The first text came a day after the video failed during our tour last month. He sent a picture of Le Mur in Oberkampf, where a street artist splatter-painted a neon lion on the wall. Then a video of people passing an outdoor café, his espresso in the corner while his fingers kept time on the cup. More followed, all a peek at the city. Of beautiful things. Right before leaving Paris, he returned to Le Mur, to the wide-eyed man panicked over a utility bill that covered the lion—the murals ever changing.

Since then, between Wanderer tours of museums and art, Foster’s taken me all over Amsterdam, Brussels, and Vienna. A hidden medieval courtyard, the cat sanctuary floating on a canal, Jardin du Petit Sablon, a baroque library. Whenever he explores, he lets me see the world through his eyes.

Eyes I haven’t even seen.

With about fifteen minutes left in my free period, I check to ensure no one’s around before slipping in my earbuds. It kills the illusion of not being on a table in the high school’s outdoor commons. At least I escaped for a little while.

I lower the phone from my face to answer and then flip the camera so I can show Foster mine while he shows me his. The dimming sky and trees in Prague obviously superior to everything in Ohio.

“Wait.” Foster’s camera dips from pretty leaves to his shadow on a worn walkway. “I want the first view back. The school uniform does it for me.”

I roll my eyes. “I want the first view back too. Shouldn’t it be the skirt you want to see, anyway? Not the white button-up?”

“Show me the skirt, then, Remi,” he rasps into my ears.

The way his voice lowers on my name hits in far too many places. I take a deep breath, the October wind fully responsible for my nipples hardening. My next sentence sounds like the October wind is messing with it too.

“What did we say about the flirting, Foster?”

He shows me the sky again, growing pinker with sunset soon. “You asked if we could make it through a single interaction without it. I immediately told you no.”

I sigh. “I liked you better when you followed other women’s skirts and didn’t talk to me.”

“You’re a beautiful liar, Remi.” He’s quiet for a second and then, “I haven’t thought about you at all today,” he says. “Now we can be liars together.”

Warm tingles and all fluttery.

Foster’s camera slowly descends from the trees to the park he’s in and finally settles on worn-in dark jeans. He’s sitting on a bench, a sneak of brown boots below. Then he waits, not saying a word but so loud.