Wished

Chapter 32

32

The darkness is absolute. I wonder about that, but then I decide I don’t care because the hammering in my head is extreme. I’m sure even a sliver of light would feel as if my skull were being cracked open and my brain shoveled onto a cutting board.

I wandered the streets of Geneva for hours last night, the dark churches, the tall spires not quite reaching the stars, and the old, watchful stone buildings keeping me company in my solitude.

At two in the morning, after haunting the streets for hours, I found myself at the edge of the water, looking up at the giant engagement ring glittering in the moonlight where it hung over the Barone showroom. The building was eerily quiet, the windows shuttered, the lights dim. Without the lights, without the glitter of gems or the promise of Max in his office upstairs, the building was an empty shell, a lonely reflection on the water.

I stood for a long time while the water lapped behind me, splashing quietly against concrete, the infrequent sound of a car’s engine cutting through the silence letting me know I wasn’t entirely alone. An insubstantial mist hovered at the water’s edge and blanketed the air in a damp chill. Still, I didn’t leave.

Not until I heard sirens in the distance. Then I looked to the east to find the Abry clock glowing with the time. I’d been standing there at the water’s edge, in the center of the city, for nearly an hour. The streets were empty, the bridges quiet, the ducks and swans asleep. I’d not seen another soul.

I felt so heavy, as if my blood had been replaced with lead and it was impossible to move my arms or legs. There was a weight on me. It had started in the library with my last wish, and it continued to grow heavier with every breath.

It was the opposite of the glowing lightness I’d felt with my first wish. What else could it mean except that I was being pushed back down, shoved back into my life? I flew for a bit, soaring on love, and now I’m falling, not flying, gravity sending me back to earth.

The question is, when I slam into the cobblestones, will Max be there to catch me? Or will the wish, and all that came with it, wither and die as quickly as a wilting flower?

Will he?

Won’t he?

Will I?

Won’t I?

Those were the words that fluttered around me, thrown out on the wind, while Geneva slept. And then I hit a point of exhaustion so deep I stumbled across the empty street, grabbed the rough bark of tree to steady myself, tripped through the grass, and then collapsed heavily onto a wooden bench. I fell asleep, my eyelashes fluttering as I stared out over the black water smudged with evening lights, imagining I could make out the lonely, stark fa?ade of Max’s home.

And now, darkness.

Absolute darkness.

Geneva isn’t this dark. I’d be able to see the sky, the stars, or the dawn. There are streetlights, city lights, the winking of a boat trailing through the water. So I’m not on the wooden bench on the water’s edge anymore.

I moan, blinking into the blackness, the movement causing a sharp pain to ricochet through my head. My mouth is on fire, dry and sharply bitter. There’s a queasy rolling sensation in my stomach, as if I’m in a boat, shoved in the hull, and I’m splashing up and down with the tossing of the waves.

Since this began, I’ve woken up in Max’s bed in Geneva, in Max’s bed in Paris, and now... I stretch my legs, wincing at the pounding in my head ... Now I’m in another bed.

It’s smaller. The mattress is floor-hard but still sags in the middle, the sheets soft and worn from too many washings. There’s chamomile spritzed on the foam pillow, the scent barely noticeable. The air is still, the only noise the sound of my breathing and the heavy beating of my heart.

I know for a fact that if I roll over onto my stomach and reach up and to the right eighteen inches I’ll find a lamp on a nightstand. If I flick it on I’ll see a tiny, windowless bedroom painted bright yellow.

I’m back.

I’m home.

I let out another moan. Why is it that I feel as if I’ve been hit by a delivery truck and had all the packages crash on top of me? It’s like my body is reflecting my heart.

Except, if I’m back here, that means ...

Max.

He’s himself again. We aren’t married and he’ll be himself. Will he remember?

I jerk upright, hiss at the sudden pain, and then press my hand to my head at the wave of dizziness.

It doesn’t matter. I kick aside the sheets and my old quilt and reach for my nightstand, feeling around for my phone. If Max remembers, he’ll contact me. He may have already tried to call. If he hasn’t, I’ll go to him. I promised I would.

I finally hit the cold rectangle of my phone and grab it. I close my eyes for just a second, sending up a quick prayer. Not a wish. A prayer.

Then I turn on my phone.

The glow illuminates my bedroom, a cool blue light sweeping over the room. I squint at the light as it hits me, causing my head to throb with renewed vigor.

I grip my phone. Shake it to make sure I’m seeing it right.

Then I blink.

Blink again.

Nothing changes.

Max hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. I’m certain he hasn’t emailed.

My stomach drops, the queasiness increasing.

There isn’t any reason for him to have called. There isn’t any reason for him to see me ever again. There certainly isn’t any reason for him to love me.

Why?

Because there was no wish. There was no Paris. There was no Saint-Tropez.

It’s 7:13 a.m., five hours since I went to bed. Drunk on too many bottles of wine with Dorene and my mom after getting fired. I’m hungover. Terribly, horribly hungover.

Jobless. Heartbroken. And ... stunningly ... alone.

“It was a dream,” I say, my voice cracking. The noise sets off a sledgehammer in my head. “It was a wine-induced, drunken stupor of a wished-for dream.”

I let out a gasping half-laugh, half-sob. “It was a dream.”

I drop the phone and it hits the bed with a dull thud. I was so surprised when I woke up in Max’s bed with not even a hint of a hangover. Well, surprise . Here it is. Because none of it was real. This is real.

My subconscious made it all up. Three years of wishing for love and a sapphire necklace was all it took for my mind to create a fantasy.

But what if ...? I look around my room, shadowed by the glow of the phone. There aren’t any windows, there isn’t any outside light, but what if there could be? What if I tried to talk to Max? What if ...?

I shake my head, wincing at the sharp, protesting pain.

If it was real, then he would call ? —

My phone rings.

I screech in surprise. I grab it and scramble to my feet. There’s an unknown number on the screen.

My heart pounds and my finger shakes as I answer the call.

“Max?” My voice wobbles and there’s a quiet joy blooming inside me. He called. He remembers. He ? —

“Is this Anna Benoit?”

It’s not Max.

The joy and the hope and the elation incinerate in an instant.

It’s a woman, speaking in French, with a Genevan accent. In the background there are more voices speaking rapidly, and a mechanical beeping noise.

“Yes?”

“You are listed as the emergency contact for Dorene Laporte.”

“Yes.” I nod even though she can’t see me, then I flick on the lamp at the edge of my bed. It bathes the room with a cold light, and I wince at the brightness. “What’s happened?”

When she tells me, I throw on the first outfit I see—a dirty pair of jeans and a wrinkled sweatshirt on the floor—I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers, and I shout for my mom. Then I sprint down the building stairs and out into the too-bright morning sun with another wish chasing me down the street. Let her be okay .

I don’t have much luck with wishes. All the same, I still wish.

Not for me, but for my friend.