, just as we were, when we first met. Our server arrives some time latter, setting down our sparkling juice and turkey dinners. What a combination.
"To the successful locating of a proper turkey dinner in Paris," I say, raising my glass to hers.
"To your mom," she says.
I'm taken aback. I'm incredibly touched Anna wants to include her in our celebrations – even with just a simple gesture.
"To mum," I say, and we toast.
Anna asks more questions about mum – about her care, treatment, and recovery. She's done research. Research. I suddenly feel more at ease with her, like I could tell her anything and she would be there regardless.
"It's been a difficult time, actually," I say. "I really don't know how to handle it."
Anna stares at me silently, her eyes thoughtful and questioning.
"Honestly," she says. "I don't know either. I'm really sorry I was so tough on you earlier, yelling at you like that. I just didn't know any other way to get through to you."
"It's all right," I say. "I'm glad of it, really. You were right – mum wouldn't want me sulking about on her account."
"Why don't you celebrate her instead?" she says, smiling. "I bet she wouldn't mind if you bragged about her to your friend Anna."
And so I begin the whole story – all the intricacies, all the things I've hid from nearly everyone in my life about my mum and my father and how everything came to be.
Anna listens and nods. No judgments made, no questions asked.
And as we walk off our dinner along the Seine, it hits me.
She's not just my friend. She's not just my crush.
She's the girl I'm in love with.