When the Heart Falls

"I wanted a horse so bad when I was little." She sips her soda. "I think every little girl does. Seems girls everywhere want a pony and to be a princess or a ballerina."

Leslie had wanted to be a Disney Princess, but I didn't realize that's a common girl fantasy. I have a hard time imagining Winter like that. "So which did you want to be, a princess or a ballerina?"

"Neither," she says. "I wanted to be a writer. If I was a princess, I'd have all sorts of princess duties and I'd never have any time to write. Plus, their dresses, while pretty, look too uncomfortable. If I was a ballerina, I'd have to work out and dance for hours and hours every day, and I'd never have time to write. Plus their toe shoes, while pretty, look too uncomfortable."

I laugh out loud. "You like your comfort. I can appreciate that. Have you always been so practical?"

She tilts her head as she thinks, then nods, her mouth full of bread. "Mmhmm." She swallows. "Definitely. But, I still want a horse. We should go riding together sometime." She winks at me.

I can imagine it. Her arms linked around me, her breath on my neck. But, she's the kind of girl who would want her own horse. I switch the fantasy in my head and then mentally kick myself. This is a fantasy, a daydream. It's not real, because at the end of the summer I'm leaving and she's not. I've pushed that thought away, pretending this is our forever, but it's not. It can't be.

My face must be broadcasting the direction of my thoughts because Winter's smile has faded. She leans away from me, a serious look on her face. "So, when will we talk about that thing we're not talking about?"

I'd hoped this conversation could be postponed until, I don't know, after summer. "Might as well get it over with."

She flinches at my words, and I kick myself again. I don't want to hurt her. Not ever.

"What are we?" Her big blue eyes seem even bigger, vulnerable. "Exclusive? Dating other people?"

I place my hand on hers. "As long as we're spending time together, I won't date anyone else."

Her shoulders relax. "Neither will I. So… " She bites her lower lip, and I think about how that lips tastes. "Are we a couple? Are we together?"

How do I answer this? "Right now we are. But soon—"

"Soon we'll reach a crossroads," she finishes my sentence again. This time she doesn't blush. She just looks sad.

"And take different paths," I say, completing the thought.

Her eyes look brighter now, more liquid. "We might as well enjoy what we have now."

"I don't want to hurt you, Winter." And I can’t ask her to come with me, to give up her dreams for me. I can’t be selfish with her, as much as I might want to. I know what that feels like, to have someone else’s selfishness try to rob you of your dreams, and I’ll never do that to her. Never.

"You won't hurt me.” She squeezes my hand. “Because I know what this is."

"What is it?"

"A summer fling. We hook up, we have fun, and we go our separate ways. It's like a dream. I'll have fun while it lasts. I won't be sad when it ends." And yet, she looks sad already, with eyes full of unshed tears and a smile that breaks my heart.

Whatever she might say, we’ve gotten too close, closer than I’ve ever been to another person. I can’t hurt her any more than I already have. We’ll have fun on this trip, make memories that we can both cherish for years. I owe that to her, and I need it, too. Need her for a few more days. But once this trip ends—so must we. It’s the only way.

"So, together for the summer?" She holds out her pinky finger, looking so much a mix of woman and child, worldly and innocent.

I can’t look into her eyes, but I link my pinky with hers and choose my words carefully. "Until we part ways.”

Her hand drops away, and I stare out the window as dark clouds form in the sky.

We stop for a transfer to a bus, and after four hours of travel by train and bus, we drive down the causeway that leads to what was once the island of Mont Saint-Michel. The abbey sits at the highest point on the hill, a beacon to lost souls on pilgrimage for hundreds of years, and it draws me in, another lost soul in need of answers.





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 19





IT'S LIKE GOING back in time, walking down narrow cobblestone streets with low hanging signs that sway in the wind against stone buildings. Auberge Saint Pierre is a 15th century half-timbered house located on the main street leading to the Mont Saint-Michel abbey. From the outside, it looks like an old-fashioned pub, the kind people would travel to for ale and a hot meal and sleep after a long journey. I feel far too modern with my sundress and backpack as we walk into history, but I'm relieved to see that despite the historic feeling of the building, modern luxuries prevail with running water, televisions and Wi-Fi, not that I intend to spend the weekend hooked up to the net.

We approach the front desk. "I booked two rooms under Winter Deveaux."

The man behind the counter types something into his computer and frowns. "I'm sorry," he says in his thick French accent. "It appears we only have one room available."