A/N: Slight revisions made in January 2012.

When we arrive back at SOAP shortly after New Year's, the weather is mild – like San Francisco in April.

It feels like a rebirth, a renewal.

Josh and I celebrate our return to school with our traditional meal at Breakfast in America, even though we just came back from America. It was his idea, of course. Josh practically inhales food.

"I can't believe you ate that many Corn Flakes," I say, glancing at the half-dozen empty bowls around him. "Was that the entire box?"

"The boxes are smaller here," Josh says. "It was equivalent to a quarter American box."

"It's all going to go straight to your hips," I say.

"And ruin my girlish figure?" he asks. "Whatever will I do!"

He sighs dramatically and brings a hand to his forehead, pretending he's about to faint. "You're being ridiculous," I say, throwing sugar packets at him.

"Says the guy who's chasing after two girls."

"Come on, now. Don't make me sound like my father."

"I'm not saying you are him," he says. "I'm just saying you're going to hurt someone if you don't make a decision soon."

"Right," I say. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think all of us have already gotten hurt by this bloody mess. It's a nightmare."

Josh nods, and I'm thankful he's not passing judgment on me. He almost seems sympathetic, as though he might understand what it's liked to be pulled in different directions.

Our conversation is interrupted by my mobile, which rings to the tune of Bananarama's "Cruel Summer." If I were in the States, I'd be embarrassed – but here, in Paris, this sort of music is still popular.

Besides, it's Bananarama. Banana Anna.

"Hôtel St Clair, comment est-ce que je peux vous aider?"

"Good morning to you, too," she says. "What are you up to?"

"Finishing breakfast with Josh," I say. "Then we're off to the Pantheon. Care to join?"

Josh makes kissing sounds in the background, forcing me to throw more sugar packets in his direction.

"Sure," she says. "I can be there in an hour. Will you still be there?"

"All day."

"Great," she says. "See you soon."

Anna hangs up, and Josh and I meander slowly from the restaurant toward our afternoon destination.

"So how were your holidays?" I ask.

"Oh, you know, the usual," he says. "Only this year, my mom forced me to wear Ralph Lauren in case we ended up in the Post again."

"It could've been worse," I say. "It could've been J Crew."

"Or Abercrombie," he says. "Then I'd look like Mike and Dave."

"Noooo," I say. "Afraid I can't tolerate that. I think SOAP has already reached its quota of wankers for the year."

He laughs as we find a spot on the steps to sit. Josh works on his sketches while I skim through a tattered Napoleon biography from my favorite used bookstore in San Francisco.

I glance at my watch every few minutes, wondering when Anna will arrive. I think we would both agree we've become closer over the holidays, though what that exactly means in the new year, I'm unsure of right now.

I swear, I become an insecure mess thinking about her sometimes.

After a dozen glances, I spot her in the distance. She looks beautiful, as always, but different somehow. I can't quite pinpoint it. I glance back down, almost afraid to make eye contact, until she's almost right in front of me.

Our eyes finally meet.

"Anna!"

I drop my book, almost by instinct, and stand to greet her. My arms wrap around hers – like Josh isn't there, like no one else we know could possibly be around – and I feel her heart thump thump thump against my chest. My heart does the same.

Sometimes it has a mind of its own.

"Hey," she breathes as I let go of her. She practically tumbles down the steps, but I catch her.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

"Yeah. Great. Super!"

We stay there, awkwardly silent, as I look her over. Her hair's changed. Her lips, too. Did she put on makeup before she came here?

"I have something for you," I say, closing my fist around the banana bead I bought her for Christmas. "It's not much, so don't get excited."

"Oh, what is it?" Anna asks.

I see Josh smirking from the corner of my eye. He focuses more intently on his notebook. I can tell he's trying very hard not to scream "I told you so!"

"Étienne!" she pleads. "Come on!"

Her face reddens in the sunlight. She's embarrassed, but it doesn't matter.

She is right – I am Étienne, I am not St. Clair. I am not the privileged, charming English bloke whom everyone loves. I'm the intensely introspective, overly confident, incredibly insecure bloke whose only privilege in life is his mum, not his wealth. The bloke who is terrified of change, of heights, and of the abandonment he knew not so long ago.

With Anna, I know I can be Étienne without apology.

But first, I'll have to get St. Clair out of the way.