“But Michelle, you are. I swear,” he said, wanting desperately to convince her, but failing, judging from the way she winced, as if his words had wounded her. They sounded weak even to him. You are was not how you told a woman how you felt. “Let me rephrase that,” he said, wishing it wasn’t so damn hard just to say it.

She stood up, smoothed out her shirt, and held up a hand. “I’m going out for the day. Just to walk. To be alone.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, his heart racing with worry.

“I don’t know. But I need some space. And to be frank, you probably do too. Maybe you need to spend some time processing. It’s kind of a big deal what you shared with me,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

“When will I see you again?” he asked, hating the way he sounded, but needing to know if this was the end.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you . . . are we still staying together?” he asked tentatively, because it seemed as if the entire trip had been upended now, turned on its head.

“That’s a good question. And I don’t have the answer to that. This is why I need some time alone right now to think. All I know for certain is we have an expiration date in a week anyway. So, really, what’s another week?”

It was a damn good question. They’d already gone further, pushed more, fallen harder than they were supposed to. What would happen in another week? Too much, too little, not enough? Or did she mean what did it matter now if they shared their final days? Maybe they’d done all they could for each other and it was time to move on.

She seemed to be waiting for an answer, but he didn’t have one.

She walked away.

24

Closed

She was used to being alone. Had grown more than comfortable with her own company so it was only natural for her to leave, wet hair and all. She hadn’t expected the pain though. The ache in her chest from walking away. It felt like a fresh wound, bleeding and tender, seeping crimson tears into the rest of her body, a trail of her unrequited love for him.

She pushed on sunglasses even though the sky was turning gray. Typical Paris weather. But she needed to hide her eyes or everyone could see the sadness. With her arms crossed over her chest, she walked through the mid-morning crowds on rue Royale, past the designer shops, past Cartier and Lanvin, wishing she wasn’t sore in her ass. She shook her head, frustrated with herself, and nearly bumped into a woman walking a small Terrier mix.

“Pardon,” she mumbled as she kept up her pace.

It seemed an indignity to have gone there with him last night, only to have him decide the next morning to suddenly confess all his goddamn guilt. She’d tried so hard to be rational, to separate herself from all he’d shared, to be the consummate professional. But inside, she’d been reeling, sent back to the starting line. Do not cross go. Do not collect $200. You are once again in love with a man who doesn’t love you.