Wished

Chapter 34

34

Saint-Tropez is just as I remember. It feels as if I truly was there. There are the same pastel-taffy houses, the same sea-salt scents mixed with blooming mimosa, the same turquoise sea crashing over sand and rock and spraying me with cool salt mist. The tarte tropézienne is the same, the soft brioche filled with the sweet, tart lemon and vanilla custard that burst over my taste buds like sunshine from behind a cloud. Everything is the same. Even the Barone pop-up store in the old bougainvillea-covered mansion is there.

I’d find it strange, except my mom says with enthusiastic conviction, “This is exactly like I’ve always imagined! I feel like I’ve been here a thousand times before.”

Emme agrees, joyfully painting another watercolor, determined to leave Dorene with a lifetime supply of landscapes and still lifes.

I can’t disagree with my mom or Emme. After all, we’ve watched about nine million travel shows and documentaries on the French Riviera. It would only be strange if we didn’t feel like we’ve been here before.

So we help Dorene settle in. We find the best market, florist, and boulangerie, we cook and freeze soups to last months, we meet the neighbors, and we help to make her apartment a home. When we leave, I try very hard not to cry. My throat is tight and there’s a terrible itching at the backs of my eyes.

“Allergies,” I say.

Dorene scoffs and pulls me into a hug. “It’s a shame you didn’t kiss anyone while you were here.”

I squeeze her tighter and then press my lips to her cheek. “There. Job done.”

She swats me, and I smile and step back.

“You’ll visit soon?” she asks.

Emme runs to hug her around the waist, and then my mom joins in. We promise to visit at Christmas. When we talked about it last night, six months didn’t seem like a long time, but with this goodbye, six months seems to stretch out like an eternity.

As we leave, Dorene squeezes my hand a final time and says, “Be happy, Anna.”

It’s funny—that’s the exact thing I wished for Max. It’s what I’ve wished for everyone I love. I didn’t know they were wishing the same thing for me.

I kneel down on the glossy concrete of the market, positioning the cardboard box so I can use the box cutter to open the top. It’s the end of my first week at my new job and I’m starting to feel more comfortable. I’ve never worked at a market before. I’ve never taken inventory, stocked shelves, or had a dozen coworkers. I always thought my last job was physically demanding, but unloading boxes and unpacking products is hard work.

For the past week, once I’ve stumbled off the bus, I’ve mumbled hello to Emme and my mom as they’ve rushed out the door for summer camp and work and then I’ve collapse into bed. I’ve woken up in the afternoon, refreshed and ready to work on my business plan for Open Heart Kitchen, and then, after dinner and wishing Emme and Mom good night, I caught the bus and headed to work again.

I’ve been so busy and so tired that I’ve not had time to miss Dorene. I’ve barely had time to miss Max.

No. That’s not true. I miss him all the time. Even when I’m not thinking about him I’m missing him. There’s this pressure on my chest that hurts. It’s a hole, a phantom limb, a loss. But I’m refusing to acknowledge the pain of missing him, because if I miss him, then that means I miss a dream. A wish. A figment of my imagination.

So while I’m counting how many cases of dishwasher detergent I’ve unpacked, and as I’m breaking down cardboard boxes and tossing them in the compressor, I specifically do not think of Max.

I don’t think of how he smiled right before he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

I don’t think of how he took my wrists in his hands and held them over my head while he kissed me.

I don’t think of the way he held my hand and talked with me about Dickens and self-determination and truth and honesty.

I don’t think of all the things that are true in both real life and in my wish—that he loves reading late into the night, that he’s loyal to his friends, that he loves crime dramas and has a sweet tooth, that he’s levelheaded and thinks before he speaks, that he’s brilliant at what he does, and that he’s alone.

For three weeks I haven’t thought about any of that. And while I haven’t thought about any of it, I’ve missed him.

Every second of every day.

I miss him.

It’s eight o’clock at night, and outside the store the Geneva sky is fading to the soft denim-blue of dusk. It was warm today, one of those balmy June days that precede the heat of July. But inside it’s cold. The freezers and refrigerators send chilly drafts throughout the store. The overhead fluorescent lights shine like a never-ending sun, bathing the aisles in a cold white light.

In an hour the market will close and then the real work will begin. But until then, I’m in the baking aisle, unloading a carton of baking chocolate.

So far, this is my favorite aisle in the store. The market is a gourmet specialty shop, so there are all sorts of interesting products from all around the world. But I have to say, I prefer the sweet to the bitter or the sour. I like stocking sugar more than chicken or canned sardines.

Besides, this aisle smells sweet, like a rainbow of sugars—brown sugar, molasses and honey, caster sugar, pearl sugar, and sugar cubes as large as gumdrops. I like pearl sugar best. When I pick up the bags, the large crystal chunks crunch and let off a sweet smell that reminds me of lemon and vanilla and sunshine.

Every time I’m in this aisle I feel like I’m standing inside a pastry, and all I have to do is breathe it in and appreciate the scents of sugar, chocolate, custard mix, and hazelnut spreads.

I send my boxcutter along the cardboard box and open the top, revealing the stacks of baking chocolate. The shelf is empty, so I’m right on time. I begin stacking, humming along to the music in my earbuds. It’s the Supremes, and even though it hurts to hear them singing that love can’t be hurried, I ignore the throb in my chest and keep stacking the chocolate.

A little girl runs past, her red hair flying behind her as she searches the aisle, jumping up and down to see the top shelves. Sometimes customers ask me where something is, but usually, they ignore me. I’m not especially good at telling them where products are. I haven’t been here long enough to know everything yet. But if she’s looking for sugar ...

I’m about to ask if she needs help when she runs off, dashing into another aisle.

I shrug and go back to the chocolate.

My head is down, my music is playing, and I’m focused on counting how many packages are left, which is why I don’t hear him at first.

“—me?”

I turn and notice a man standing next to me. He has expensive brown leather shoes, dark jeans, and that’s as far as I get before taking out my earbuds and saying, “Sorry. What was that?”

“I’m looking for?—”

I don’t hear what he’s looking for.

Because it’s him.

It’s the voice I’ve been hearing in my dreams for the past three weeks. It’s the voice I hoped to hear every week for the past three years.

It’s Max .

His deep, rich tenor reaches through the chilly, fluorescent-lit aisle and spills over me like a stream of sugar.

His nearness hits me with the strength of a hurricane, and I’m nearly knocked over. I brace myself and grip the edge of the box, fighting the urge to stand and fling myself into his arms.

I want to so badly. I want to cry and laugh and kiss him and love him.

I may have been able to pretend I didn’t miss him. But I’ve not been able to pretend I don’t love him.

And here I am, crouched at his feet, kneeling over a box of chocolate. I know him. I see him. And he doesn’t see me.

I’m in my uniform, a gray and navy unisex collared shirt tucked into baggy polyester pants. It’s possibly the ugliest outfit I’ve ever worn. My curly hair is tied into a bun and tucked under a handkerchief I put on when unloading the truck earlier. I don’t know if he’ll recognize me. He didn’t when I spoke.

My hand trembles, and I still my fingers on the cardboard.

I close my eyes and brace myself. Don’t react. Don’t smile. Don’t ...

I don’t even have to look at him.

I don’t have to look up.

I once said that looking at Max was like looking at something so beautiful it hurt. I think if I looked at him now it would break me. I’m not sure I could look him in the eye without giving away everything I feel.

He’s waiting. Standing next to me, waiting for me to respond.

I can feel his gaze on me, moving over me with a peculiar intensity.

I shake my head, taking a shaky breath at the hot, burning feel of his nearness.

“I’m looking for baking chocolate. I’m told it’s essential for the perfect cake. May I have—?” He holds out his hand, pointing to the shelf I’m stocking.

He leaves his final sentence as a question.

He has no idea who I am.

None.

He expects me to take one of the packages of chocolate and place it in his hand.

I drop my chin, angling my face away from him. Even though the market is chilly at best, a drop of sweat slides down the back of my neck. My heart races and I fight the urge to turn around, jump in his arms, and kiss him. Or beg him to kiss me.

That would be a disaster.

Slowly, as if I’m in a dream, I reach out and grip the cold paper packaging wrapped around the chocolate square. I take it in my hand, my heart thumping, and reach out to drop it in his open palm.

My earbuds hang free, and from them the magnified sound of Diana Ross’s singing crackles in the air.

There’s a bright, thrumming feel coalescing around us. It’s a stream of sunlight slipping through the ether, a river of stars pouring into a deep indigo lake; it’s a chain of broken sapphires reflecting the light of a thousand suns.

I drop the chocolate into his hand. My fingers brush over his skin and I jolt at the awareness that streaks through me. I drag in a sharp breath and yank my hand back as if I’ve been burned.

But before I can turn away, Max reaches out and grabs my wrist.

His grip is tight, his hand warm and firm.

My heart races, my pulse pounding against his hand.

He’s tense, and all his attention is focused on me. I can feel the heat of his gaze raking over me. The spot where his hand captures me throbs with heat until there’s a pulse drifting up my arm, through my veins, and into my core, where it settles in a bright white heat.

It burns.

His grip tightens, and I remember the last time he held me like this. Then, his mouth was on me.

He’s waiting.

He won’t let me go until I look up at him. I know this.

So I gather all my courage and all my defenses, and I look at Max.