It had been one of our favorite things to do; watch people and make up stories about why they were where they were, what they were planning, thinking, doing. Jake always had a good knack for making the stories completely wild and making me laugh. I felt a whole new pang over losing him.

Then we were moving down a long, wide corridor with Leonardos on both sides, moving closer and closer to the group of ogling tourists snapping pictures at the end.

“That’s the Mona Lisa?” I looked down at the biggest group of people in the whole, wide museum full of amazing sights.

“Yes,” Mom said, her brow wrinkled. “You’d think they would give a second of attention to the other paintings. I know she’s famous, but come on.”

It was strange, how everyone gravitated to this one painting, agreeing that it was something special, something worth all of the hysteria even if they had no idea why. It was in that gallery that we saw Lylee and Saxon. When Lylee saw my mother, she walked to her with purpose.

“Suzanne, where were you? I thought we were coming here together?” She sounded annoyed.

Mom gave her an incredibly intimidating stare-down. Even Lylee backed off. “My daughter was up early, and I decided to take her with me before the rest of the group. You shouldn’t count on me to always be right there, Lylee. I’m really here for Brenna.”

Mom’s words were icy, and I was so proud, I could have crowed. I felt embarrassed that I had ever been charmed by Lylee, and thought it was weird how completely my opinion of her had changed. Now every time I was around her, she gave off a vain, shallow vibe that just didn’t sit well with me. But I didn’t tell my mother, because I didn’t like to discourage Mom from having friends.

Lylee looked suitably chastised, but there was even something about that look I didn’t trust one hundred per cent.

“How nice that the two of you had time together.” She smiled as indulgently as if she had been the one to give us permission. “Should we stroll over and see what all the fuss is about?”

Mom put her arm around my shoulders, and we all headed down to the painting. We had to wait in the middle of a big, jostling crowd. It was definitely the most densely populated couple of feet in the museum. Maybe it got some competition from the gift shop and the cafeteria, at least at lunch, but otherwise this was where you could find most of the museum patrons.

Mom and Lylee struck up a pseudo-friendly conversation, and Saxon came to stand behind me.

“Morning, pal,” he said softly.

“Hey, Saxon,” I answered, not taking my eyes off of the painting. It was hard to see, since it was behind a scratched, slightly blurry piece of plexiglass.

“Do you want to talk a minute?” He was wearing a faded Quiet Riot t-shirt and a pair of brown suit pants. He looked shower damp and so handsome, it made my throat tighten.

“Mom, Saxon and I are going to look at Nike. She’s over here right?” I pointed out into the next foyer.

Mom tossed me an absent smile and nodded, then went back to what was quickly turning into a heated debate with her ‘friend’ about the relevance of pop culture in art. I knew it could be a while.

Saxon and I walked into the open, cool foyer where Nike stood, right at the center of two huge staircases that met in the middle. We both stared at the enormous, headless, winged goddess.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry about some of the stuff I said last night.” Saxon’s voice sounded the opposite of sorry.

“Like you’re sorry because you were wrong, or you’re sorry because you don’t want me to be pissed?” I sat down on the first step of the left staircase, and the statue shadowed us.

“I guess it makes a difference to you?” He sat too close to me.

“Yes, Saxon. It makes a difference whether your apology is sincere or bullshit.” He took my hand, and even though it felt good, I knew I was mostly just putting up with it.

“Have you talked to Jake?” His voice brushed softly against my ears.

“Not in words.” I felt twitchy when I thought about the photos.

“Smoke signals?” he teased.

“Pictures. On Facebook.” And I briefed Saxon on our photo project, and on the first pictures, then on the second set, and by the time I was done, my head was on his shoulder and he rubbed a hand over my hair roughly.

“He sounds pissed,” Saxon observed.

“He should be,” I returned, and my voice quavered embarrassingly.

“He’s an understanding guy,” Saxon assured me. “You don’t have any reason to be nervous.”

I pressed my face to his shirt to temper back the tears that threatened to pour out. “You’re so full of crap, it’s hard to believe one word that comes out of your mouth.”

“I can tell you what I’m sorry about from last night.” Saxon kissed my head. I closed my eyes and leaned into him. “I’m sorry for pretending I would be cool with you being corrupted, because all of that really was crap. I just think it would be the only way for me to go after you without feeling like you were getting a totally raw deal.”

“I figured that. What about the virgin/whore thing?”

“That stands,” he said firmly. “Sorry. I know it bucks your whole feminist view of yourself, but it’s what makes guys fall all over you.”

I sighed. “I don’t want anyone falling over me.”

He shook his head. “Did you just steal my bullshit crown? You’re so full of it, it’s sickening. Something in you takes sick pleasure in seeing guys on their knees for you.” He pulled away and faced me. “Admit it.”

“It’s not true,” I said, though there was, as always, an uncomfortable ring of truth in everything he said, even when he claimed it was mostly crap. And then I kissed him, because he was being so understanding. Because he was so handsome it made my eyes ache to look at him. Because I wanted to. Because Jake’s pictures made me lonely and miserable, and I didn’t really enjoy feeling punished, even if that’s exactly what I deserved.

I wrapped my arms around Saxon’s neck and kissed without holding back. He put his hands on my hips and held me to him, kissing back. The goddess of victory towered over us and the cool, damp museum smell surrounded us. I could hear the silky chatter of French museum goers and the tread of their feet as they passed by us. I pressed harder, and Saxon was the only thing I thought about.

Saxon.

Complicated, understanding, infuriating Saxon.

When I finally pulled away, he smiled and his face looked happy.

“We only have a few days left here.” He tucked my hair behind my ears. “Let’s be exclusive, you and me, alright? International dating buddies. And when you get home, you go back where you belong.”

“It’s not going to work like that, Saxon.” It was annoying that he was trying to plan my life out, despite his obvious good intentions. “Anyway, I thought you were working on not being someone to have fun with.”

“This isn’t fun.”He held my face in his hands. “You’re not giving up the goods and it’s gonna be uncomfortable as hell when we get back to good ol’ Jersey. This is just pure indulgence.”

It was that word that did it for me. Maybe my childhood desire to scribble with markers over a perfectly good fairytale had just morphed in my teen life. Because I had all of the elements of a fairytale with Jake, and here I was, scribbling hard with every crazy, relationship-ending color I could find.

“It sounds like a really stupid idea,” I said, then kissed him softly. “I’m in.”

He took my hand and stood me up. “You know they had to move this in World War II?” He looked at the colossal Nike.

“Why?”

“Hitler was an art lover. Kind of. He stole famous art from all over Europe and holed it up for future display in some planned master museum. Anyway, the Germans were marching on Paris, and the museum director got scared, so they moved it.”

“How?” I liked this storytelling side of Saxon. I liked thinking about historical facts instead of potential emotional intricacies. This was good.