They bought a bottle of wine at a corner store and brought it back to their hotel room, where they drank out of paper cups and played blackjack until the three soldiers on Afghanistan time were exhausted.

Peter and his friends reminded her of long, jokey nights with Davis, watching him and his fraternity brothers shoot guns on the screen of a video game. Unlike the boys with her now, after they turned off the TV, they were done. Every time she thought of Davis, she sighed. Yet another reason why she shouldn’t be in Paris, let alone kissing another guy in Paris. She had told him she was having a “phones off” sorry-I’m-such-a-bad-friend weekend with Gillian and Ingrid, which is where she should be, really, all things considered. But it’s not like she would have felt better, or less sad, or more like herself if she were at home. She was trying her best just to be there. And, well, being there wasn’t hard.

Kelsey was still wide-awake, but she got into her pajamas anyway, suddenly self-conscious enough to wait until Sam was done using the bathroom. Normally, she would have tossed her shirt aside, no matter the company. Kelsey and her body were one, and she wasn’t ashamed or scared of revealing it.

But this wasn’t Davis, who had seen and touched pretty much everything. This wasn’t an audience of hundreds of anonymous faces, watching her writhe around in a costume. This was Peter, who cared so deeply about the little things. Who opened his heart to her.

Judging by how moved he was by a song or a circle in the middle of a Kansas prairie, her bare back might just send him reeling.

When she came out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and shorts, Sam and Phil were already snoring. One lamp, beside the bed, remained lit.

Peter approached her in his boxers, and put his hands on her waist, tucking his fingers under the hem of her shirt. He was so close she could see the blonde hairs on his skin. Maybe he wasn’t as prudish as she thought.

Kelsey seized up.

He must have sensed she was feeling shy, so he took a step back.

He kissed her on the cheek, and turned to switch off the lamp. Kelsey took the opportunity to jump into bed, under the covers, her face toward the wall. Her cheek was burning.

“Hey,” he whispered as he lay beside her. “Today was crazy.”

“It was,” she said, swallowing.

“Tomorrow will be great,” he said, shifting his weight closer.

“Mm-hmm” was all Kelsey could get out.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

She waited for the sound of Peter’s deep breathing to breathe herself, silently begging the universe over and over, for what she wasn’t sure. For a lot of things. For everything to be okay. For Michelle, wherever she was. And for the kind soldier beside her to be all right.

Above all, for that.

As far away as it seemed right then, the thought of Peter safe and happy granted Kelsey peace, and she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Iron beam after iron beam fell past Kelsey’s eyes, and between the lattice, Paris grew smaller and the sky grew bigger. As the Seine River lengthened, the green of Champ de Mars unrolled in a graceful U shape. Her stomach flopped. They were getting higher. Peter held her hand tight, catching her eyes, laughing at the absurdity of a dozen nations squawking together in one elevator.

“The sound people make when they’re traveling up the Eiffel Tower is the same in every language, isn’t it?” he whispered.

“You mean, ooh and aah?” she replied.

“Exactly.”

“Except not here. Here they say, Ooh la la.”

Peter cringed. “Bad. You are good at bad, bad jokes.”

“No, here they say: Who gives a merde about the Eiffel Tower, I am so cool, I am from Paris.”

“Merde? Is that shit?”

Kelsey was using her limited French to her full advantage. “Oui. As in: Western Kansas smells like merde, because of the hog farms.”

Peter gave her a shove. “Do not knock my place of origin. And that’s Emporia with the hog farms, not El Dorado.”

“Why are we talking about hog farms right now, of all times?”

“A valid point. I feel like we should be reciting poetry.”

“Roses are red, violets are—”

“Anything but that.”

They laughed.

Kelsey hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand the whole way up.

It was a windy, cool afternoon in early spring, and that morning the four of them had walked down the Champs-Élysées as the sun broke the clouds. Even the Parisians were loose and talkative in the metro, smiling below dark sunglasses.

Everyone seemed to have forgotten their troubles, and Kelsey was powerless against the pull of an entire city. She was distracted. Love this, everything seemed to say, in the haughty way a girl like her might flaunt her own good looks. How can you not love this?

Peter let go of her hand briefly, to point out the pyramid shape of the main entrance of the Louvre in the distance, then took it again, squeezing.

He was lighter than she had ever seen him. He didn’t have anything to shove away, to swallow, to pretend wasn’t happening. That morning, they had watched Phil and Sam do one hundred push-ups each, but Peter had cheerfully refused. “Unless someone is going to yell in my face about it, I don’t feel the need.” On their way to the tower, Peter had made dirty jokes about the nude statues that lined the park hedges, including one that made Kelsey spit out her latte on the manicured gravel.

The elevator continued to rise, away from Peter’s friends, who were now somewhere near Notre Dame Cathedral.

Kelsey realized how long she and Peter had been alone.

As the city blocks began to blur together into one vast carpet, her resolve crept back.

Peter, I’m not who you think I am. I am, but I’m not. Kelsey felt her eyes squint. This was going to be terrible.

At the top, the wind blew stronger and the iron creaked, sending a group of Italian tourists into shrieks.

Kelsey buttoned up her trench coat and Peter pulled her to him, kissing her lightly on the forehead as they stared out across the city, entwined.

Peter, this may come as a shock. But I am not Michelle. I do care about you, though, which is why I am here.

No matter what would happen between them, they were the only two people there who knew each other in that particular way, so far from home. She couldn’t imagine keeping a secret from him. This should be her chance to make everything right. This was her chance.

She stepped back, putting a hand on each of his arms, their solidness now shivering under his cotton sweater.

“Should have brought my jacket,” he said, and they were both quiet.

“Peter—” Kelsey started.

Just then, a man—whose red tracksuit mirrored the woman beside him—tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” His accent sounded Eastern European. “Photo, please?” He gestured at himself and his wife, then at the sweeping landscape.

Peter looked at Kelsey, raising his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “Long shot or close-up?”

“Sorry?” the woman responded, flipping her dark lenses up to reveal regular glasses underneath.

“Never mind,” Peter said, glancing at Kelsey again, close to laughter. He was having fun. They were both having fun.

This was a terrible thing she had to do.

Kelsey smiled stiffly and folded her arms, trying to keep her courage.

The blonde couple held each other and posed, their cheeks rosy from the chill, hands united at their waists. They had probably been married for decades, pounds and wrinkles away from their youth, further and further from the moment they met but always in love, until the end.