When the Heart Falls

"Now, doofus. That's why it's a surprise."

I mentally clear my weekend, which consisted of studying and finding ways to spend time with Winter that don't involve studying. "Great. Let me get all my worldly possessions." I grab my book bag and phone. Winter's fixing her lipstick in the mirror, so I reach under my pillow, pull out the letter and stuff it in my bag.

Mont Saint-Michel awaits us, but even as we leave for a journey to history, I'm haunted by my own past. Perhaps what came before us never leaves, but is dimly reflected in the present as it wields its ghostly hands to shape the future.



The French countryside passes beside us, hills of green and grazing sheep and sky so blue it looks Photoshopped.

Winter studies my most recent French test. "75%. Not bad."

"Not good enough. Not even as good as the last one." I sound sulky, which I know isn't attractive in a man, but this class is kicking my ass.

Winter shrugs. "They get harder as the semester progresses, but you're getting better faster than they're getting harder. We'll get you to an 80% soon."

"Sure." Her eternal optimism never dims. "If you work hard enough at something—"

"You'll succeed," Winter finishes. I can't remember if she's ever finished my sentence before. Our relationship has deepened in the last month. She blushes, probably thinking the same thing.

"Exactly." I take her hand in mine, and though her skin is always cool to the touch, her proximity produces a rush of heat in me.

Her stomach growls so loud she blushes again and giggles. "That would be my cue to get us some food. Do you want anything special?"

"Whatever you're having is fine." I release her hand and feel her absence as soon as she walks out of our private room.

My French test sits on Winter's seat, mocking me. I pick it up and study it again. Even though Winter has spent countless hours working with me, and I've spent countless hours studying on my own, most of the questions still look like gibberish. I even guessed at several answers I got right, but I'm not going to tell Winter that.

I have to do something before I lose all chance of passing this class. Pulling out my phone, I scroll through the numbers until I find the one I want. "Bonjour. Monsieur Bellugue?"

"Oui. Bonjour, Cade."

"How do you always know it's me?"

"You accent is very distinct."

Oh, right. I clear my throat, planning my words in my head. "I got my last French test back."

"Did you do well? Your professor says you are improving with Winter's help."

I stare at the 75%. "I guess I am, but not fast enough. I've worked real hard, studied real hard, but there's no way I'm getting an 80% on the next test. On any test. And my average is falling. Soon, even if I can pull off an 80% score it won't cut it."

"I see."

"Please, Monsieur, is there anything else I can do for extra credit?"

"Not for a summer program."

"There must be something. I'm heading to Mont Saint-Michel right now. I can write an essay on it."

"Even if you could write the essay in French, it wouldn't help with this kind of course, I'm afraid."

"Please, Monsieur. You know I'll work hard, just give me something to work on."

"I'm sorry, Cade. There's nothing I can do. Keep studying, I'm sure you'll get there."

My stomach clenches as my last hope for salvation disappears. "I understand. Thank you, anyways."

"Au revoir, Cade. Good luck on your French."

I end the call and lay the phone down next to me. I've never been so bad at anything in my life, and never so desperate to be good. Anger and frustration gnaw at me, eating away at my future. I scrunch the test up into a ball in my hand, then stuff it into my book bag so Winter doesn't see. She's given up so much of her summer helping me. I dread disappointing her when I fail this class.

Winter returns a few moments later with a platter of food: some sandwiches, soda, chips, breads and cheeses, and fruit. Sitting next to me, she sets up the food on a small table in front of us and offers me some.

"Thank you. This looks good." My gut is in knots, but I push past it to eat.

Winter bites into her sandwich and points out the window. "Look at the sheep."

"Reminds me of my old home." For the first time in my life, I just referred to my family's home in the past tense, and it shocks me. But that's what it feels like, my old home, my childhood home, not where I belong now. I can't imagine going back to that life, to that world. "I used to ride my horse over fields like these every day."

"What's your horse's name?"

"Biscuit." I think I miss her the most, next to Stevie. "I loved riding her, loved the scorching sun at my back, and the wind, I loved the wind. The way I'd tear through it, and the way it would part for me sometimes, as if to help me out. Nothing but nature everywhere."