A/N: If you've read this before, significant revisions were made to the beginning and ending of this chapter in January 2012.
Since Thanksgiving, Anna and I have been in our own world, oblivious to anything or anyone near by. Ever since we talked about mum, I've felt a lot better – and I don't want that feeling to end.
Even though I know it must.
It's Thanksgiving Sunday, the last day we have to ourselves before everyone returns. We've decided to make the most of it and grab baguette sandwiches from a boulangerie in Montmartre. It's quite a distance from campus, but well worth the trek, especially as the tourists never come to this part.
"Where should we go tonight?" Anna asks between bites.
"Don't know," I say, wiping some brie from my lips. "There's a new Starbucks near Théâtre de l'Odeon that I'm just dying to try. I hear it's brilliant."
"Right," she says. "There's nothing I want to spend 5 Euro on more than an overpriced milkshake."
"It's a frappucino, Anna," I say. "And you say you're American!"
She bats me with her free hand until I surrender.
"All right, all right!" I say. "There's this place near there, L'avant comptoir, that's supposed to have amazing takeaway crepes. And there's a cinema right around the corner."
"You had me at crepes," she says, smiling.
After we finish our baguettes, we walk around Montmartre some more, past the local shops and strip clubs and enormous houses of Paris' most celebrated and reclusive residents. Anna snaps photos at every turn. It's sweet, seeing her all happy and excited, so unlike how I've felt these past few weeks.
As we wind our way back to the métro, we pass by Le mur des je t'aime – the "I love you" wall. Dozens of happy tourist couples crowd around it, making my stomach turn queasy.
Anna laughs at the sight. "Oh God," she says. "I'm surprised my father hasn't asked me about this place before."
"Shall I take a photo then?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says. "I'll stand in front of it. He's always complaining about how I never send him photos of me here. I barely saw him when I was in Atlanta, but all the sudden he wants to know my every move – "
She hands me her camera.
"He loves this type of sentimental crap," she says.
She turns to face me in front of the wall. Her eyes become more beautiful against the dark blue backdrop of the wall, momentarily distracting me from the task at hand.
"What are you waiting for?" she says.
"All right, all right," I say, finally gaining my composure again. "On the count of three. One, two – "
And then she breaks into the most ridiculous pose, like she's a fangirl at some boy band concert. We double over in laughter, recognizing the ridiculousness of it all.
"As funny…as that…was," I say, panting, "I'm sure your father wouldn't like it."
"Fine, fine," she says. "I'll do it right this time."
"Okay," I say. "Un, deux, trois."
And then she flashes a look that nearly takes my breath away.
"I think we've got it," I say, looking at the screen on her camera.
"Foto? Juntos?" a voice says behind us.
"That's very nice," I say, turning to the voice. "But I think we're good here."
The older Spanish gentleman just stares at me, though I'm fairly certain he understood my 'no.'
"Si," Anna says, laughing. "Foto!"
She grabs my arm and drags me in front of the wall. I give her a questioning look, but she plays innocent.
"I swear," she says, whispering. "Those are two of the only words I remember from my Spanish classes."
"Claro," I say.
The man motions for us to move closer together. We do. Her hand hovers closely to mine, but something seems to hold her back from grasping it.
The flash goes off before us.
"Que bueno foto," the man says, handing Anna back her camera. She wanders off, taking a couple more closing shots.
"Your girlfriend," he says. "Muy bonita. Very lucky."
Christ. I knew he knew what he was doing. I blush despite myself, thankful Anna can't see anything happening.
"Gracias," I mutter. I'm not about to argue with him.
I exit the park and find Anna taking photos of the Abbesses metro sign.
"You ready?" I ask.
"All set," she says, taking one last shot.
We stagger back to SOAP before midnight, still full from our late-night crèpes.
"Can't. Move. Further," Anna says as I open the door to Lambert.
"So there is such a thing as too much Nutella," I say. "I knew it!"
"Never!" she says. "It's just – "
She stops and eyes the staircase – the one where I impulsively asked her two nights ago if I could spend the night with her, in her bed.
Because it's not cheating if I'm just sleeping there.
"I'll let you think about that very important question while I go get ready for bed," I say, interrupting her thought. "Are you all right with that?"
She looks to me, hesitatingly. "Yes," she breathes. "See you soon."
I go to my room and put on my usual sleeping outfit for Anna. I usually sleep in less clothing, but it's positively freezing in there. Besides, the more clothing I have on, the less likely I am to make the move I so desperately want to make on her.
Because that would definitely be cheating.
I walk back down my hall, down the staircase to Anna's floor. She's already on her side of the bed when I arrive at her room.
"Hey," she whispers.
I nod, laying down so that our backs are turned toward each other. She's so close, yet so far away.
"Do you ever wonder – ?" she asks after a while.
Oh fuck. No no no. Don't do this to me now.
"–why Nutella tastes so much better here than it does back home?"
"I don't know," I say, holding back a sigh of relief. "Market differences, probably."
"Guess I'll have to smuggle some out of here for Christmas, then," she says.
"Right," I say. "You freak out if you're a minute late to class. And now you're going to smuggle things?"
She turns around, and I follow suit.
"I saw this documentary once, on BBC, about how U.S. customs has become really strict about Nutella smugglers," I say, trying to keep a straight face. "You could face secondary questioning, fines, all sorts of things."
"Now you're just being mean," she says.
"I am not!" I say. "It's a serious thing."
She raises an eyebrow, questioning me, and I break into laughter.
"Sorry, sorry," I say. "I couldn't help it."
She shoves my shoulder and I nearly fall off the bed. I grasp toward her, trying to pull myself back, and she startles. My hands cling tightly to her arms.
I don't want to let go.
We stare at each other, blankly, as if willing the other to make a move. I can't bring myself to do it. I take my hands off her and turn back around.
"We should probably be more careful," I say. "Neither of us needs to get hurt here."
"Right," she says. "Good night, St. Clair."
"Good night, Anna."