“Love is your cup of tea,” she says softly. “And just because you got burned once, doesn’t mean you can’t find the perfect pour that’s just right for you.”

“Wow.”

“Okay, I stretched the limits of that metaphor. But my point stands. You want love. You deserve love. You get love.”

“Well, that’s all I needed to hear. Now I just magically believe in happily ever after again!”

Jules is unfazed. “Talk to him. Be yourself.”

“Juliet—”

“Beatrice, I’m going to level with you.” She leans her elbows on the counter and holds my eyes. “You are one of the best, warmest, dearest, most beautiful people I know. But you are so damn stubborn. You’re lonely. You want a relationship. And you’re terrified to give someone a chance. I’m trying to find a way to help you take that chance and feel safe doing it. Especially because soon, when I’m living with Jean-Claude, if you haven’t found someone, you’ll be alone. I hate that.”

My stomach drops. There’s a lump in my throat at the thought of those changes. “I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes search mine, smooth, placid blue-gray-green that we inherited from Mom. “I know you’ll be fine,” she says. “But life’s too short to be just fine.”

“You’re a romantic. You’re in love,” I tell her. “Of course you think that.”

I don’t say, When your heart gets broken, you’ll understand just how damn important “fine” becomes. Because I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, least of all Jules.

“Bea, I know you. Deep down, beneath all that hurt, you think that, too.” Straightening, she releases my hand. “Text him. If you don’t, he’ll be texting you.”

I peer down at the phone. This is unbelievable. “I’m just supposed to text a stranger?”

“Not a total stranger, remember? He’s someone I think is good for you.”

Sighing, I shove the gift bag with her Prurient Paper card and envelope into her arms. “Get out of here.”

“Yes, dear,” she says, backing away, an impish glint in her eyes. “Remember. Text him. Be yourself. So when it comes time, you’ll be comfortable on your date . . . ?”

“This Saturday,” I finish wearily.

“That’s right. Oh, and you know how Boulangerie has chess tables?”

“Sister dearest, please. I know every chess table in the city.”

She smiles. “Apparently he likes chess, too.”

“Hmm.” I slide my fingers along the surface of my phone and mull that over. I guess he can’t be all bad if he likes chess.

“Promise me one thing, come Saturday?” Jules says.

“What?”

She opens the door and steps across the threshold. “Keep an open mind.”

· SIX ·

Jamie

This is serious. Not even a week’s worth of brutalizing runs in my favorite weather—foggy, cool autumn mornings—can make my head stop playing a loop of what happened with Beatrice.