I don’t know if I will go with her. I don’t know if I left Paris simply because it reminds me of Noah, or if I have changed enough to be ready to venture somewhere new. I feel so different to the shy girl who stepped off the train in London. The one with eyes like saucers as I looked all around, so naïve, so trusting.

But part of me wants to stay here. To hide my loneliness away in the hilltops with my fake fiancé, books, and French wine.

Last night, Antoine cooked me paella, insisting that I would love it, even the strips of squid (they were delicious, and even better when dipped in garlic mayonnaise). He was telling me about how jellyfish change color according to whatever it is they have eaten—his brain is like an enormous vault of information, even he can’t remember where he’s learnt it all.

I asked him if there were jellyfish in the paella and he swatted at my hand, told me no, he’d been talking to someone who wants to sponsor his work, his passion, who also knew a lot about the creatures of the sea. Of course I wanted to know who this mysterious benefactor was, and what he wanted in return, but Antoine offered up no more than a sly smile, which told me everything and more.

He needs to be careful. I need to be careful for him. Because the world is changing, but not fast enough, and there are people who I fear would not be so accepting of his ways, even here. Perhaps Gigi and I could stay a while longer, keep him safe from prying eyes and minds. For although he is beautiful, and although he may be quite possibly the smartest person I will ever meet, I know all too well that love can make you do stupid, reckless things.

CMR

13

COCKEREL

Gallus gallus domesticus

“Shit,” Tyler said, looking at his watch, pacing back and forth, staring once again at the “Closed” sign on the gallery door.

“It’s Sunday,” Emily whispered. She couldn’t believe they had been so stupid not to check whether a museum would be open on a Sunday.

“He might not even be here,” Tyler said, facing her, hands on hips and a look in his eyes she couldn’t translate.

“You Googled him.” She pushed at his chest, kicked at her suitcase, was tempted to pick up his guitar and smash it against the wall of the museum, again and again until it splintered beyond repair.

Seven hours, she thought to herself. Seven hours on a train and then another two on a sweltering bus, trapped by the stench of men who seemed to forget what water and soap were for. She should have stayed in Paris.

She could have visited the Louvre, discovered some more of where it was her grandmother spent her first summer away from home. Or gone back to the art shop, bought some supplies, then sat in the Jardin des Tuileries and drawn all that she could see. Why couldn’t she have stayed a few days more, walked all the way up to Sacre Coeur, wandered around Montmartre where so many artists before her once lived?