I’m clambering out of my bed before I can stop myself. My fingertips trace the tattoo’s outline. He stills under my touch.
“Who?”
I feel his back expand under my hand as he sucks in a deep breath. He turns, capturing my hands at the wrists and holding them between us.
“My mom.”
“I’m so sorry,” I rasp.
He lets go of my hands. “It was a long time ago.”
My heart breaks. “How old were you?”
“Seven.” He lifts his hand to the top of my bandage. “Who is this for?”
I close my eyes. “My aunt.”
“When?”
I shake my head, feeling tears slip free. His thumbs brush them away, and he pulls me to him. My palms flatten on his chest as I press my face into his neck. His arms circle me, careful not to touch my bandage.
We stand like that for an eternity before I push off of him and back away in search of a tissue. There are some on a shelf by the window. I feel his eyes on me as I dry my tears.
“I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s okay.”
I turn and look at him, giving him a half smile, before I climb back into bed. I lie with my back to him.
The next morning, he’s up and dressed before I awake. I’m greeted with fresh pastries when I walk out of our room. Adam must have walked to the bakery while I slept.
I take my shower and get changed before I eat. Abe isn’t awake yet, but the train doesn’t leave for a couple of hours.
When I sit, Adam turns on the microwave. When it dings, he pulls out a coffee mug and passes it to me.
“Thank you.”
The silence is awkward between us. I secretly wish for Abe’s or Shelly’s presence to dilute the tension. The wait is not long.
Abe smells the pastries and comes out with Shelly trailing him in search of them. They’re both still in their sleep clothes. I watch the affectionate way they cuddle and feed each other. I hug myself, enviously wanting to feel arms around me. Adam’s arms.
“Did you change your bandage yet?”
I shake my head. Adam puts his hand out to help me stand.
“I’ll help you.”
We walk into the bedroom. I pull the pharmacy bag out and spread out the cream, gauze, and tape on top of the dresser. Adam steps out to wash his hands.
He closes the door behind him when he comes back in. The room instantly feels warmer. There’s a mirror over the dresser. I watch him as he stands behind me. My shirt is loose. His eyes meet mine as he pulls it up and rests it over my shoulders. Goose bumps ripple across my skin when his thumb hits my skin right above my bra. I can’t look away from him as he eases my right strap down.
He slowly peels the bandage from my skin. I flinch when he cleans my tattoo. He pauses, eyes never leaving mine, as he lowers his head and blows on it. My mouth drops open, and I grip the edge of the dresser. If it had not been right in front of me, I would have fallen over.
He lightly coats my tattoo in cream before he tapes a piece of gauze over it. Once he’s done, he gently drags the strap of my bra back up my arm. I close my eyes and dip my head back as he lowers my shirt to cover my back.
My eyes flutter open when I hear the door open and close. I’m breathing heavily. I look at my flushed reflection in the mirror.
What just happened?
Neither of us speaks about it. Abe and Shelly take us to the train station. We say our good-byes and queue up for the train.
Once we’re seated, I lose myself in a book. Adam is quiet, mainly looking out the window. It takes less than two hours to get to Bruges. We’re staying in a small inn just outside the city. Thankfully, we have separate rooms with a connecting door. After this morning, I don’t think I can sleep in the same room as him. We drop off our things and walk into the city.
“Hungry?”
I nod, sidestepping a man who stepped out into my path. Adam takes my arm, and my skin tingles underneath his fingers.
“Want a gaufre?”
It sounded like he said gopher. “Like the animal? No, not really.”
He almost smiles. “It’s French for waffle. It’s one of three things you have to try in Belgium.”
I knock my elbow lightly into his side. “Only three? What are the other two?”
He rubs his chin. He didn’t shave this morning, and he is looking deliciously scruffy. “Normally, I’d say four things, but you don’t like seafood, so for you, only three.” He counts them off on his fingers. “Waffles, beer, and chocolate.”
“What would the fourth be?”
He nods. “Mussels.”
I make a face. “Yuck. Yeah, none of those for me.”
He looks down at me. “No pressure, but if I order some and you decide randomly that you want to try a bite, just ask.”
I purse my lips. Not going to happen.
We turn, and our surroundings suddenly feel older. We’re in a courtyard. There are benches around a statue of two monks. They’re standing, their bodies facing each other, but their heads are bent, foreheads resting on the other monk’s shoulder. I circle it. It’s simple—gray stone with lines so smooth. The vision is so sad. These monks are grieving together. I just don’t know why.
I look up to see Adam lowering his camera.
“Do you know the story behind this?”
He shakes his head. I follow him along a path to another courtyard. The brickwork everywhere is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. The detail so intricate, even in unexpected places like around windows and doorways.
There are canal boat tours and horse-drawn carriages. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones makes me feel like I’ve stepped back in time.
We eat lunch on the patio of a restaurant across the square from where people queue up to take a carriage ride. There is a lovely bronze fountain with a horse head on each side where the horses drink.
As promised, Adam orders his mussels. They come out in a black cauldron-looking bowl with a lid. He flips the lid over to put the shells in.
He tilts his head. “Sure you don’t want to try a bite?”
I shake my head, looking down at my gigantic serving of spaghetti. So, portion control is an issue here as well. Adam’s meal comes with french fries, or pommes frites, as they call them here. They’re delicious. He almost smiles when I steal some.
After lunch, the wind picks up. We’re near the coast, and I’m cold. Adam shrugs off his sweater and gives it to me.
“But you’ll be cold,” I argue, already slipping it over my head.
As his scent surrounds me, I remember when it was his arms, not his shirt, wrapped around me. I try to take my mind off of him by popping into a shop.
I buy a piece of Belgian lace for my mom. The lace isn’t heavy so I won’t need to worry about the added weight to my bags. We pass a troubadour, a young girl playing the violin, as we explore. Adam puts some euros in her case.
We cross the canal and go to an area where there are warning signs to be quiet because women of God live there. It’s behind a church. These women aren’t nuns but simple holy women. The houses are like cottages, whitewashed with green shutters. There’s a park area between the cottages and the church with paths and plaques that give information about the women who live here.
Every place I look becomes a potential site for Ally. I want the place I pick to make me feel the same way that the park in London made me feel.
As we walk, I watch Adam and the things he takes pictures of. He takes lots of extreme close-ups of simple things—doorknobs, hinges, iron rings, and fastenings.
We spend the rest of the day like that, exploring.
By the time we make it back to the inn, I’m exhausted. Adam runs out to get us dinner. He promises he’ll get something simple.
The bags he returns with smell delicious.
“God, that smells good,” I sigh when he walks into my room. “What did you get?”
&n
bsp; “Ever had a croque-monsieur?” he asks.
“In English?”
He almost smiles as he passes me something wrapped in deli paper. “A grilled ham and cheese.”
“Yum. Thank you so much,” I say, tearing open the wrapping.
He also got us some bottled water. “Tomorrow, Belgian beer,” he says solemnly.
I shake my head at him and inhale my sandwich. After we eat, he goes to his room, closing the door between us, so I can change for bed. I’m settling under the covers when I hear a light tap on the door.
“Come in.”
Adam slowly opens the door, pausing when he sees I’m in bed. “Your tattoo. You probably need to…”
“Oh,” I groan, sitting up. “I completely forgot.” I start to push off the covers.
“Stay there. Where’s the bag that had everything in it?”
I point to the dresser on the other side of the room. He gets it, and then he comes and sits next to me. I scoot over to give him more room. I slip my arm out of the sleeve of my T-shirt, holding the front of it tight to my chest. Cool air hits my back, making me shiver. He carefully pulls off my old dressing. It doesn’t sting much this time when he cleans it.
His fingertips stroke my shoulder as he covers it with cream. Unwelcome desire blooms within my gut. Thank God he can’t see my face. I’m sure I must be flushed. I cringe, wondering if my neck is red too. I try to think of anything else. I start wondering about what my parents are doing right now.
Before I know it, I’m nodding off. A combination of his gentle touch and all the walking we did today sends me over the edge. I don’t remember falling asleep.
The next morning, I wake up, bandaged and with my arm back inside my shirt. I’m not certain how either of this happened, and I’m not asking.
We take the train to get near Bouillon in the Ardennes. At the train station, Adam rents a car to drive us the rest of the way. We take a long, winding two-lane road most of the way. It’s mainly farmland with wide expanses of green dotted with cows and clusters of modern-looking windmills.
Adam is quiet. It’s not that he talks a lot in general, but the silence feels strange. We’ve been together for five days now. I thought it would be easier by now.
We’re staying in the summer cottage belonging to the parents of one of Adam’s photographer friends. The driveway is hidden from the main road. We pass it twice before we find it. It’s small but quaint. The cottage has been visited off and on all summer, so there’s at least enough food to throw lunch together. Adam makes caprese salad that we eat with bread.
After lunch, we head into town. We visit the Castle Bouillon. It sits high on a hill with the Semois River curving around it. Adam is still inside taking pictures when I walk outside. From the entrance to the right, there’s a path I take.
This is where I meet Godfrey of Bouillon or his statue. He’s an opposing figure, carrying his signals. Not far from him is a shade tree.
I know, looking around, that this is where Ally would want to be. I sit next to the tree, like I did in London, only there is no mulch around this tree. I push some dirt aside, near the base of the tree. I look around quickly for Adam or anyone else. I’m not sure if scattering ashes is allowed here, so I empty the container quickly and slip it back in my purse.
I smooth dirt over her ashes and close my eyes. When I open them, I see Adam walking toward me. I stand, brushing the dirt off my hands.
“Want to go to a Belgian wedding?” He’s tilting his head to a group of people waving at me from behind him.
I laugh, giving them a half wave. “Whose wedding?”
He points out an older gentleman. “That’s the father of the groom.”
I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. “We aren’t dressed for a wedding.”
He shrugs. “Did you pack a dress? We can run back and change.”
I shake my head as I agree, and then I follow Adam up the hill. I assume he’s finding out where and when we need to meet them as I stand awkwardly next to him.
I’ve heard him speak French since we’ve been here but only one-off sentences, not full-on conversations. Another thing I did not know about Adam, he’s clearly fluent in French. I blink when I realize he’s staring at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, and we make our way back to the car. He pulls into the driveway on the first try.
Since we have almost no time to get ready, I skip taking another shower and change into a simple boatneck-style print dress. It’s still overcast. I frown while slipping on my sandals, knowing my feet will be cold, but they’re the only shoes I packed that match the dress.
Adam is telling me to hurry as I do my hair and makeup as fast as I can. If I had more time, I’d curl my hair, but instead, I sweep it to the side with a simple silver clip. Adam knocks on my door as I dig in my backpack for my black scarf, thinking I can use it as a wrap.
“Come in.”
I hear the door creak open.
“We need to get…” He pauses. “That dress is short.”
I glance back at him. He knows how to wear a suit.
I cringe, turning around. “Is it too short?”
I have a hard time buying dresses because I have a long torso. This dress hits only a couple of inches above my knee. I tug at the hem in an effort to lengthen it while I wait for him to answer. His eyes start at my feet before drifting slowly up my body. When they finally rest on my face, I gulp.
He scratches the back of his head. “I guess it’s okay,” he says before turning and walking out of my room. “Let’s go,” he says from the hallway.
“Just okay,” I grumble, turning back to finish looking for my wrap.
Once I have it, I put some euros and my passport into my clutch, and I hurry after Adam. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door. When he sees me, he straightens and opens the front door for me. I slip past him, forcing myself not to linger and breathe in his cologne.
It’s a short drive to the government center. In the car, Adam explains that in Belgium, you have to be legally married before the church ceremony.
When we get there, I feel self-conscious. I know we were invited, but it still feels like we’re crashing.
The legal ceremony is standing-room only. A woman with a sash, not unlike Miss America, says a whole bunch of stuff I don’t understand before having the bride and groom sign something. After that, everyone claps, and we all walk a block to the church.
The ceremony seems similar to weddings I’ve been to in the States. There’s a bit of a laugh when a young boy who’s part of the wedding party steps on the bride’s veil. Her head jerks back, and I’m amazed the veil doesn’t rip.
From the church, we follow them to a chateau for the dinner and reception. It’s a beautiful stone building with dark wood floors and a large courtyard. I’m happy to stay inside where it’s warm, but the sun comes out.
“Come, come. Il faut qu’on aille au jardin,” the father of the bride says, pulling us toward the courtyard.
“Why are we going outside? It’s cold,” I ask Adam.
“You must taste the Belgian sun,” the father of the bride answers for Adam.
Adam raises his eyebrows and puts his elbow out for me to take. “Can’t not taste the Belgian sun, Aubrey.”
I’m from California. It’s less of a big deal to me when the sun comes out. Even though it’s much more comfortable inside, everyone is outside, enjoying the sunshine—except for me. I’m freezing my ass off.
When my teeth start to chatter, Adam decides we’ve tasted enough sun, and he takes me back inside. He stays with me, but I can tell by the way he absentmindedly strokes his camera that he’d rather be outside, taking pictures.
“Go.”
His eyes snap to mine.
I give him a halfhearted push toward the door. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get a drink. How do I order a beer?”
“I’ll get you one first.” He turns to the bar.
“Adam, I can get my own be
er. Now, go outside and eat some sun.”
He almost smiles.
I make my way to the bar and manage to order my own drink. I wander around the main floor. There’s a large dining room with an area for dancing by the DJ.
I’m looking for the restroom when people start filing back inside. I’ve just found it when I catch a glimpse of Adam.
I can’t figure him out. Back in New York, those things he said about me, when he thought I couldn’t hear him. He seemed like a jerk. Then, in London, he was so bossy. After he spoke with my dad, he seemed to relax, but I can tell he wants to hover.
As random last-minute guests, our table is far from the wedding party. It turns out two guests fell ill and were unable to make it. That’s the only reason we’re here.
The meal is served in multiple courses—the first being soup followed by a salad and a salmon plate. Great. I eat the salad, except for the chunks of blue cheese. Adam watches me eat, but thankfully, he doesn’t say a word. The next course is a filet mignon with potatoes and asparagus. The filet is melt-on-your-tongue good.
During the meal, toasts are made from the attendants and then the parents of the bride and groom. It’s all in French, so Adam leans into me, his hushed breath on my ear, as he translates for me. I shiver and pick at my nail polish, hoping he doesn’t notice.
A sorbet is served next to cleanse our palates before the cake. Before the cake is served, the DJ changes the ambient background music to dance music. The tables empty as guests get up to dance.
Is Adam going to ask me to dance with him? Before he can, a tall dark-haired young man with an impish grin does. I start to shake my head, but that doesn’t seem to be an acceptable response. The man grasps my hand and pulls me to the dance floor anyway. I shoot a panicked look to Adam, who just shrugs.
At least the music is familiar, all American Top 40 hits. I haven’t been dancing in forever. I’m awkward, especially in the arms of a man whom I can’t understand. When the song ends, I go to make my escape, only to end up in the grasp of another man.
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