Learning to Trust: Curtain Falls Read Free Page B

fries for a reason, right?"
    " P ommes frites ," he said, his French perfect. Sometimes I forgot he even spoke another language, even though his accent was a constant reminder that English probably wasn't his first. "I don't really know if they did come from France. Some people say Belgium, but I don't really know. I d on't think food i s so simple."
    We continued to gobble down our respective piles of food, a mountain of wadded up napkins forming on the bed near us. I kept thinking about my childhood , the home movies playing in my mind on repeat .
    After I got my driver's license, my friends and I would go up to the beach during the summer and spend the day s swimming and tanning. And then, when we were starving, we'd go to the burger joint and eat as much as we could. It just didn't matter back then. And then w e would drive back home as the sun was setting, the trip relat ively short, but long enough that we could enjoy the full spectacle of the day's conclusion . It was one of those pure moments from growing up, the ones that you begged for as you got older. None of us knew how serious the world could be—and I begged for that same innocent ignorance now.
    The sunset in my mind quickly morphed into the one that I had watched with Roland the previous night, the glowing orb suddenly becom ing the flames in the Provence. D amnit! I couldn't control that destruction in my mind. Why couldn't I just think about the happy thoughts, the thoughts that would help me sleep at night? Instead, those dirty-black, sobering realizations of mortality always seemed to creep in when you just wanted to be prancing around in endless fields of golden wheat, the prototypical image of young bliss.
    My eyes flooded with tears, almost as if a switch had been flipped inside of me. I had no idea how long I had been drifting alone through my thoughts. Was Frederic doing the same? Audible weeping was emerging now—and there was no way for me to hide that.
    "Oh god, Frederic," I sobbed. "I can't believe what I've become."
    "It wasn't your fault, Marisa! Damnit, don't blame yourself for the actions of sadistic men. " He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against his chest. Normally I would have worried about crying on his fancy shirt—but not now.
    I just coul dn't accept his advice . It didn't fit. I was purging, my body desperately seeking to rid itself of this emotional buildup. "I took in that case! I hated him for humiliating me!"
    "Just because you didn't like the guy doesn't mean you're in any way responsible for his death. You're shooting the messenger."
    "Bullshit! I left a bomb in that building and killed innocent people! I'm not the messenger—I'm the executioner !" Sobs kept escaping from me, trapped sounds of sorrow that were finally breaking free. Somehow , I hadn't spilled my guts about Ramón , even though I had totally lost myself.
    Frederic held me tight, even during my flare-ups, almost like he was doing his best to contain a fire. "You delivered a message. You had no idea what you were doing. You said you only saw money in that briefcase, so how can you blame yourself?" He gently stroked my hair with his hand, his gentle motion instinctive. "You're never going to want to forgive yourself for this, but you're going to have to try."
    "I'm just not made for this," I said.
    "I'll agree with you on that," he whispered. "Take some deep breaths."
    I breathed in as much as I could and exhaled until my lungs were empty.
    "Again," he said.
    I complied—somehow I was calming down, my nerves relaxing and the tension evaporating from me. It was such simple advice, but you never thought about it when you were dealing with your sorrows. "Wow," I said. "Thanks, Frederic." I was still sniffling, but I was nothing like the absolute wreck I had been only a minute before.
    "You're welcome, Marisa." He kissed the nape of my neck and continued stroking my hair. I was relaxed again, my volatility nearly winning another round.
    "What do we do