Chapter 10
Mind reeling, I took a few steps back and shook my head. “I’m sorry, what?”
Whatever softness might have been in Eliza’s eyes disappeared all at once, and an unamused expression settled into her features. Shock coursed through me as she transformed before my eyes—once more becoming the cool, collected version of herself she’d been in the lobby of the Louvre and before she agreed to go out with me yesterday.
She moved to stand off the bench, and I stepped into her path, blocking her escape. “What are you doing here?” I asked. Eliza scoffed and stepped around me. I watched her sling her backpack over her shoulders and stomp away. She only made it a dozen steps before the words tumbled out of me. “You came to me. Why are you walking away?”
Keeping her back toward me, she drew in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
She took another couple of steps, and I sped forward, appearing before her.
I didn’t understand what drew me to this woman—what called me to the darkness in her eyes and the pain she wore on her sleeve. And yet, standing in front of her, all I could think about was the oceans of her irises and the splotches of red that seemed to stain every shirt she wore. I’d spent the nights since we met dreaming of the sound of her laugh, wondering if I’d ever have the chance to hear it again.
Was this how Holland felt when he met Addie? Did he want to ease the pain in her soul?
Eliza’s lips drew back in a frown, and if I didn’t react quickly, she would slip through my fingers. I swallowed every one of my questions and concerns and steeled myself for her rejection.
I motioned to my left. “Eiffel Tower’s this way.”
Something softened within her and her frown disappeared, replaced by an almost smile. She extended her arm in an invitation for me to lead the way.
I did.
Once again, Eliza didn’t say much on the metro ride to the Eiffel Tower, but she curiously watched the city around us—never missing a thing. She pulled a pocketbook out of her backpack a few times and scribbled something in it, only to shove it away when I glanced over at her. Every cell in my body urged me to ask what she was writing, but I shoved the questions down and kept quiet.
If I was going to uncover the Eliza I’d discovered at Parc Monceau, I had to keep the conversation on her terms. No questions. No personal details.
No matter how much I wanted to know everything about her.
When we reached the Eiffel Tower, she remained quiet by my side while we waited in line to buy tickets.
“Do you want to go all the way to the top?” I asked when it was our turn.
“Of course,” she said instantly, her eyes brightening.
Something inside me relaxed.
When we approached the ticket counter, I pulled out my debit card to pay, only for Eliza to growl lowly and hand the ticket agent her card.
“Thank you,” I said as we walked across the concrete lot toward the elevator that would take us up.
“It’s the least I can do for derailing your entire day,” Eliza muttered.
I thought about protesting and telling her she had done no such thing, but truthfully I wasn’t sure yet. I felt on edge around her, like she was a ticking bomb ready to explode.
But I’d had every opportunity to walk away—to say goodbye—and I hadn’t.
A couple people in front of us in line for the elevator stood a mother and her red-haired toddler, who was over the moon to be at the Eiffel Tower. She kept leaping into the air and pointing at the enormous structure above us, continuously begging her mother to go ‘up.’ Her mother laughed and held her, though I recognized melancholy in her eyes as she looked around—as if someone was supposed to be with them but wasn’t.
I glanced at Eliza, partially to check that she was with me, and found her staring longingly at the mother and daughter. I lowered my eyes and pretended not to notice.
“How long have you lived in Paris?” Eliza’s question caught me off guard. I turned my attention to her, and she watched me with curiosity filling the seas in her eyes.
I recovered from my surprise quickly, clearing my throat. “Only since November, so about five months.”
She pondered my answer. “I’ve been here for three days,” she said. One day longer than I’d known her.
I took a couple steps forward in line. “Are you enjoying it?”
Eliza drew in a breath. “No.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that without scaring her away, so I simply nodded.
“Are you?” She hadn’t looked away from me during our entire interaction and the newfound, wide-eyed innocence in her eyes sent my stomach tumbling.
“I’m trying to,” I replied, unsure why I was being so brutally honest. “I have my brother and my friends, but this city brings me memories of goodbyes—ones I’m trying very hard to forget.”
Eliza nodded. “I hate goodbyes.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and if I hadn’t been standing still, I would have stumbled. It took all my effort to swallow and maintain my composure.
“Yeah,” was all I could manage. “Me too.”
After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the first level of the Eiffel Tower. Eliza darted away from me immediately, rushing to the railing and standing with her hands gripping the cold metal as she looked out over the city. I followed, afraid to scare her away.
Before she caught me following her in the Louvre, there had been glimpses of genuine interest in her eyes—curiosity, fascination. She’d lit up like a mirrorball on the carousel at the park. That brightness, ever so fleeting, was in her eyes again.
She leaned her elbows on the railing as I approached, lowering her head to rest her chin on her palm. “It’s like being on top of the world,” she breathed.
I kept my eyes on her instead of how high we were off the ground, trying to ignore the slight swaying of the tower in the spring breeze. I wasn’t particularly a fan of heights, but if she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, I would brave the wind for her… for a stranger.
I shook away any thoughts of how Eliza didn’t feel like a stranger and asked, “Why are you in Paris?”
She’d told me before she was running away; I wanted to know why.
Eliza pursed her lips. “We shouldn’t ruin a good day with a sad story.”
“Then, tell me something,” I said. “Anything to make me understand why you’re here and why you keep coming back to me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The Louvre and the Luxembourg Gardens were a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I countered quickly. “I believe people come into each other’s lives for a reason.”
“So, why am I here?” she asked. There was no accusation in her voice, but there was longing—a desperation to belong.
“You tell me,” I said, standing next to her and placing my hands on the railing.
She let out a long breath. When she placed her hands back on the railing, her fingers brushed against mine. “I was always going to say goodbye. Running away seemed easy at the time; it hurts now.”
“I know a little something about that.”