I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed deeply. “Okay. I trust you. But please be safe.”
“Thank you, Kate,” he said, leaning back against the wall, but keeping hold of my hand. He focused on the ceiling for a few moments, before turning to me. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about too. Totally different subject.”
I smiled wickedly. “I’m up for talking about anything.”
“Why have you cut all ties with your friends in New York?”
My smile disappeared. “Except that.”
“Kate, I totally get the fact that my friends are your friends here. I don’t blame you for not wanting to hang out with the kids from school. You say there’s no one interesting there, and I understand that you don’t want to get attached to people who will leave for their home countries after graduation.
“But your childhood friends—the people you grew up with. The way you’ve talked to me about them . . . it sounds like you were really close.”
“We were,” I said, my voice flat. “They even contacted Mamie after I stopped writing, but I had her tell them I wasn’t in the mood to talk. They probably all hate me now.”
“I think they’d all understand why you fell out of touch last year. It was an awful time for you. You’ll never get over your parents’ death, I’m not even suggesting that. But you’re doing better now. You’re coping with life.”
“Questionable, since I hang out with a bunch of dead people.” My eyes flicked quickly to his. I hadn’t meant it as a slam. And from his wry smile, I was relieved to see he hadn’t taken offense.
“Okay, you’re between worlds. But you’ve told me you never felt like you completely fit in anywhere. How did you say it? ‘Not completely American and not completely French.’
“But that doesn’t mean that you should just trash those relationships you had back home. They’re part of your past, Kate. We all need a past to root our present in. You can’t just live in the here and now.”
“Why not?” I snapped, surprising myself by the vehemence in my voice. “Do you know what the past holds for me, Vincent?”
“Death, Kate.” His voice softened. “So does mine.”
“Vincent, all my memories are built around my family. My parents. After leaving Brooklyn, every time I talked to my friends it dragged me right back into that old life. Everything they said reminded me of home. And it hurt so badly, you can’t even imagine.” My eyes flitted to his face as I remembered that his parents and fiancée had been murdered before his eyes. But he didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked more caring and supportive than ever.
“Okay, you can imagine,” I conceded. “But Vincent, I’m not a sadist. Inflicting unnecessary pain on myself on a consistent basis is not my idea of staying healthy and sane. I can’t be in touch with them. It hurts too much.”
Vincent looked down at his hands, weighing his words carefully before he looked back up at me. Without speaking, he traced my jawline with his finger, as if sketching my face’s topography. I reached up and grasped his hand, pulling it into my lap and holding it with both hands for comfort.
“I get it, Kate. Believe me, I do. But I just want to put something out there for you to consider. When I died the first time, it was announced in the papers. Everyone knew. I didn’t even have a choice about going back to my community—to the people I loved. And I missed that. For years, I practically stalked Hélène’s father and sister, making sure they were okay. I couldn’t ever show myself, but I watched them.
“I left anonymous flowers when Hélène’s dad passed away. And after Brigitte, Hélène’s sister, died giving birth to a son, I watched him. He and his family live in the south of France now. I have seen them. His daughter looks like her grandmother. And however weird it sounds, knowing they exist grounds me. Having a link to my past grounds me.
“But I would have given anything to have been able to stay in touch with Brigitte and her father and the other people from my past—no matter how many painful memories that contact would have stirred up. I didn’t have that choice. But you do. It might be too early, but I hope you will change your mind someday. I can tell whenever you mention your friends that you still struggle with it. But . . . being in contact with them might actually make you happier.”
Pain had been blowing up like a bubble inside me, and at that, it finally exploded. “I am happy, Vincent,” I growled through clenched teeth. He looked at me, a skeptical eyebrow raised. Realizing how ridiculous that had sounded, I pursed my lips, and then burst out laughing. I leaned forward into his arms, loving him more in that moment than I ever had. He cared for me. Not just because he wanted me for himself. He wanted me to be happy . . . on my own.
The curtains came up, but we didn’t move. We spent the rest of the performance kissing and laughing and peeking out at the ballet and then kissing some more.