“She does?”
“You’re the only thing I’ve talked about all year. She’s ecstatic we’re together.”
I’m smiling inside and out. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
He smiles back, but then his expression grows worried. “So will your father object to me? Because I’m not American? I mean, not ful y American? He’s
not one of those mad, patriotic nuts, is he?”
“No. He’l love you, because you make me happy. He’s not always so bad.”
St. Clair raises his dark eyebrows.
“I know! But I said not always. He stil is the majority of the time. It’s just . . . he means well . He thought he was doing good, sending me here.”
“And was it? Good?”
“Look at you, fishing for compliments.”
“I wouldn’t object to a compliment.”
I play with a strand of his hair. “I like how you pronounce ‘banana.’ Ba-nah-na. And sometimes you tril your r’s. I love that.”
“B ril liant,” he whispers in my ear. “Because I’ve spent loads of time practicing.”
My room is dark, and Étienne wraps his arms back around me. We listen to the opera singer in a peaceful silence. I’m surprised by how much I’l miss
France. Atlanta was home for almost eighteen years, and though I’ve only known Paris for the last nine months, it’s changed me. I have a new city to learn next year, but I’m not scared.
Because I was right. For the two of us, home isn’t a place. It’s a person.
And we’re final y home.