“Nothing. Just that I’m not drowning in guilt and acting out some textbook reaction. I know I’m not responsible for any of the tragedies that have touched my life, and I’m just trying to get by here. Whereas you breathe every day as a self-appointed surrogate for the life your friend Benoît forfeited. I don’t need your help anymore, and it’s not rooted in anything else. That’s all.” My voice tapers to a wavering fraction of what I began with, reduced a little more with each horrible word that tumbles from my lips.

Jean-Luc shakes his head slowly, disbelieving. “Wow. Is that what you really think?”

I step inside the apartment and partly close the door. I’m unwilling to cede the inches of progress I made today, not for anyone. A small voice inside me notes the familiarity in pushing people away. The voice questions what might happen if I didn’t. Jean-Luc stares at me from the hall. The wide-eyed shock he wears fades to resignation. His shoulders slump in green-and-black plaid.

“Good night, Jean-Luc. Thanks again.” Before I can second-guess myself, I close the door on his defeated expression. From the other side, I rest my forehead against the cool metal until his shuffling footsteps dissolve into the carpeted landing above.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Day 6, Friday

Sunshine warms my cheeks, rousing me from a sticky sleep. I tossed and turned until three in the morning, when I finally passed out, but not before I replayed every moment of last night in my head. Did I imagine everything? Was the sip of absinthe that potent? To tell myself it made the images I saw at the speakeasy exaggerated wasn’t logical. After all, the ticket receipt I have is real, and so are all my memories before returning to the bar and afterward at the opera.

Angela is alive.

A sob of relief bursts from my throat, and I flip over and scream into a pillow until my throat closes. The sound turns to crying, and my lungs ache from breathing into cloth. My flight takes off Sunday night, in two days, at 10:00 p.m. I can’t leave without finding her. Bodies entwined and writhing was absolutely a part of my night, along with the disturbing offer of a stranger. I can help. And I doubt he meant sexually, despite our location at the time.

If I’m being objective, the question of whether I simply forgot writing some note that I dropped at Nour’s is legitimate. Grief is a bizarre beast that can make us see and do things that don’t make sense. Memory adjusts and omits with the slightest nudge, let alone under circumstances like mine. But did I write myself a to-do list, then drop it outside her door? The answer has to be no. Otherwise, I’m forced to question everything I’ve done here.