They’re celebrating the life of Shannon Hales-Streeter… celebrating me.
They’re smiling. Dancing. Sharing funny, beautiful memories.
It’s lovely—so lovely I feel Max rub my back to partially wake me out of my sleep. I hear a whimper escape me, but I can’t pull myself out of the dream.
It carries on. Big smiles. Laughter. Cake. Drinks.
When I finally wake up, the warm stretch of horizon sun is kissing my skin. Max is no longer in the chair next to my bed.
The room is empty, so I take all the time I need to cry.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When the sun is higher in the sky and my tears are gone, I go to a clinic where Dr. Barad’s colleague, Whitney Monroe, a beautiful African-American woman who reminds me of Kelly Rowland, gives me a quick lung and body check.
“Have fun, but don’t do anything too extreme,” Dr. Monroe insists after the checkup. “Make sure you continue your OPX as well. As long as you do, you should be fine, so long as you are careful.”
“I will,” I say, smiling as I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet Max by the door. “Thanks for squeezing me in. Have a great day, Dr. Monroe.”
“You as well, Mrs. Streeter.”
After I’m finally free, Max and I are on our way to the Le Louvre to stare Mona Lisa right in the eyes.
“Look how she smirks,” I murmur, staring at the painting. “She looks like she’s up to no good…or like she knows we are up to no good.”
Max laughs way too hard, catching the eye of a few annoyed people who turn their noses up at us when we look at them. “What makes you think we’re up to no good?”
“Maybe she doesn’t appreciate how I just skipped off with my damn ex to another country like it was no big deal.”
“Hmm…I don’t know. She seems like the type who can appreciate a girl taking a risk,” Max says, shrugging. He has a point.
We continue exploring the museum, taking in each delicate painting and sculpture. When we’re done and have caught lunch in a nearby restaurant with the best spaghetti, Max leads the way to the exit, looking up at the gray clouds as we step outside.
“Looks like rain is coming.”
“Damn.” I poke my bottom lip out, watching the clouds bundle in grey masses.
Max pulls out his cellphone, checking a weather app. “Thirty percent chance. I think we’re good for now. A little rain won’t hurt anybody. If it starts, we can go somewhere until it passes. What do you wanna do next?”
“Oh! I read something in a brochure this morning about a flea market around here. They say you can find some really nice antiques if you’re lucky.”
We search the name in our web browser and once Max finds it, he leads the way to the streets to catch a cab.
When we make it to the flea market, Max asks, “What exactly do you expect to find here?”
“I want to get something for Tessa and John. Something they’ll remember me by.” I step under one of the tents that has baskets full of trinkets, paintings leaning against the walls, and books on a large shelf to my right.
Max reaches up and takes down a vintage looking tennis racket, swinging it like a maniac. The man behind the counter gives Max a stern look over his newspaper, and Max presses his lips and lowers the racket.
“You’d better stop before he grills your ass,” I say, laughing.
“Yep. Putting it back now.” He hangs the racket back up and then steps beside me as I dig through one of the baskets. I notice something bright and glossy in one of the baskets in front of me and sift it out, only to discover it’s a glass angel. It’s pink with a chipped wing, but despite the damage and scratches, it is exquisite.
I run my fingers over it, rubbing off the collected dust and smoothing out some of the scrapes. I wonder why something so remarkable and easy to break is in a basket full of metal and steel objects. Maybe it was misplaced.
“I’m gonna go check out the shop over there,” Max tells me, pointing out of the tent.
“Sure. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”
I watch him leave before turning and looking at the man, asking, “How much for this?”
“I will give it to you for five euros.” His accent is heavy as he holds up four long fingers. I walk up to the counter and wrinkles form around the older man’s eyes as he smiles.
“Five euros for this? That’s all?”
He nods as I hand it to him. “Beautiful isn’t it? But damaged.” He lifts it up, and then reaches in his back pocket for a handkerchief.
After wiping it off carefully, he places it on top of a gift wrap sheet and wraps it for me, tucking it neatly in a brown paper bag.