“Hypothermia, not drowning.” St. Clair laughs. He has a wonderful, boyish laugh. “But no. I’ve heard anyone who stands here is destined to return to Paris someday. And as I understand it, one year for you is one year too many. Am I right?”

I close my eyes. Mom and Seany appear before me. Bridge. Toph. I nod.

“All right, then. So keep your eyes closed. And make a wish.”

I take a deep breath. The cool dampness of the nearby trees fills my lungs. What do I want? It’s a difficult question.

I want to go home, but I have to admit I’ve enjoyed tonight. And what if this is the only time in my entire life I visit Paris? I know I just told St. Clair that I don’t want to be here, but there’s a part of me—a teeny, tiny part—that’s curious. If my father called tomorrow and ordered me home, I might be disappointed. I still haven’t seen the Mona Lisa. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe.

So what else do I want?

I want to feel Toph’s lips again. I want him to wait. But there’s another part of me, a part I really, really hate, that knows even if we do make it, I’d still move away for college next year. So I’d see him this Christmas and next summer, and then . . . would that be it?

And then there’s the other thing.

The thing I’m trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn’t want, the thing I can’t have.

And he’s standing in front of me right now.

So what do I wish for? Something I’m not sure I want? Someone I’m not sure I need? Or someone I know I can’t have?

Screw it. Let the fates decide.

I wish for the thing that is best for me.

How’s that for a generalization? I open my eyes, and the wind is blowing harder. St. Clair pushes a strand of hair from his eyes. “Must have been a good one,” he says.

On the way back, he leads me to a walk-up sandwich stand for a late-night snack. The yeasty smell is mouthwatering, and my stomach growls in anticipation. We order panini, sandwiches pressed flat on a hot grill. St. Clair gets his stuffed with smoked salmon and ricotta cheese and chives. I order Parma ham and Fontina cheese and sage. He calls it fast food, but what we’re handed looks nothing like the limp sandwiches from Subway.