“Say my name again,” he whispers. I close my eyes and lean forward. “Étienne.” He takes my hand into his. Those perfect hands, that fit mine just so. “Anna?” Our foreheads touch. “Yes?” “Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.”
“That guys. Sideburns. You like him?“ My back squirms. "You’ve asked me that before.” “What I meant was,” he says, flustered. “Your feelings haven’t changed? Since you’ve been here?” It takes a moment to consider the question. “It’s not a matter of how Ifeel,” I say at last. “I’m interested, but … I don’t know if he’s still interested in me.” St. Clair edges closer. “Does he still call?” “Yeah. I mean, not often. But yes.” “Right. Right, well,” he says, blinking. “There’s your answer.”
A moment of reserve. “That was it? The whole story?” “Yes. God, you’re right. That was pants.” I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. “Pants?” “Rubbish. Crap. Shite.” Pants. Oh heavens, that’s cute.
↳ ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS; School of America in Paris. [1/6]
Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now I’m here with my parents—unpacking my belongings in a room smal er than my suitcase—the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.”
Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. “Anna.” He’s surprised to see me, and I’m startled, too. He remembers me.