Page 6 of City of Love

Luc takes a deep breath and then says, “I think you need to prepare yourself for the realization that you have feelings for Lydia.”

It takes me a second to register what he’s saying. Then I snort. “I don’t have feelings for her,” I say.

I can almost picture Luc shrugging as he says, “Maybe not romantic, or maybe not yet. But you’reextremelyprotective of this girl. I think you should prepare yourself emotionally for meeting her. Understand that you might be more attached to her than you realize.”

“I don’t have feelings for her,” I say again, my voice flat now. “And I’m not attached to her.”

But even as I say the words, they don’t quite ring true. I'm pretty sure I don’t have romantic feelings for Lydia—we started writing when she was sixteen, which is way too young—but I’m not sure about the rest. I won’t know how I feel until she gets here.

I’m not going to tell Luc any of that, of course.

Judging by the skeptical sound he makes, Luc isn’t convinced of my words either, though. “Liar,” he says, and I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes. “She’s your friend, at the very least. That’s a big deal for you. You go out of your way not to have friends. You go out of your way to make sure you don’t get attached to anyone, ever.”

“You’remy friend,” I say, because I want to prove him wrong.

“I’m one of youronlyfriends,” he says. “Ignore me if you want, but when she shows up, you’re going to realize you feel more for her than you thought. You guys will probably get close—once she forgives you for pretending you’ve been a girl for years, anyway. You need to prepare yourself for that, or you’re going to freak out. And then you’re going to get angry and lash out at everyone, and I’m going to be the one taking the brunt of your internal crisis.”

“I’m done talking about this,” I say firmly, because this isn’t a conversation Luc and I need to have. Ultimately it doesn’t concern him. “Get some sleep, Luc.”

Luc, blast him, just chuckles and hangs up without another word.

I exhale roughly and toss my phone away, as though Luc’s words might come true if I keep it close. It’s stupid, I know.

But I refuse to overthink this. When Lydia comes tomorrow, my feelings will be exactly the same as they are now: friendly. She’ll be angry, but once the anger burns out she’ll be all right. She’ll hang around for a month, and we’ll go our separate ways. Maybe we’ll keep writing; maybe not.

I can’t quite picture what my weeks would look like without her emails—she’s been a subtle but consistently reliable part of my life for three years—but I’m certain I would be okay. I’ve gone out of my way to make sure my health and happiness don’t depend on anyone but me.

Yeah, I’d survive.

I’m not good at much else, but I’m good at that.

Chapter 3

Lydia

It’s sort of weird to see my high school French class now that I’ve graduated. Even though I only got my diploma a week ago, I feel different in a way that has nothing to do with how long it’s been.

I wasn’t ever one of those people who just wanted high school to be over. I liked high school, for the most part. And I didn’t really do the whole senioritis thing. Maybe it’s just because the future was an unknown, whereas the present was pretty comfortable. I was good at school without having to try much, and I was pretty well liked. The only major issues I ever really had were Marcus things.

But high school graduation is a threshold that you cross and then can never go back to, I guess. And I can see it in the way my former classmates mill around the gate at the airport, talking to each other some, but mainly doing their own things. It’s like the tethers of obligation have been cut; we’re not going to be stuck with these people every day anymore, so if we don’t want to do the small talk thing, we don’t have to.

I kind of like the small talk thing, personally. I know pop culture is currently on an introvert kick—“I’d rather stay home and read than go to a party!”—but that’s not me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my quiet time, but too much time by myself and I start to get lonely. I’ll leave the introversion to Mina, who rocks it like a champ. I need to be around people.

I settle myself in one of the creaky leather airport chairs, nudging my carry-on between my feet and looking more closely at my surroundings. So far there’s no sign of Marcus, which is excellent; I’m happy to delay that reunion as long as possible. But it’s nice to see my French teacher, Mademoiselle Hilliard, and when she meets my eye, I wave and smile. She returns my smile warmly and makes her way toward me, dropping into the chair across from me.

“Ça va?” she says, and I nod.

“Ça va bien,” I respond.

We chat for a couple minutes, a conversation slowed by the lack of attention I’m giving my French as I keep an eye on the crowd around us. I wish I could say I don’t care about Marcus, that I can just ignore him, but it wouldn’t be true. He unsettles me.

And I hate that. It makes me angry. So, so angry. I go out of my way to not let him see the effect he has on me, of course. I’m sure he would love the knowledge that I was scared of him. But he’ll never know, if I can help it.

The problem is, I’m not sure Iwillbe able to help it. Not if he’s going to be around for the next month. I can’t exactly report him to the principal again if he starts harassing me, can I? So I’ll just have to stay out of his way.

That thought sends more streaks of anger through me—anger at myself for letting fear dictate how I act, for not being braver; and anger at Marcus for being the world’s worst person—so I excuse myself from my conversation with my French teacher. I need to take a few deep breaths.

I stay over next to the window by myself until the boarding call, at which point I shuffle quickly into line as close to the front as I can get. I catch a glimpse at Marcus speed-walking into the waiting area as we begin boarding, and my pulse picks up its pace. Thankfully I get on the plane well before him, finding my seat and hunkering down. When the seat next to me is taken by an elderly lady, I let out a sigh of relief.

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