But tomorrow I’ll see Oliver, and tonight I am in the stars with my best friends and that is enough.

The limestone white buildings of Paris stretch beneath us like a parade of ghosts, and cigarette smoke wafts up from the street-side café below.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Maxine marvels.

“Me neither.”

Lena picks an ostrich feather from her hair and drops it off the edge of the building.

Together, we watch it float gently to the ground.

It falls slowly, like it has nothing but time.

I wish I felt the same way.

I have plans to meet Oliver for lunch the next day. He’s studying French literature at the Sorbonne for the spring and summer semesters, having abandoned his prelaw studies after being disillusioned with his father’s career. He has no interest in becoming the great state of New York’s next Judge Callahan. I find it preferable to hear him speak about George Sand than property taxation, so I’ve enjoyed the change. His absence I’ve enjoyed rather less well.

The sun is high in the sky this afternoon, a perfect golden circle reflecting off the rippling waters of the Seine.

My feet don’t know these cobblestones, don’t know these corners or alleyways, but it is nice to be in a place without memories.

I could pretend to be someone different here, if I didn’t have a perfect boy waiting for me and an address sitting heavy as a secret in my pocket. There is no outrunning myself, it seems.

I arrive at the café early, and choose a small table in the corner under a red awning, close enough to see the river.

I fiddle with the pearl buttons on the white cuffs of my dress and try not to look at the clock. Oliver wouldn’t be late. It isn’t his way.

I’m wearing one of my own dresses today, an old tea gown he’s seen one hundred times, but I wanted to look like myself. The wide brim of my hat shields my face from the afternoon sun.

Ninety-two days, I counted each one, crossed them off on a little calendar in my bedside table.

And now I’m here, sitting in a wicker chair on an unfamiliar sidewalk under an unfamiliar sky waiting for the most familiar boy.

With Oliver, there are always nerves. Ever since I was young and saw his dimpled smile and something inside my heart went oh.

We still don’t quite know what we are. We’ve been learning each other in fits and starts, not quite yet able to reach a comfortable stride.

There’s the ever-present anticipation, the warmth in knowing we will one day be something. But we’re still becoming. Neither of us is very good at the in-between.

I see him before he sees me. He turns the corner, head ducked low, muttering something to himself.