Page 35 of Heathens
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” There’s no way I can argue with that, not since I learned about her death and how much she meant to him.
He pulls my seat out for me and we leave, talking the entire way back to my apartment about our favorite desserts. His is cheesecake. Mine is homemade pie. Specifically, Greta’s blueberry pie. I reminisce about that pie for eight whole blocks, and then I tell Salem a little about the woman who helped to raise me.
“When I moved to Paris with Evelyn, my parents kept Greta on part-time. They were hardly ever home, so they needed someone to maintain the house.“ Salem's eyebrows quirk up as we walk along the river but he doesn't say anything. “She died in her sleep a week after they returned home from helping me. A week after Evelyn...“
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, a frown forming on those perfect lips.
I have to swallow the lump in my throat. As if losing my best friend wasn’t hard enough, Greta passing away one week later was just as traumatizing.I never got to say goodbye. The woman I loved with all my heart ... and I never got to say goodbye.
“She died of a broken heart. She loved me like a daughter, but Evelyn... sheworshippedthe ground Evelyn walked on. Everyone did.”
“Evelyn sounds like an amazing person.” He uses the present tense, and for that I’m grateful. The tiny, inkling hope that sputters and fights to stay aflame, the one that lives inside of me and keeps me going, grows a tiny bit at that.
“She is.”
“And you’re going to find her.” Salem stops walking. “Do you think she’s still in Paris?”
I nod and lean against the railing on the bridge we stopped on. “I just... have this feeling she’s here.” I look around. “I think I’m always looking for her. You don’t want to know how many times I tap the shoulder of any redheaded woman—anyone thatcouldbe her.” My voice breaks, but I continue. “I have to find her. She is everything good in this world—strong, kind, compassionate. She has the most beautiful soul. When I think of what those people are doing to her, itkillsme.” I wipe away the tear that runs down my cheek.
“You are going to find her,” Salem repeats, reaching out and brushing another stray tear away with his thumb.
I sniff. “I know. You’re the first person to say that.” I give him a grateful smile and smooth out the lines in my summer dress.
“What do you mean?” He takes a step closer, and I lose my train of thought for just a second, stuttering.
“I—um—e-everyone thinks she’s dead. A lost cause. The police. Her parents. My parents. They all think I’m crazy.” I pause. “Maybe I am,” I whisper.
He reaches out and places his warm, smooth hands on my bare arms. “You’re not crazy. People often underestimate hope and optimism. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with looking for her. With believing—from the very bottom of your soul—that she’s here and she’s alive.”
I nod. “I know. I know that, but sometimes...” I trail off and look down at my white sneakers. “Sometimes it’s like that optimism is trying to fight the darkness. And that darkness... it consumes me sometimes. It’s hard to look at the bright side when that happens.” When I look back up at Salem, he’s watching with the kind of intensity that weakens my knees.
“When that happens,” he murmurs, brushing my hair behind my ear with his hand, “I will dance with you in the dark.”
My eyes flutter closed, and I lean into him so that we’re hugging. Wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, I feel him hesitate for just a second before he does the same. His hands wrap effortlessly around my waist, and I let my head fall onto his chest.
“Thank you,” I sniffle, inhaling the scent of Notre Dame—because that’s what he always smells like.
Frankincense and Myrrh, and a little bit like soap. I never want to let go.
He’s so tender and warm, yet solid and strong. He’s mentioned how he likes to go on runs most nights and on the weekends, but he must do something to his chest and arms because his shirt accentuates each distinct muscle. The last I heard, running doesn’t give you biceps likethis.Just that thought alone flames my cheeks, and I take advantage of the proximity and I pull him a little closer. His hand on my lower back sends awareness rushing through me, enhancing every place we're touching. I feel his breath turn ragged, and I can hear his heart beating quickly in his chest. The whole of Paris slows around us as he pulls away slightly, looking down at me with darkened eyes.
I. Am. Burning.
“Dance with me, Lilith.”
“But, there’s no music,” I blurt, still wrapped around him.
“There’s always music in Paris,” he says under his breath, moving my pliable body so that we can dance. I keep one arm around his neck and place my other hand flat on his chest. If I thought he was nervous before, now... now his heart is galloping.
“Take my hand,” he says, intertwining his fingers with the ones on his chest. “Now, justlisten.”
We don’t move at all at first. I’m too distracted by the smell of his breath, the feel of his body against mine. But I close my eyes, and I tune into the sounds around us.
A couple of blocks away, someone’s playing an accordion. A melody. The sounds of heels on the cobblestone as people pass us on the bridge provides a beat. Salem’s breathing is even, low, providing the bass. Car tires on the road enhance everything. Shouts, giggles, sirens... it really is music. He begins to sway us to the melody of the accordion. I can barely make it out, but after a few seconds, I feel my breath hitch.
“Edith Piaf’sNotre Dame de Paris,” I whisper. It’s just the melody, but I start to hum the words.
“Ah, a classic tourist trap,” Salem jokes.
