Emma spent the afternoon around the Seine, wandering along the quays, watching the boats, and crossing the bridges from the right bank to the left and back again. She hung around until the setting sun gilded the roofs and kissed good-night to the river. With twilight, the turmoil in her mind finally subsided, making room for meek beginnings of clarity.

The night she’d spent at Cyril’s place had meant the world to her. And it had meant something to him, too. Something more than a bit of fun with an enthusiastic groupie. She was sure of it. She knew it in her bones. Even if he had believed her to be a stranger, what they had shared was real. That connection, that sense of having finally come home was real.

And it was beautiful.

Emma threw one last look at the now dark water and crossed the Pont Neuf back to rue du Louvre. On rue Montmartre, she realized she was returning to the 9th arrondissement, which was in the opposite direction from her apartment southeast of the city.

Too late to turn back now.

She might as well drop by La Bohème on the off chance Cyril was there.

She sucked in a long breath, visualizing that possibility. Suppose he agreed to hear her out. What would she tell him?

The one thing that really matters.

In all these years, she had never told him about her feelings. She’d written him at least a dozen love letters, chickened out, and ripped them to pieces, rationalizing that he must have known or suspected how she felt.

But what if he didn’t? What if he had no clue?

Cyril wasn’t at the bistro.

Emma went to his building and buzzed his intercom. He didn’t answer.

She tried his landline and his cell phone. Same luck.

Her hands began to tremble.

Calm down. He’s just out with friends.

It was what people did to take their minds off a disappointment.

But what if he wasn’t out? What if he’d had too much to drink and tripped over something and hit his head? What if right now he was lying on the floor of his apartment, bleeding to death?

Her knees wobbled.

She keyed in the code he’d given her last night and ran to his door. She rang the doorbell again and again before banging on the door with her fists.

“Are you a friend of Cyril’s?” someone asked from behind.

She whirled around. An old lady stared at her from her doorstep across the landing.

Emma nodded. “I’m worried about him.”

“Wait here.” The woman retreated inside her apartment, pulling her door shut behind her. A few minutes later she reopened it. “He left me his spare keys in case he locked himself out.”

Emma snatched the keys from the woman’s hand, unlocked Cyril’s door, and rushed in.

He was in his bedroom, slumped on the floor next to his rowing machine.

Please.

No.

Kneeling next to him, she took his pulse, and her whole body sagged with relief. He was alive.

She carefully rolled him onto his side, thanking God for that first aid class she’d taken in Chengdu, and dialed the emergency number.

The sapeurs-pompiers promised to be there in less than five minutes.

Emma sat on the floor next to Cyril and fixed her eyes on her watch. She reminded herself how well trained and competent the pompiers were. Everyone knew that. They were the country’s superheroes.

They would fix him.

He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine…

She kept murmuring these words like a conjuration as she waited. She still murmured them as she jumped up at the siren, let the pompiers in, and watched them carry Cyril’s limp body out of the apartment.

* * *

“I just couldn’t stop. I kept at it until my body overheated and I passed out.” Cyril pulled himself up against his cushion and grimaced in pain.

Emma moved closer to his bed. “Are you OK?”

She ached to touch him, to take him in her arms and press his head to her chest. But she didn’t dare.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Cyril said. “The doctor said I’ll be discharged tomorrow. I’m just hurting everywhere right now, but I’ll live.”

“Good.”

He smirked. “What’s good? That I’ll be going home, that I’ll live, or that I’m hurting? Mind you, I deserve the pain. I might’ve died from dehydration had you not found me.”

She shook her head to drive away the scary thought. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’re too strong.”

“I just lucked out, Emma.” He sighed. “Did you know that some people are chemically sensitive to MDMA? They can actually bite the big one from their first dose. It doesn’t apply to me, apparently, but I wish I’d looked this up before I—”

“What’s MDMA?”

“The official name of Ecstasy—the little pill I took yesterday afternoon. No doubt one of my smartest moves yet. Comes second only to unfastening my seatbelt while driving.”

“About that…” Emma’s hand went to touch his arm, but she pulled it back just before her fingers came into contact with the sleeve of his hospital gown.

“Yes?”

“I know you don’t blame me for the accident, but I can’t help thinking that if it weren’t for my stupid actions, you wouldn’t have lost your sight.”

“Emma—”

“Please let me finish. I need to say this. I need to tell you why I got so drunk that night.” She wrung her hands. “Let me unburden myself, and then I’ll never mention it again.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “OK.”

“I don’t usually…” She took a long breath, trying to compose herself. “I never drink more than a few sips of any alcoholic beverage. Can’t hold my liquor.”

“No kidding.”

“But just before I left for that party, Geraldine told me she knew you were going to propose.”

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And it rubbed you the wrong way?”

She hesitated.

“Emma?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But what was even harder to take was that Geraldine intended to accept you.”

She held her breath, expecting him to ask why.

And then she would tell him.

After which, there’d be no more hiding behind Cyril’s having no clue.

“Gerrie called me earlier this morning,” he said. “Told me she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if I did something silly again.” His lips curled. “She seems to be under the impression I was trying to kill myself.”

“Because you totally weren’t.”

“Absolutely not. Trust me, if I had, I would’ve done something a bit more… permanent.”

“Did she say anything else?” She hoped he couldn’t sense the panic in her voice.

“Only that she still cared for me and wanted us to get back together.”

Of course.

She scrutinized Cyril’s stony expression and then turned to stare out the window. “So, you and Geraldine… you’re on again?”

“I declined her kind offer of reunification.” His voice was as unreadable as his face.

“You think she offered out of pity?”

He nodded. “She keeps saying altruism isn’t in her nature, but looks like guilt got the better of her.” He gave Emma a wry smile. “But that wasn’t the reason I said no.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Could it be? Could his reason be Laura? “What was it then?”

“I just don’t feel the same way about her anymore.” He shrugged. “I guess after all this time I finally fell out of love with Gerrie.”

Emma shut her eyes and plunged. “Cyril, that night in the car, I was trying to tell you—”

“As for your guilt and penance, you need to get over it. I was the one driving, remember? It was my responsibility to keep my eyes on the road, no matter how much you puked.”

“But—”

“I’ll say this again. I don’t blame you for what happened that night, Emma. I never have. Hell, I could’ve gotten you maimed or even killed. It was just your dumb luck that you got away with only a few bruises.”

“But you’re angry with me,” she murmured.

“Oh yes, I am. For what you did over the past weeks. For lying to me and taking advantage of… my situation.”

“I’m so sorry, Cyril!” She gripped his hand. “Tell me what I can do to earn your forgiveness. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“There’s no need. You saved me yesterday—so we’re even. You’re absolved.” He sagged against the headboard, his hand limp in hers. “I mean it. You can go and live your life with a clear conscience now.”

She chewed at her lip. “My seeking you out… it wasn’t about penance.”

“Ah bon? What was it then? Curiosity?” His nostrils flared. “Because you’ve always wondered what it would be like to sleep with a blind man?”

“No!”

“Did it live up to your expectations? Was it good?”

She jutted out her chin. “Yes, it was good. As a matter of fact, it was the best sex of my life.”

“Phew.” He feigned wiping sweat off his forehead. His face was livid.

“But that’s not why I did what I did.”

“No?”

“I…” Her voice cracked. God, it was hard to get those words out. “I fell in love with you when I first saw you and heard your songs… I went to China three years ago hoping to cure my feelings… but I failed.” She swallowed. “There’s no one else for me.”

A deep frown creased his brow. “What?”

“You dimwit!” Emma shouted, giving up on controlling her voice. “If you could just set aside your bitterness for a sec, the truth will glare at you. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see how much I love you?”

He smirked. “That’s the thing, baby—I can’t. I can’t see shit.”