She walked down rue Cadet, squinting against the sun to read the names of the cafés and restaurants. La Bohème had to be somewhere around here, unless its webpage had the wrong address, which would be strange. Then she saw it—a cozy-looking bistro with a sidewalk terrace nestled under classic red awnings.

Emma slowed down, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks and her heartbeat ratchet up. Which was unnecessary. Cyril wasn’t on the terrace, and she couldn’t discern anyone that looked like him through the windows. But even if he was inside the café, she had no reason for anxiety. He wasn’t going to rebuke her. How could he? He wouldn’t be able to see her, for Christ’s sake.

She took a few fortifying breaths, stepped over the threshold, and went straight to the most strategically located table. A uniformed waitress with pale blue hair smiled from behind the bar. Her eyes were lined with black kohl, her nails were painted dark blue, and she looked to be in her early twenties. Emma smiled back, mouthed “coffee, please,” and pulled out her phone to keep herself busy.

When the waitress brought her coffee, Emma looked up from her email. A ping-pong sized ball snaked in through the door. The white cane attached to it followed. Emma dragged her gaze from the cane to the person holding it—Cyril.

Unseeing.

Unsteady on his feet.

Scarred.

She covered her mouth with her hand and choked back the sob threatening to erupt from her lungs and give her away.

“Hey there!” The blue-haired waitress cheek kissed Cyril and accompanied him to the table opposite Emma’s.

She couldn’t have chosen a better spot.

Recovering from her initial shock, Emma studied Cyril’s face—every inch, every detail of it. He wore dark eyeglasses, even though, according to Geraldine, his eyes were unharmed. His blindness was a consequence of the brain trauma he’d suffered during the accident, not direct damage to his eyes. The glasses had been Geraldine’s idea because his vacant gaze made her uncomfortable.

Next, Emma studied the close-cut beard he’d grown to hide some of his scars.

The ones that could be hidden.

Emma blinked several times to push back the tears and turned away. She needed to stay calm and act normal. Otherwise someone might ask her if something was wrong and attract Cyril’s attention. She didn’t want his attention.

Not yet.

The blue-haired waitress reappeared with a beer for Cyril. “The usual breakfast?”

He nodded. “Yes, please.”

“I’m sorry I can’t sit down and chat today. I’m filling in for a colleague who’s home sick. But Rob is taking his coffee break in ten minutes, so—”

“You don’t have to entertain me, Jeanne. And neither does Rob.”

Jeanne put her hands on her hips. “Honey, do I look like someone who does things out of obligation?”

Cyril pointed to the smartphone he’d pulled from the pocket of his jacket. “I have my audiobook. And a friend will join me here shortly.”

Panic crushed Emma’s chest. Could the friend be Geraldine? Her sister had been putting off that drink with Cyril for a couple of weeks now. What if she’d finally made the time for it? What if she walked through that door and gave Emma a tongue-lashing for ogling her boyfriend?

Or ex-boyfriend.

Or whatever he was to her now.

The image of Geraldine’s entrance was so vivid that Emma could hear her sister’s polished voice. And every bit of mockery in it. Cold sweat beaded her forehead and her palms grew clammy. She rummaged in her purse for her wallet. She had to get out of here ASAP.

And then she remembered something. The friend Cyril had referred to couldn’t be Geraldine. She was in Montreuil right now, pitching their new concept to a potential client. Emma pulled out her phone and checked their shared calendar. The meeting had just started, and there was no way Geraldine could make it to the 9th arrondissement in the next couple of hours. The friend Cyril was expecting had to be someone else.

She returned her attention to Cyril and Jeanne, who continued bickering.

“Trust me, honey, nobody’s trying to entertain you,” Jeanne said. “We’re simply taking advantage of your unfortunate circumstances to get the inside scoop on your songs.”

Cyril’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Oh, I s— I understand. That’s OK, then.”

“Good,” Jeanne said and sauntered away.

Emma watched her go behind the bar, butter a lengthwise-halved baguette, place it on a plate, and hand it to a waiter whose most remarkable feature was his utter unremarkability. If God had blended every human male together to mold a new specimen, the result would have been this man.

“For table three,” Jeanne said.

The statistical derivation glanced over his shoulder. “The disfigured guy with the sunglasses?”

“Didier, for Christ’s sake, can you lower your voice?” Jeanne hissed. “He’s blind but not deaf.”

Emma cringed. As a matter of fact, Cyril was deaf. The head trauma that had caused his blindness had damaged his eardrums, too. He now wore discreet hearing aids in both ears. According to Geraldine, the devices worked perfectly, even if Cyril complained they distorted voices beyond recognition. This piece of intel, incidentally, was the cornerstone of Emma’s plan.

And perhaps her future.

The insensitive Didier shrugged and added in a quieter voice. “People who drink beer at eleven in the morning don’t give a shit about what others think of them.”

Jeanne gave him the stare. “He isn’t like that.”

“I’m just saying, sweetheart.” Didier took a step toward the front room, then stopped and turned his head to Jeanne. “Mind you, if I looked like him, I’d make sure I was never sober, too.”

When he finally delivered the buttered tartine to its destination, Cyril’s mouth was pressed into a hard line. He must have heard everything.

He took a swig of his beer, lifted his smartphone to his face and said, articulating every sound, “Call Gerrie.”

No.

Emma felt every muscle in her body tense up.

Don’t call her. She’s not coming. She won’t even pick up right now.

But she did pick up, judging by the smile spreading across Cyril’s face.

“Hi. When do you think you’ll be here?” he asked.

Emma slid to the edge of her chair with her hand on her purse, ready to take off at any moment.

Cyril’s smile faded.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes, of course… I can hear that… No, you didn’t promise anything. It’s just… when we talked on Sunday, you said your Thursday morning was free, so I expected you’d meet me here.” He swallowed. “I must’ve gotten the day wrong.”

Emma’s body went limp with a mixture of relief, shame, and heartrending pity. Her snow queen of a sister had just blown Cyril off without as much as an apology.

As if it was a perfectly fine thing to do.

As if he wasn’t broken enough already.