“So you don’t have any plans for the rest of your trip?” she asked him, fishing.

“Not a one,” he said, peering at his beer. “Though I’d wager whatever I do, it’ll involve a few more of these.”

Her salad came, and unfortunately, it looked about as appetizing as Paris itself had when she’d first arrived—with wilting lettuce, croutons, and not much else other than a drippy looking sunny-side up egg. But now her stomach wasn’t rumbling for food. It was from nerves.

As the bartender went away, leaving them alone, she poked at it with her fork, trying to work up the courage to ask him. Could she? With Stéphane, with Evan, they’d always asked her. She’d never actually had to. But why not? Why couldn’t she?

“Would you go back to Versailles?”

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed in confusion, and paused a beat too long.

“What I mean is . . . would you be interested in . . .” She placed her fork down. “Would you ever go to a ball like that? Like I’m going to? I mean, sometimes I think it’s silly—me, a grown woman, wanting to go to the ball alone, where you dress up in ridiculous costumes and . . .”

“No. Sounds like a craic, if you ask me,” he answered, tone earnest.

“A . . . what?”

“A good time. You know, whatever floats your boat.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath. “Would you . . .”

She drew it out so long that she began to feel her courage leaving her by the second. Then she looked over the bar and saw the bartender, gazing at her, an indecipherable smirk on his face as if he was watching a particularly good episode of his favorite sitcom.

She cleared her throat as her eyes drifted to the bar—“Pass me the pepper, please?”

He turned to the bar and swept the crystal jar of pepper over to her. She shook it vigorously over her salad, not really knowing if it needed it or not.

It would be better to go alone. After all, she was fifty-two years old, not twenty-two. She wasn’t Evan, who could slip back into that world of new relationships so easily. She simply couldn’t date. She wasn’t even sure she really wanted to. Dating involved expectations and primping oneself to look good and analyzing words and wondering will-we-or-will-we not . . . it was exhausting. And she’d come to have fun, not exhaust herself.

Sean polished off his second pint and set the glass down on the bar with too much force. He reached into his wallet, threw a few euros down, and stood up. “Wonderful meeting you, lass. Enjoy your trip. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime,” he said with a smile, striding away before she could even say goodbye.

She had to wonder if that was a Sliding Doors moment, too, like the one with Stéphane, and if she would come to regret not being bold and asking for what she wanted. For a moment, she hoped she wouldn’t think of that one for the next thirty years too.