Page 83 of Counting Down To You

And then something else occurs to me, the final, awful piece clicking into place.

“You knew,” I whisper. “You knew you got her heart.”

I did, is what he said. Confirmation, like he’d been waiting for me to realize this point. Not like it was news to him, something that he was only just figuring out.

I want him to correct me. To say no, this is all just a massive coincidence. Instead, he nods. “Yes.”

“How?” The word is a sob.

He closes his eyes. “I met her. We were in the same support group.” The support group that Robyn had been thrilled about, because she’d met other people going through the same thing. The support group that I hadn’t wanted to hear about, because I hadn’t wanted to humanize what I saw as the competition. “We talked,” Leo is saying. “I told her about Châtel.”

So this is the reason Robyn got fixated on the place—because she’d met someone who’d been there. This is the reason she sent me to Châtel. Because of Leo. I think I’m going to throw up.

I wish I could have known her. That’s what he’d said. Known. Not met. Because he’d already met her.

I look at him, sitting across from me. “Did you know she was my friend?” My voice is hoarse, scarping over raw nerves. He must know what I mean. Did he know, before I told him about her?

“I…”

“Did. You. Know.”

“She showed me some photos, on her phone. You were in them. I didn’t realize right away, but I…I figured it out, yes.”

The world is tilting around me, the lights too bright. I close my eyes to block it out. “It’s why you suggested we pretend to be together, isn’t it?” But I continue without letting him answer, opening my eyes. “And is this why you’ve been doing all this?” I gesture around at Paris, at the tower. “Helping me with the challenges she set? To, what, make up for it?”

“No, Ali, I—”

“Because to be clear, Leo, nothing can make up for this.” Nothing can make up for the fact that he’s still here, and Robyn is not. That he knew about this, and that he didn’t tell me. That he let me fall for him, while all this time Robyn’s heart has been pumping in his chest.

I want to scream at him. To demand how he could do this. I want to cry, to throw my glass against the dome and watch it shatter. But, most of all, I want to get out.

I get to my feet. “I can’t do this.”

He stands too, reaching for me. “Ali, wait, we can—”

“No.” I pull my arm from his grip. “You…” I have to take a deep breath to stop the nausea from overwhelming me. “You’ve known, all this time. You didn’t tell me. You’ve been lying to me, Leo. And you…You have her heart.” You’re alive, and she isn’t. You’re the person who took it from her.

Pain flickers across his expression, like he can read the words I don’t say. But I can’t do this. I can’t stay here. I can’t offer him comfort. He’s been helping me, and all this time he knew.

This time, he doesn’t try to stop me when I leave the dome. My vision blurs as I head down to the Esplanade. The conversation plays over and over in my head, even as I try to block it out.

I walk to the taxi stand with no idea where I’m going. I’m in Paris because of Robyn. Because Robyn died and left me the calendar. Died, because she couldn’t get the heart she needed. Because Leo got that heart instead. And he knew, this whole time.

A message comes through on my phone. Leo, texting me the hotel address. Like I just need time to cool off. Like this hasn’t changed absolutely everything.

I have the calendar with me in my overnight bag, because I couldn’t bear to leave it at home and miss a day. And because I wanted to bring a part of Robyn with me, on the trip we were supposed to take together. It’s a day early, but I pull it out as I wait in line and open the next square, needing to find that connection with my friend.

The seventeenth of December, the square reads. A week left until Christmas.

Find a way to say goodbye to me. (I’m sorry. I couldn’t have this as the last one because it’s too damn depressing, so that’s why it’s here. Goodbye, Al. I love you, now and always.)

The tears are coming, burning twin paths down my cheeks. No. I can’t do this. I can’t say goodbye.

A taxi pulls up and I get in, trying to stem the tears as best I can. Later. I can break down later, when I’m alone.

“Où vas-tu?” the taxi driver asks.

“The airport,” I manage to get out through my tears. “Take me to the airport.”