jelly. A tingle spreads across my shoulders and races down my arms. I close my eyes and lay my head against the headrest, sinking into a blissful frenzy. My body is relaxed, but my insides are having a party. Elephants are stomping across my heart while butterflies flitter with excitement in my stomach.
Not only do I think of France, but I think of a French celebration at night with Kyler next to me. The Eiffel Tower is lit in the distance and fireworks explode through the air in sparks of color. A sweet, vanilla scent fills my nose and I imagine my teeth sinking into a bite of crème brûlée.
It’s perfect. Even with the persistent cough that’s bent on ruining the moment.
Kyler’s hum dies down and the car stops. “We’re here.”
I hesitate to open my eyes. I don’t know where “here” is and the place in my head is so dreamy, there couldn’t be anything better.
Kyler squeezes my hand. “Kate. Open your eyes.”
I open them in anticipation…only to see a plain brick building with a handful of cars in the parking lot. “Where are we?”
Kyler chuckles. “Come on. You’ll see.”
He releases my hand to get out of the car, but takes it again once he gets my door open. I grab my purse and sling it over a shoulder as we head toward the building. A sign rests on an easel by the door, but I can’t read it until we get closer.
Once I can make out the letters, I read:
Local Art Show. Jean de Chelles, Pierre de Montreuil, Matthias of Arras, and other period works: Gothic French art and architecture of the 13 th century. No touching, please.
“Really?” I can’t say anything else. An overwhelming sense of appreciation takes over my body and pricks my eyes with moisture. I swallow back a wave of gratitude and sniff into a tissue. Of all the places a teenage boy would want to go on a date, I imagine this is the last one. How did he know about it anyway? I’d ask him, but I’m afraid to open my mouth. He tugs on my arm and we walk inside.
We enter a room separated with light gray partitions. Spotlights hang from the ceiling , shining on different works of art. I linger in front of the first painting and my daydream in the car comes to life. It’s Paris at night with the Eiffel Tower lit up, reflected in the Seine River with watercolor squiggles. We move from one piece to another, some of them as big as the wall and others as small as my hand. There are sculptures of Notre Dame, palaces, and cathedrals.
Even though there are other people in the room, I feel like Kyler and I are alone.
“What do you think of this one?” he whispers in my ear and points to a wooden carving of the Gallery of Kings.
The twenty-eight kings are lined up, each one wearing a crown, holding a staff, and wearing a draped robe. The faces are turned down and the eyes are left blank—like the artist couldn’t decide which emotion to portray. Or maybe they wanted the observer to see their own emotions. I turn to Kyler and find his eyes on me.
“It’s beautiful, Kyler,” I say quietly. His gaze travels down my face and pauses on my lips.
His mouth quirks up on both sides and he reaches a hand to my face. His finger leaves a burning trail along my skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know, you don’t say my name very often.”
Maybe not to him, but it fills my mind all day. Even now, my heart is pounding his name through my body. My fingers ache to draw his name in patterns through his hair. And right at the tip of my tongue, his name is ready to be s aid. I lean closer and say it with a sigh. “Kyler.”
It releases a million heart beats at once and leaves me weak, leaning closer and hoping he’ll catch me in his arms. His hand wraps around my back and he pulls me forward until our stomachs touch. I breathe in deeply…too deep. Before I can push away, I cough into his shirt. I hoped it was a small cough, but it keeps going. One after another and I have to get away. I push against him and
Not only do I think of France, but I think of a French celebration at night with Kyler next to me. The Eiffel Tower is lit in the distance and fireworks explode through the air in sparks of color. A sweet, vanilla scent fills my nose and I imagine my teeth sinking into a bite of crème brûlée.
It’s perfect. Even with the persistent cough that’s bent on ruining the moment.
Kyler’s hum dies down and the car stops. “We’re here.”
I hesitate to open my eyes. I don’t know where “here” is and the place in my head is so dreamy, there couldn’t be anything better.
Kyler squeezes my hand. “Kate. Open your eyes.”
I open them in anticipation…only to see a plain brick building with a handful of cars in the parking lot. “Where are we?”
Kyler chuckles. “Come on. You’ll see.”
He releases my hand to get out of the car, but takes it again once he gets my door open. I grab my purse and sling it over a shoulder as we head toward the building. A sign rests on an easel by the door, but I can’t read it until we get closer.
Once I can make out the letters, I read:
Local Art Show. Jean de Chelles, Pierre de Montreuil, Matthias of Arras, and other period works: Gothic French art and architecture of the 13 th century. No touching, please.
“Really?” I can’t say anything else. An overwhelming sense of appreciation takes over my body and pricks my eyes with moisture. I swallow back a wave of gratitude and sniff into a tissue. Of all the places a teenage boy would want to go on a date, I imagine this is the last one. How did he know about it anyway? I’d ask him, but I’m afraid to open my mouth. He tugs on my arm and we walk inside.
We enter a room separated with light gray partitions. Spotlights hang from the ceiling , shining on different works of art. I linger in front of the first painting and my daydream in the car comes to life. It’s Paris at night with the Eiffel Tower lit up, reflected in the Seine River with watercolor squiggles. We move from one piece to another, some of them as big as the wall and others as small as my hand. There are sculptures of Notre Dame, palaces, and cathedrals.
Even though there are other people in the room, I feel like Kyler and I are alone.
“What do you think of this one?” he whispers in my ear and points to a wooden carving of the Gallery of Kings.
The twenty-eight kings are lined up, each one wearing a crown, holding a staff, and wearing a draped robe. The faces are turned down and the eyes are left blank—like the artist couldn’t decide which emotion to portray. Or maybe they wanted the observer to see their own emotions. I turn to Kyler and find his eyes on me.
“It’s beautiful, Kyler,” I say quietly. His gaze travels down my face and pauses on my lips.
His mouth quirks up on both sides and he reaches a hand to my face. His finger leaves a burning trail along my skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know, you don’t say my name very often.”
Maybe not to him, but it fills my mind all day. Even now, my heart is pounding his name through my body. My fingers ache to draw his name in patterns through his hair. And right at the tip of my tongue, his name is ready to be s aid. I lean closer and say it with a sigh. “Kyler.”
It releases a million heart beats at once and leaves me weak, leaning closer and hoping he’ll catch me in his arms. His hand wraps around my back and he pulls me forward until our stomachs touch. I breathe in deeply…too deep. Before I can push away, I cough into his shirt. I hoped it was a small cough, but it keeps going. One after another and I have to get away. I push against him and
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