Chapter Text
The Beginning (Belly’s Version)
For as long as she can remember, Belly Conklin has been utterly, devastatingly in love with Conrad Fisher. She is convinced her love for him was written into the stars. It’s all-encompassing and burns as bright as the summer sun on a Cousins afternoon. She loves him, but more importantly she knows him, and that’s how she knows something is different that summer, that something life-changing will happen. It starts the second he looks at her for the first time in almost a year.
She doesn’t look wildly different—the braces are gone, and she’s toned up a bit from the extra training she’d been doing to prep for next volleyball season, but nothing to warrant that look on his face. Conrad pushes a strand of hair out of his face, Belly has never seen it this long before, and he looks her up and down. It’s fast, and it’s not the first time a boy has looked at her like that. But it’s the first time Conrad has looked at her like that.
In the end, Belly is right. The whole summer is wildly different. At twelve, Conrad broke her heart. He’d taken her to the boardwalk just so he wasn’t alone when he talked to the girl he was crushing on. In the aftermath, the years Belly would reflect on that night while he laid in bed with teary eyes, she tried to reassure herself with this: Conrad draws strength from her.
Maybe it’s not the whole summer that’s different, maybe it’s just Conrad. He’s confusing, and he’s acting in ways Belly never could’ve predicted. Conrad had been a comforting constant Belly’s entire life—he was steady and every summer he was there. At the very beginning, he’d told her that Aubrey broke up with him because she thought he’d changed. Belly, as much as she hated to admit it, agreed with Aubrey.
And then she finds out about Susannah, and it makes sense. Everything about Conrad, every difference, every out of character moment, slots into place with dizzying clarity, and Belly has the sudden, heavy realization that he’s been carrying this alone. All summer. There’s something that feels like a knot in her throat that she can’t swallow down, and her stomach twists. Conrad has this look on his face as he sobs in Susannah’s arms, he’s devastated, but Belly can see his eyes, and she realizes he’s angry too.
That same strand of hair that’s been in his eyes all summer flops over his forehead as his chin dips to his chest. Susannah holds him close, and Belly’s mom is pulling her away, and the last thing she sees before the door closes between them is Conrad falling to pieces for the first time in what feels like forever.
The problem with that summer, Belly realizes, is that something life-changing has happened, just like she’d thought. The problem with that summer is that it’s not life-changing in the way she’d have liked it to be. Conrad hates her, and she hates him a little bit too. No one in all of existence could ever make her feel the way he does. She wants to hold him, she wants to hit him. She wants to make him feel better more than anything else in the world.
Belly finds him on the beach. The weather reflects the mood: dreary and cold. All the color has leached out of Cousins with the news that Susannah is dying. It’s like everything is dying with her—she is Cousins. Conrad’s sitting in the sand, staring out at the ocean with empty, reddened eyes. He’s been crying, and his cheeks are wet—Belly is pretty sure it’s not from the mist. She walks to him because it’s inevitable. Wherever Conrad is, that’s where Belly also wants to be. That’s been the case her entire life, but especially now. They’re on the precipice of something.
She drops to the sand, digging her heels in as she settles, and Conrad doesn’t look at her. It doesn’t hurt as much as it would’ve before the news. Now Belly understands. She knows why Conrad has seemed so lost, and she wants to help him find his way back. If he’ll let her, she’ll take him by the hand and bring him back to her, to all of them. The world would be a significantly worse place, truly missing out, if he were to disappear entirely.
“I’m sorry,” Belly starts. She licks her lips. “I’m really, really sorry. I wish I had known–”
“Please stop talking.” Conrad cuts her off. His voice is hoarse, and Belly isn’t sure if it’s from the crying or disuse. A tear drips off the tip of his nose onto his sweatshirt.
Belly goes to push herself up from the ground. Her cheeks are flushed, and she feels sick to her stomach again. Of course she isn’t what he wants right now. At the end of the day, no matter what had happened that summer, she was never what he wanted. Not like that.
Her toes slip in the sand as she moves to get her feet under her. It’s embarrassing. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
But then.
“Don’t leave,” Conrad says. He stops her with a hand on her wrist. His fingers are cold, and the callouses on his fingertips from all the guitar playing press firmly into the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. It sends a jolt up Belly’s arm, it writes itself into her bloodstream. “Please.”
That’s when he crumbles. Conrad has always been so strong. He’s been strong all summer despite the inner implosion Belly had been sensing but not fully understanding. Now he’s like a little kid again, sobbing into his hands—hiding to the very end. His shoulders shake as he curls in on himself.
“I’m so fucking mad at her.” Conrad finally admits, swiping a sleeve across his nose. His head is still bowed. Belly had already known this, she’d seen it the night before.
“I know.”
She feels like she shouldn’t be seeing this, like it is a private moment she’s intruded on. Conrad is letting himself be not okay in front of her, and Belly doesn’t want to ruin it. No matter what they’d said to each other in worse moments, moments where they both only wanted to cause hurt, she’d be here for him if he needs it.
So Belly lets herself touch. She runs a hand up his back, across the nape of his neck, pausing only briefly to squeeze. And then it’s in his hair, carding gently as he shakes apart in the sand next to her. He jerks forward, away from the first touch, before pushing his head back into her hand. Up, down, through the damp, tangled waves from the humid air and the mist. Belly cups the back of his head and pulls, not too forcefully, until his temple is resting on her shoulder.
His arms are wrapped around his knees now, pulling them in as far as he can. Conrad’s never been overly flexible, and he’s always been taller than Belly, but now he feels so small. He’s collapsed in on himself in a way her imagination never could’ve conjured up itself. Conrad is still shaking, but he puts one arm around her, fisting her sweatshirt desperately.
They kiss there on the beach. It’s two pairs of chapped lips moving against each other, and Conrad’s eyelashes fluttering against Belly’s cheekbones. It’s salty from Conrad’s tears. It tastes like grief and feels like desperation. The kiss is nothing like Belly expected their first kiss to be, but it’s still everything. Conrad’s hand slips under her sweatshirt, cupping her hip with his thumb brushing back and forth on the bare skin over her hipbone. Belly’s heart pounds, her blood rushes in her ears, this is everything. It’s inevitable.
All too soon, it’s over, and summer is over. But it doesn’t take long. They fall together, over and over again. It’s not perfect, and it’s tinged blue with grief for a while, but they make it work. Belly loves him—she’ll never love anyone else like this.
They kiss just like the first time, but there are different types of kisses too. Sloppier and softer. Grief is a cruel wave that threatens to drown them both, but Belly and Conrad have plenty of experience with swimming in the ocean. They make it. She knows months later, deep down, as Conrad spins her around the quiet laundry room at the bottom floor of his dorm building to the music playing softly through the earbuds they’re sharing, that this will change her forever.
The End (Belly’s Version)
Something Belly has learned over the course of their relationship is that no one knows how to hurt her the way Conrad does. And the opposite is true—she can hurt Conrad in ways no one else can. It’s terrifying, the thought of being known so well that a person can bring you to your knees in an instant. It’s devastating when Conrad chooses to turn that power against her.
She waits at baggage claim with an arm wrapped tightly around her stomach. Her vision is blurry as she stares at the conveyor, watching their luggage go in circles. She should grab it probably. Their suitcases are right next to each other, and it’s like a sick joke about the two of them having been together for so long, a we for years. Not anymore.
Sweat pools in her lower back, and Belly chews on her thumbnail as she peels her watery eyes away from baggage claim and shifts her gaze left to the escalator. Everyone from their flight is already downstairs though, minus Conrad, of course. She wants, no, she needs him to come down that escalator soon. Maybe they can turn it around, talk it out.
He doesn’t. Belly doesn’t know how many times their luggage has circled. There’s only one other duffle bag left on the belt by the time her knees unlock, and she steps forward to grab her suitcase. Belly hesitates, swaying in place on her toes. Should she grab Conrad’s too? Is it even her place anymore? The longer it takes him to show up, the more she feels like it’s not. She waits anyway, knees pressed to the metal border around the moving belt. It aches. Her eyes go back to the escalator. Another flight full of people are coming now. Still no Conrad.
Belly leaves his suitcase, and the pieces of her heart that will never heal—shattered and bloody—spread across the baggage claim conveyor. She drags her own to the nearest counter and makes up her mind. Her stomach feels the way it did that summer. It feels so long ago, but it was only three. The feeling is somewhat familiar. A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away on the back of her wrist before clearing her throat.
The agent looks up at her, eyebrows raised. She’s pretty, Conrad will have to talk to her too probably. It almost makes her sick with jealousy to think about. Belly swallows it down, now isn’t the time, and asks, “What’s the cheapest way to get to Paris?”
London (Four Years Later)
Belly doesn’t bring a suitcase to London this time, and she’s not at Heathrow. It’s like she’s almost afraid to jinx the trip a second time if she recreates that situation exactly. Well, she supposes she can’t recreate it exactly because Conrad had been with her the first time. Now she’s alone. That, and she’s wisened up about packing for European travel since she’s been living here for the past four years. She traveled a lot more when she first moved, now she’s more settled, but luckily the London underground hasn’t changed much since she’d last visited because she’s running a bit late.
She doesn’t run because she’s not that behind, and the late summer sun is beating down on her. Belly’s sweating enough already, no need to add to it. Her sweater is tied around her waist, there’d been a bit of a chill in the air when she left her shared house, but the summer heat has set in. There’s a crosswalk counting down in front of her, she speeds up a little to a jog to try and make it, not really paying attention to the taxi turning until a hand from behind grabs her backpack and yanks her backwards, just out of the way as the taxi speeds past with a loud honk. Right where she’d just been standing.
“Fuck,” Belly breathes, hand pressed to her pounding heart. The light changes. The guy behind her chuckles, and Belly turns to look at him finally. “Thank you, oh my god.”
“American.” His eyebrows raise.
Belly tries for a joke. “Unfortunately.”
“Taxis here stop for no one.” He’s English.
“I know.” Belly crinkles her nose. “Been in Europe for a few years already. Not my first rodeo in London.”
He perks up. “England? Are you staying here?” Then he looks her up and down. The light changes back, and they start to walk.
“France,” Belly answers. The skin on her back, right between her shoulder blades, prickles with something unpleasant.
He tosses his head back and laughs. Belly decides that he’s cute. Sort of. “Figures.”
Whatever that means. They go their separate ways, and Belly comes to the sudden horrible realization that she’s never really liked when men look at her like that. Well, Conrad was a different story, but she spent her whole life wishing he’d look at her, wishing he’d notice her and like what he saw. Now he might never again. Other men judging her looks and seeing her though, not nearly as ideal or desirable.
The tour bus is waiting a few streets away, and by the time she reaches it, her heart rate has gone back to normal. She’s calmer, the calmest she’s been since waking up. Belly can do this.
There’s a man and a woman standing there. The man has a clipboard, the woman is twirling a set of keys around her finger. Belly did read the introduction email with instructions, a map, and the itinerary. The email also said the itinerary was suggested and booked but doesn’t have to be followed exactly. The man must be their guide, Fabrizio, and the woman is probably their bus driver, Orla. They both look very friendly.
“Good morning,” Belly greets and then wrinkles her nose. “Or, afternoon, I guess. My name is Isabel.”
“Meravilgioso.” He checks something off on his clipboard. “One of our rebooks. You may call me Fabrizio. It is wonderful to meet you, Isabel.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and brushes his lips across her cheekbone in greeting. It’s something she’s grown used to in her time overseas, so Belly puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek in return. “On the bus. Andiamo!”
Most of the seats are already full. Belly passes rows of couples with their heads tilted together, old and young, groups of friends leaning over seats to speak to each other, and a few different pairs of friends shouting and laughing—somehow louder than the groups. This trip, Belly knows, is meant to be shared with someone you love. It’s why she’d originally booked it with Conrad. Now she’s doing it alone.
After their breakup, she’d given the tour company a call and explained that she couldn’t make it. They offered a voucher for a rebook with a 48 month expiration. It’s been 47. Belly decided to use it last minute, mostly at her friends’ insistence. She’d needed a glass of wine to gather the courage to actually rebook, but she’d done it. Now she’s here.
There’s an open bench near the back, and Belly puts her pack on the floor, sliding over into the seat next to the window. She’s not sure if anyone will sit by her, and she thinks she prefers it that way anyway. As healed as she is, it’s been four years, this whole thing is bringing up some long-since buried feelings. Feelings she thought were gone completely.
Belly’s eyes sting as she takes a few deep breaths. In, out, in, out. Over and over. She can’t smell Conrad’s cologne, it can’t be real because he’s not here. Belly pulls the sweater off from around her waist and pulls it back on, squeezing her eyes shut as she sinks into it. She dips her nose to smell its collar. It’s her roommate’s sweater—oversized, cozy, and still smells strongly like their house and the candle they’ve been burning the past month and a half. Just what she needs. He keeps her steady when she feels uncertain, and Belly hates feeling uncertain.
Without opening her eyes, Belly pulls her phone out of her pocket, unwinding her earbuds’ cord she’d wrapped around it earlier that morning when she got off the train in London. Taylor has tried to convince her countless times to switch out to wireless headphones, but the wired ones are tried and true. Belly just can’t bring herself to get rid of them.
Belly finally cracks her eyes open to pick a playlist. There’s one she rarely plays these days, it’s hidden on her profile so that no one else can see it, and she clicks it. Her Conrad playlist. Songs he liked, ones he showed her, ones they danced to together. Songs that remind her of him. She figures since she’s here, finally letting go, she may as well go all in. “Mystery of Love” starts playing softly, and Belly leans her head against the cool bus window, pulling her sleeves over her hands completely.
She’s so focused on the birds flitting around outside the window that Belly doesn’t notice the way the bus fills all the way up around her. Her music is playing loud enough she can’t quite make out the words of the people chatting around her—it all sounds like muted murmurs. When the birds finally fly off, she decides to grab one of the books she’d brought: her French edition of The Hunger Games.
Belly bends down to her backpack at her feet, hair falling into her face as she does. It’s unzipped, and Belly has just wrapped her fingers around the spine of the book when someone clears their throat loud and close enough to be heard over her music.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Follows.
Oh, jesus. Belly could recognize that voice anywhere and likely will for the rest of her life. There’s no way it’s real, it can’t be because Conrad isn’t there. He’s not. It must be another American boy, and she’s projecting because she’s been thinking about Conrad more than usual lately. The music, the books, the trip itself—all drenched in Conrad with his ghost lingering around every corner. He’s top of mind.
But then. There’s a hand on her shoulder, and she’s got a t-shirt and a sweater on, the hand isn’t even touching her skin, but Belly knows. Her body knows. Conrad’s hand hasn’t touched her in four years, but it is. Right now. Goosebumps rise on both arms, and it’s like electric currents from his fingers over her clothes down the slope of her spine. Belly almost can’t fucking believe it. Except, Fabrizio had said one of the rebooks when he checked her in. She hadn’t even considered…this.
She’s always had this theory that when she thinks hard enough about Conrad, he’ll appear. Like she can summon him or something. He’s been there for her most of their lives, even at the end—that hadn’t been the reason for their breakup. Now she hasn’t seen him in 47 months, and she’s tried her best over time not to think about him. It figures the second she allows herself to in order to finally get over him, he actually shows up.
Belly unfreezes then, tries to ignore the growing pit in her stomach, and pushes her hair behind her ear. She can feel her cheeks burning, they must be noticeably red, and she pulls the earbud out of her left ear—the closest one to him—just in time to hear the hitch in his breath as he recognizes her.
“Oh fuck.” She looks at him for the first time in four years. Belly watches his eyes flick down to the book in her hand before jumping back to her face. A bead of sweat drips down his temple, sliding all the way down his still sharp jawline. “Belly,” he breathes. She jolts, no one has called her that in a long time.
The bus jerks to a start, and they’re off. Conrad stumbles, not expecting the sudden movement. He manages to catch himself, but he’s still off balance when the bus jerks again. His backpack throws off his equilibrium, and suddenly, every inch of him is falling sideways into Belly. She’s got a lap full of Conrad for the first time in four years. He used to lay like this when he was sad or stressed, and she’d comb her hand through his hair, scratching his head, letting him vent. That stopped a few months before the end.
Belly tenses as Conrad struggles to right himself. One of his hands plants on the seat next to her, formed in a fist, the other falls naturally onto Belly’s thigh. Like it’s second nature, like it belongs there. She supposes it does…or it used to, at least. For three fucking years.
His hands feel the same: soft across the palms, but his fingertips are still calloused from his guitar strings. It feels so familiar yet so alien. Belly has only felt those callouses in her dreams and memories for the past 47 months. She feels a rush of something knowing he still plays the guitar, knowing she hasn’t forgotten what his touch feels like. Even after all this time.
Conrad sits up. Now his cheeks are bright red, and he snatches his hand away like the bare skin on her inner thigh, right by the hem of her blue jean shorts, had burned him. “Fuck, sorry.” Conrad mutters. He’s never apologized for touching her before. “Um. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Belly presses her lips together. “Yeah, me neither.”
The bus rumbles along, out of London and onto a twisty road. Their first tour stop is Dover to see the cliffs. Belly has only ever seen them in movies, she’d been excited, now she feels…off. Off-kilter maybe is a better way to describe it. Everything she’d worked so hard to get over and put behind her has suddenly rushed back and taken root inside of her. Old feelings twist around her veins and bury themselves behind her ribs and around her heart. Her stomach is warm and tingly, and even the heels of her hands ache. That piece of her that she thought was gone, the Conrad piece, it’s screaming, and her blood is singing with it. She’s shocked no one else can hear it, her own ears are ringing.
She opens her mouth, maybe to ask how he’s doing, maybe to ask what the hell he’s doing there, all she knows is her brain is not fully in control. Fortunately, Fabrizio comes over the bus intercom and cuts her off.
“Ciao a tutti ragazzi! How are you today? Good I hope. Yes, good! If you do not know or do not remember, my name is Fabrizio, and I am your guide for the next three weeks. I am very happy to be sharing with you the flavors of France, Spain, and Italy—and yes, the sights also!”
Conrad locks in. He’s always been a good listener. It was the talking he struggled with, and it seems nothing has changed because he’s done with their conversation. As short as it was, Belly isn’t even sure she could class the few lines they’d shared as a conversation. She might throw up. His shoulder nudges hers every time they hit a bump, and all she can think is he’s touching me again. It’s too much.
Fabrizio goes on, and Belly opens her book. It’s hard to focus with Conrad there, nodding along to whatever’s being said, humming every so often. She puts her earbud back in and cranks up the music. The song has changed to “I should hate you” because she hadn’t paused it, and Belly feels that’s actually pretty fitting for the current situation. She can’t hear anything anymore beyond the music, and she does her best to actually read. Belly fails, but she’s fine. Really.
Dover
They arrive in Dover two hours later. The wind is blowing strong, and Belly’s glad for her sweater. The cliffs are gorgeous, and Belly aches to get closer to the edge. She wants to see more because she’s never seen anything like it—the grassy tops of them are so green it almost looks fake. The hills roll leading up to it, smooth and natural, and the cliffs themselves drop suddenly straight down into the sea far below. It snatches her breath away.
The group is walking in a line, following Fabrizio. Belly’s alone. There’s a pair in front of her, and Conrad is directly behind her, but he doesn’t seem interested in conversation. He won’t even walk next to her. She speeds up a bit, trying to get closer to the pair and away from him. Conrad doesn’t follow suit, and the gap between them grows. That feels incredibly symbolic.
Belly has stopped listening to music, and she takes a second, before putting her phone away fully, to text Anika.
Conrad is fucking HERE. ON THIS TRIP
Anika doesn’t respond immediately, probably at work, so Belly tucks her phone back in her pocket. She tries to focus on the scenery, the beautiful hills, and the abundance of sheep. They’re closer to the cliffs, but not close enough. Belly’s calves start to hurt a bit. She wonders how Conrad’s doing, and then shakes her head, trying to physically dissolve the thought. Her phone buzzes.
wdym? like he’s haunting you? that’s cheesy as hell Iz
Belly huffs. She appreciates the deflection.
no like he showed up to use his voucher on the very same fucking trip i decided to use my voucher on. is that not INSANE?
That’s when Conrad catches her. His lips are pursed, and he has a troubled look on his face. He’s crossed his arms over his chest, tight, and Belly can see his fingers drumming against the sides of his ribs. Conrad has gotten a new watch, one that looks vintage compared to the smart watch he used to wear when they were together. It’s got a leather band and definitely doesn’t connect to his phone.
“Can we talk?” Now he wants to talk. Anika texts her back, and she checks it even though that’s rude because he’s just asked her a question.
jesus. that’s some soulmate shit. talk to him! keep me updated!
So Belly takes that as her answer. “Sure.”
They wander off the trail a bit, close to the castle. It’s huge. Belly stares up at it before Conrad clears his throat and pulls her back out of her thoughts. He still looks concerned, and Belly isn’t sure why. She can’t look that much of a mess because she’s actually feeling totally chill and normal about everything. Honestly. Even now when they’re finally about to hash out their breakup and talk.
“How are you?” Or not. They’re definitely not, instead they’re doing small talk apparently.
“I’m okay,” Belly answers. But the truth is, she feels every day like she’s missing a piece of her soul—the piece Conrad used to occupy. It’s always there, gaping, and she knows there’s nothing that will ever fill it. Over time, Belly thinks it has probably scarred over. Sometimes it aches, times when she would normally message him to tell him something she saw. Sometimes, she pulls out her phone to do just that before remembering that she can’t. Sometimes, scars still ache, even when they aren’t fresh anymore. “What about you?” She asks. Morbid curiosity. “Did you get into Stanford?”
“I did.” He smiles, quietly pleased. “I’m going into my last year before clinicals start.”
“Congratulations.” It sounds hollow to her own ears, and there’s a furrow in his brow now. Conrad chews on his bottom lip, opens his mouth, but Belly adds on, “Sorry, why are we doing this now and not on the bus the entire two hours we were driving here?”
Conrad frowns. “You were reading, and you had headphones in. I didn’t think you wanted to talk. That’s why I asked now.” Considerate, always so fucking considerate. Belly hates him. She wishes she could actually hate him because at least she wouldn’t feel like this. “I was worried you might get motion sick like you used to.”
Belly hadn’t really been reading, but she remembers him noticing her lack of attention when she tried to read Emma that one summer. She’d been flipping pages on the bus without taking in a single word. “I took nausea medicine before we left.” Belly is surprised he remembered the motion sickness. Though she supposes it was pretty fucking memorable the time she had him pull over on the side of the interstate between Boston and Cousins to throw up because she’d been trying to do homework as he drove. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know,” Conrad swallows and looks away, up at the castle. “You always are.”
Belly stiffens. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Conrad’s lips twitch, he rubs the back of his neck with one hand, tucking the other in his pants pockets. Belly has never seen him in khakis outside of an event he was forced to dress up for until now. She hates that her knowledge of Conrad is outdated.
“Just that you’ve moved on and grown up, you know? I can tell.”
Belly tried to move on. It took a while before she let herself say yes to a date. A beautiful man, a year into her move to Paris, with blond hair and huge arms, who only knew her as Isabel, asked her for coffee, and he looked so polar opposite to Conrad that she said yes. The date went well, he’d bought her coffee, and a croissant that was maybe the best croissant Belly had ever eaten in her life. French pastry was a wonder she’d still barely explored back then. He kissed Belly when they parted that day. It tasted like espresso and butter, and the faint peppermint of Belly’s chapstick. It was a good kiss, objectively.
But, what Franco hadn’t known was that every man, for the rest of Belly’s life, would be in competition with Conrad’s ghost. And what Belly learned after that first date was that every man, for the rest of her life, would be fighting for second place. Conrad would always be the love of her life, and it was something Belly would have to come to peace with, made easier by the fact that Conrad was probably settled in California, and she was happy in Europe. In her mind, there was no chance of their paths crossing again. So Conrad actually has no fucking idea.
“Well, when in Paris.” She lies because what else is she supposed to do? If anyone has moved on, it’s very obviously him. “And when in California, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Conrad echoes. “Um, if you’d like, I can catch a plane back when we get to Paris.”
Belly blinks once, twice, her brain actually stalling out. It takes a second to reboot, and she stares at him, confusion surely written all over her face. “Why?”
Conrad looks confused now too. “So you can enjoy your trip?” It sounds like a question even though Belly is pretty sure he meant it to be a statement. “You paid for your ticket, I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“You won’t.” Pause, too honest. Belly needs to figure out where the connection between her brain and her mouth is and plug it back in. Conrad’s sudden appearance has shaken something loose. “You paid for yours too. Fair is fair.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” Another lie. But Belly decides right there, with the castle looming over the two of them, that she wants to experience this with Conrad. Even if it’s not the same, it’ll still be with him, and that’s what matters. It’s also probably for the best, he can at least call her mom if something happens to her.
Conrad sticks his hand out. “Friends?”
Belly stares at it, resists the urge to take it and just hold it. She shakes his hand like he intended, feeling those callouses again and ignoring the way the pads of her fingers fall perfectly between his knuckles. “Friends.” She agrees. As much as she’d love for that to be the case, to have Conrad back in her life forever, she doubts it ever will. She could never be just friends with Conrad because she loves him far too much. But she can pretend for three weeks. That she can do. For him.
They catch up to the group at the cliffs. Conrad leaves her alone then, wandering off on his own with his hands tucked in his pockets, and Belly steps closer to the edge. Her stomach lurches, and she’s not sure if it’s the dizzying heights or the conversation she’s just had with Conrad looping through her brain. Even there, she realizes, standing at the edge, the cliffs fail to make her feel as strongly as Conrad does.
She swallows. They’ll be fine, this will be fine. They’re going to her first home in France, her turf. That’s what she needs to work through it. Familiarity first, and then will come fine, she’s sure.