I took a deep breath when we got back from the last of these excursions and sat Indian style on the bed in front of Sébastien. It was the last excursion because I wrecked my left knee on that cute little scooter. I was also flying back home the next day; I’d finally managed to get a work permit, but I could only pick it up at the consulate in Atlanta. This would be our third parting in an airport in six months, and even though this particular separation should last only a week, we weren’t getting any better at it.

“So,” I said. I took another deep breath and had to grab something for support. “Where’s my teddy bear?”

We found him covered with cat hair under the computer; Indy had apparently attacked him in our absence and had a battle with him all over the apartment. To think that a year before, I had actually liked cats. I dusted Teddy off and returned to my position in front of Sébastien, clutching the bear in my lap for some pretense of security. “So,” I tried again, “will you marry me?”

Sébastien looked confused. “Laura, how much reassurance do you need? I’ve been asking you every day for the past three months.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking you this time. I thought it was only fair.”

He paled, which was a bit unflattering, but I understood. Getting engaged was a fraught moment even for a normal couple, and we weren’t normal because, as I have mentioned, Sébastien was French. He occasionally seemed to think I wasn’t too normal either, but that’s the French for you—judgmental. Up until now, our cross-cultural couple had been a romantic adventure either side could abandon at any time. Once we both said yes, we would be saying we could handle this intercultural romance long-term and committing ourselves to doing so. I still felt like this was saying I could climb Mount Everest when I’d never hiked more than ten miles and had a deep fear of snow, heights, and energy bars.

“So . . . will you?” I squeezed Teddy hard.

“Yes,” Sébastien answered. Still pale, he grasped my hand in a surge of excitement, lips softening into a cautious smile, watching me as if to make sure I meant it.

Book Two

Twenty-two

René started vomiting sometime while I was on the plane. They took him to the hospital the next day, when he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to go. He never wanted to go to the hospital, never in his life, which was too full of living for places like that. But he didn’t have enough energy to fight it. “What’s wrong?” I ask Sébastien on the phone.

“I don’t know,” Sébastien says. “They’re running tests.”