Chapter 14
Elena
Saturday morning I stood in front of my closet having a minor crisis about what to wear. Finally I settled on dark jeans and a soft cream sweater, comfortable boots. Casual. Normal.
I made it downstairs without running into Étienne. Mrs. Blake handed me a small bag with a knowing smile.
"Monsieur Beaumont asked me to pack you some snacks. In case you get hungry."
Of course he did.
I met Chloé and Maxime at the RER station. Chloé immediately launched into excited chatter about which rides we should do first. Maxime had brought a backpack full of supplies—sunscreen, water bottles, a phone charger.
"I'm an over-preparer," he admitted. "My friends make fun of me, but then they're always asking to borrow my stuff."
"I think it's sweet," Chloé said, then stage-whispered to me, "He's a keeper."
The day unfolded in a blur of rides and laughter. We rode Space Mountain twice. We ate overpriced churros and watched street performers. Maxime won me a stuffed Mickey Mouse, looking absurdly proud as he handed it over.
And through it all, I found myself relaxing. Laughing without thinking about whether it was too loud, enjoying the moment without calculating how it would affect my training schedule.
By late afternoon, Chloé announced she needed caffeine and disappeared with a promise to catch up later. The transparency was almost comical, but I appreciated it even as it left me alone with Maxime.
"She's not subtle," he observed.
"Not even a little bit."
"Want to walk? There's that carousel by the castle. Usually pretty quiet this time of day."
We walked in comfortable silence. The carousel came into view, all painted horses and golden lights starting to glow in the dusk.
"Want to ride?" Maxime asked.
"I'm probably too old for carousels."
"Nobody's too old for carousels." He was already pulling me toward the entrance, paying before I could protest. "Besides, when was the last time you did something just because it was fun?"
I couldn't remember. The realization hit hard—I genuinely couldn't remember.
We chose horses side by side. As the carousel started its gentle rotation, I felt something shift in my chest. For a moment everything felt possible, uncomplicated.
The carousel slowed to a stop. We found a bench nearby, the one closest to the painted horses with their frozen gallop and golden bridles. Maxime gestured for me to sit first, then settled beside me—close enough that our shoulders almost touched, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him in the cooling evening air.
The sun was setting, bleeding pink and orange across the sky, and the park lights were starting to come on one by one, little pinpricks of gold against the gathering dusk. Families streamed past us toward the exits, tired children being carried on shoulders, the day's excitement settling into exhausted contentment.
Maxime had a bag of popcorn he'd been carrying since our last ride. He set it between us on the bench, then seemed to think better of it and moved it to his other side, like he was clearing the space between us for something. The gesture was so deliberate it made my pulse quicken.
"Elena," he said quietly, and something in his tone made me turn to look at him fully.
His profile was lit by the carousel lights behind us, all gold and shadow, and I could see his throat working as he swallowed. His hands were restless, moving from his knees to the edge of the bench to the popcorn bag and back again, like he couldn't figure out what to do with them.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
My heart started racing, that peculiar combination of anticipation and dread that comes right before something irreversible happens. "Okay."
He turned to face me then, and I saw that his eyes were nervous but determined, the same look he'd had right before he dove into the ocean to retrieve his surfboard that first day we met.
"I really like you." The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them back all day and they'd finally broken through whatever dam he'd built. "Like, really like you. Since the beach when you nearly drowned me, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
I felt my eyes go wide, felt my breath catch somewhere in my throat. My fingers found the edge of the bench and gripped it, needing something solid to hold onto because suddenly the world felt like it was tilting.
"And I know this might be moving too fast," he continued, the words tumbling over each other now, "or maybe you don't feel the same way, but in France we don't do the whole 'let's just be friends and see what happens' thing. If you like someone, you say it. You're honest about what you want. So I'm saying it. I'm being honest."
He paused, took a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter, more vulnerable. "I like you and I want to be with you, not as friends but as—as more than that. As a couple. As someone who gets to hold your hand and take you places and—"
He stopped himself, swallowed hard. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous."
The silence that followed felt enormous, swelling between us until it pushed out all the air, left us both struggling to breathe in the weight of it. I could hear the carousel music behind us, tinny and cheerful, completely at odds with the way my heart was hammering against my ribs.
I stared at him, my eyes going even wider, my mind completely blank. This was happening. This was actually happening. Someone was confessing feelings for me, wanting me, choosing me, and I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of it because my entire life had been gymnastics and training and trying to be good enough and no one—no one—had ever prepared me for this.
My mouth opened but no sound came out. I tried again, managed a small breath that sounded more like a gasp. My hands were still gripping the bench so hard my knuckles had gone white, and I could feel my whole body tensing the way it did right before a difficult routine, that same coiled-spring sensation of being about to launch into something I wasn't sure I could land.
"I—" The word came out strangled. I swallowed, tried again. "I've never—"
But I couldn't finish. Couldn't find the words to explain that I'd spent twenty years learning how to control my body in the air but no one had taught me how to control my heart, how to navigate this territory of wanting and being wanted, how to accept something good without immediately calculating what it would cost me.
Maxime's expression shifted from hopeful to concerned. "You don't have to say anything right now," he said quickly, reaching out like he wanted to touch my hand but stopping himself halfway. "I just needed you to know. Needed to be honest about what I want. But there's no pressure, I swear. If you need time to think, or if you don't feel the same way, or—"
"No, I—" I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands finally released the bench, moved to my lap where they twisted together nervously. "It's not that. It's just—"
I looked down at my hands, watched my fingers knot and unknot themselves. "My whole life has been gymnastics and training and trying to be good enough," I said, the words coming slowly, carefully, like I was picking my way across ice. "And I don't know how to do this. The dating thing. The normal person thing. I've never—no one's ever—"