Back to Canada. A wave of panic washed over her. Lydia had been saying those words more frequently lately, and it terrified her. She and Martha Jane had only planned to be gone a few months, but since she had met Lydia it was almost as though time had stopped moving forward. They rarely talked about their future together, at least not in any sort of concrete way. Deep down, Kate thought she understood why. In her wildest dreams she imagined that she and Lydia and all of Paris were actually caught in a time warp, never having to think about the future because the future would never come.

“Reading someone’s palm is like sealing their destiny. It’s as if knowing makes it real.” She wished they could stay young and happy and in love in Paris forever. She wished they could make new lines, outwit fate. She wished, so much, that she didn’t know. But it wasn’t possible.

Lydia laughed, reaching for the bottle of wine. “They’re just lines, Kate,” she said. “They might tell you where you’re going, but they don’t tell you how you get there. The fun part is filling in the details.”

“That’s the part I hate the most,” Kate said. “It’s not fair to tell people what’s going to happen to them without telling them how. You only find out the how when it’s too late.” She took the bottle from Lydia and held it by the neck, pressing her palms into the glass, needing to feel something solid, tangible, real. Something that would bring her back to the present, to that room at that moment – the smell of the musty drapes, the soft wool blanket they had wrapped themselves in to keep warm, the delicate snow falling silently outside the window, the squeal of the water pipes as Claude ran his bath next door. The curve of Lydia’s ear, her hot breath on Kate’s neck, her soft sighs.

A week later, Lydia was crossing the street to buy a loaf of bread from Jules when a car came speeding down the road. Kate saw it happen in horrifying slow motion from the window of their room, a seething eternity between the second she saw that car and the second it hit Lydia. “No!” she cried. She ran down the stairs as fast as she could, her feet barely touching the floor. No, no, no. Others had already made their way out to the street, and Kate had to fight her way through the crowd to the spot where Lydia’s body had been thrown. Not yet, she kept thinking, over and over. It can’t be now. We haven’t had enough time.