Pascal, like Oliver, seems totally unfazed, shouting over the din, “I’ll find champagne!”

The candlelit sconces on the wall have set our faces in shadows, warping our expressions into something just this side of grotesque.

Oliver maneuvers us into a round booth. We slide in, one after the other, the fine silks of our dresses slipping over the blood-red leather.

Pascal arrives a moment later, balancing five champagne flutes in his large hands. They slosh and spill as he collapses into the booth next to Oliver.

“Mes amis!” he yells. I wonder if he’s drunk or if he’s always like this, so full of unbridled glee at the company of strangers.

This isn’t the kind of place I usually feel comfortable, but I’m not in New York anymore, so maybe I don’t have to be the person I’ve always been.

I tilt my head back and let the music take up the space in my brain where the horrible thoughts usually live, until I feel as light as the bubbles on the champagne flute.

Under the table, Oliver’s pinkie brushes against mine.

It’s a simple gesture that sends heat radiating up through the small bones of my wrist. There’s comfort in the I’m here of it all.

I glance up at him, squished so close next to me in the packed booth. His eyes are questioning, his face soft.

“Not my usual scene,” he says so low only I can hear.

“You could have fooled me,” I say, smiling. Oliver is one of those rare people who has the ability to blend in anywhere. I envy him for it. I feel like I’m always sticking out.

“We can leave,” he says.

But from over his shoulder, I see Lena and Maxine laughing uproariously at some kind of close-up magic trick Pascal is doing with a napkin. Flickering candles reflect in their bright eyes and I don’t want to leave. Not at all.

“No, no, it’s all right. It’s just… new. But I’m having fun, truly.”

“ ‘New’ is a word for it.”

Cautiously, like he’s afraid I might startle and snatch my hand away, he threads his fingers through mine, our palms brush, and it feels holy even in his decidedly unholy space. I take comfort in that no matter how time and distance and my own cursed nerves may make what exists between us feel fuzzy and unformed, we still have this, how perfectly our hands fit together.

“So this is what you’ve spent your months in France doing?” I tease. “I pictured you wasting away in a classroom.”

“I promise I’ve been a devoted student. Besides, Pascal is a horrible dance partner, he never follows my lead.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners and we share a laugh, alone in this bubble of two we’ve created among the music.