The sixth sense

Chapter 7

Lili
Present Day

Six in the morning. It's still dark in Paris and the sun isn't rushing to bless the city with the light. I'm at the balcony, sitting in a chair and drinking in the morning silence. Spring is my favorite time of the year. The tree buds are swollen and here and there, you can see the first green leaves. The air is fresh and cool; the wind is playing with my hair. It's a perfect and beautiful morning. All I need is a run to make the blood flow faster through my veins and feel the tension in my muscles. I leave the balcony and head to the bathroom, taking my running clothes on the way there. The traitorous floor beneath my feet is crackling, announcing every small step I take. I hope everyone's deep asleep, and I won't wake up anyone. I get changed quickly and tiptoe to the hall, holding a pair of sneakers in my hands, anticipating the upcoming run. All of a sudden, I bump into Gerome. Wearing shorts and a shirt, he's tying his shoelaces.
"Morning," he says without looking at me. "Are you going on a run too?"
I want to say 'no' but it will sound stupid, so I nod. "Yeah, I like running . . ." I'm hesitating to say 'alone' but then I swallow the word, choosing not to be rude to him.
"Cool! I always wanted to have a running partner," he says enthusiastically, and I suppress a moan.
Damn it, it doesn't look like I have a chance to get rid of him. So, I put on my sneakers and follow him out into the street.
"I love the empty streets," my stepfather comments with the obvious desire to have small talk.
But luck isn't on his side this morning. I'm not in the mood for small talks, so the only thing I say in response is, "Aha."
Gerome is well built. When Mom said her new boyfriend was fifty-two, I got worried because she was just about to turn forty-two. A decade of age difference felt huge. Though after I met Gerome Delanie in person, I realized his age wasn't a big deal. He turned out to be tall, with kind green eyes, pearly whites, and a bush of thick hair. Of course, I could see greyness here and there but as my grandma once said, he was full of piss and vinegar. By the way, she was beyond happy to meet monsieur Delanie.
We met when he and Mom came to take me home from the hospital where I stayed after the accident. He acted like a real gentleman. Mom was in hysterics, but he wouldn't leave her even for a second, trying to comfort her and show his endless support. He called his daughter and told her his friend was in trouble. He wouldn't give away the details and I realized Gerome was the man who knew how to keep his mouth shut when needed. In other words, he was an on-top-of-my-choices kind of person. Emma still doesn't know what happened to me back then. It's for the best. I hate feeling compassionate gazes on me or people feeling sorry for me.
"We can take a run along Avenue de la Bourdonnais and then turn to Pont de l'Alma. Or run to Champ de Mars, but it's too sandy there and we'll kick up the dust. Besides, everyone runs there, and it might be too overcrowded. What do you think?" Gerome's question brings me back to reality.
"You've got a habitual route, right? Let's take it." I stretch my legs and jump a few times. "I'm ready!"
We start the run. Gerome first runs half-steam, probably thinking I'm not taking my morning runs seriously. Though he quickly realizes I'm not a newbie and speeds up.
"You're a great runner," he compliments on my skills.
I leave his words uncommented. The scar on my arm begins to tingle. Sometimes I suffer from phantom pains. After my return from Italy, I went for a run every day. I ran until there was no air in my lungs until my legs hurt so bad, I couldn't take a single step forward. I thought I was too slow and needed to learn how to run faster. Because if I could run away the day the terrible accident happened, everything would be different now.
"The weather's fantastic today! Don't you think so?" Gerome asks, once again interrupting my thoughts.
And again, the only thing I say in response is, "Aha."
Another attempt to start small talk fails. I really want to be nice with him, but I just can't force myself into a secular talk. After one hell of a night, I'm too exhausted to smile or pretend my life is fucking amazing. The morning breeze blows into my face and the sky slowly reddens. The weather's amazing, indeed, and we can finally enjoy the beginning of spring. But I can't share Gerome's excitement. It's hard to find common grounds with him. He's my stepfather and I like him because he makes Mom happy. But I so wanted to run alone and try to suppress the disturbing thoughts that wouldn't give me a break. At some point, Gerome realizes that small talk won't happen and stops asking unnecessary questions. We round the ottoman buildings in silence. The only sounds we make come from our sneakers hitting the asphalt and our loud breathings. We come to the bridge, and I stop, mesmerized by the beauty of the city we live in. The Paris sky is painted in soft pink shades. The first morning rays are mirrored in the waters of Siena; it glistens in the sun and sparkles. I can see a perfect gift card picture opening right in front of my eyes. The Eifel Tower, the Parisian buildings, the trees, the river, and the empty city. I stand in the middle of an iron bridge named Alma and I can't stop admiring the view around me. A breathtaking sunrise that plans a new inspiration inside me. A silly part of me is dying to show this beautiful sunrise to Adam. I wonder if he's still asleep. Or maybe he's enjoying the soft pink sly turning into white and then pure blue. Tears start to burn my eyes. We live in the same city now, but at the same time, we are strangers to each other. Who would have thought he would become a stranger to me one day? Two teardrops fall from my lashes and land on my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away from my face.
"I'd like to thank you for moving here and supporting Amelia's choice," Gerome says about my mom. His words are dipped in warmth. "I know it must have been so hard to change everything you were used to. Especially when you got so close to the end of your graduation year. But I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for us and I'm sure you will like it here. Everything's gonna be all right."
I'm sure he's seen me wiping away my tears. I'm so mad at myself for being so weak these days. I can't control my emotions and it drives me nuts. He thinks I cry because of the move. What an irony . . .
But I cry because I've spent five months of life dreaming about one particular person. I cry because I found him here, in Paris. But life decided to laugh at me, and he turned out to be 'the best guy in the world' for my step-sister, the daughter of the man who's trying to comfort me now, saying everything's gonna be all right.
"I know it's gonna be okay," I said with all the assurance I can put into my words. I'm not weak. I won't cry or tell my 'new daddy' how miserable my life is because it doesn't really matter what I feel or go through. He'll never understand or help me. Crying won't help either.
Gerome smiles at me, showing his pearly whites, and pats my shoulder, saying, "I like your way of thinking as well as the fact that you and your mom live with us now. It's been a while since Emma chose to stay at home for dinner. We've never had an actual tradition to share dinners. Her mother had always been too self-centered, and I spent most of my time working . . . you know, it's how it usually happens. Kids grow up and you know it's too late to force your opinion on them or make them get used to something new."
"Where's her mom now?" I ask.
I've never heard anything about her. I know she's alive because Grandma said it'd been five years since Gerome got a divorce.
"She's in the States now, trying to conquer Hollywood."
"Is she an actress?"
"No. She's a stylist," Gerome replies reluctantly. "But we don't talk. Sometimes she calls Emma." His words sound final and mean this conversation is over.
"I'm sorry for nosing into something that is none of my business," I say. We live under the same roof now and I don't want him to think I'm rude or something. "A complicated relationship with a parent is something I know a lot about and I hate talking about it," I say with a smile to smooth the edges of our troubled talk. I'm sure Mom has told him everything about my father.
Gerome smiles warmly in response. "Let's go back home, Lili. It's almost eight and you need to go to school today."
The sudden reminder causes shivers to run up and down my spine. I'll see Adam at school . . .
For a second, I think I could pretend to be sick and stay at home. That was what I did after our meeting in the hall. I pressed my hand to my forehead, told Emma I had a headache, called Mom, and then called Uber. Our school wasn't too far away from where we lived, but I would never find a way back home on my own. I spent an entire day at home, thinking back and force about everything that had happened that day. I didn't cry. I was shocked. And now I feel like I'm getting closer to staying at home again over going to school. But I quickly shut that thought down. I can't hide forever. I don't want to hide. I will go through this challenge with my head up. I won't let anyone feel sorry for me.
"Let's run," I mumble and speed away from the bridge.
I can do this, I can do this, I keep repeating to myself like a mantra. I can live, studying in the same class with him, I can play it cool, I can keep my emotions under control.
With those thoughts in my head, I run full speed. I run so fast, my side begins to hurt, and I feel a metal taste in my mouth but I can't stop. I can't stop running away, even though I know I can't run away from myself, I can't hide from myself.
When we are finally home, Emma meets us in the hall. She looks sleepy.
"Did you go for a run?" she asks her father in a surprised tone. "Since when have you started running outside? Isn't the racetrack good enough for you anymore?"
Gerome is standing behind me, but I know her question hits the wrong button, and he doesn't know what to say in response. I know exactly what's going on here: Mom must have told him about my morning runs. Then this morning he must have heard me getting dressed and thought it would be great to join me. The realization amazes me, and I feel a little uneasy. After all, I spent a good part of our run avoiding talking to him.
I clear my throat and ask, "Shall we repeat it tomorrow, Gerome?" I don't turn my head to look at him. I sit down on a small chair and untie my sneakers to take them off.
"Sounds like a plan," he responds in a cheerful voice. "Emma, would you like to join us?"
She yawns loudly and rubs her eyes. "Not in this life."
I wordlessly go to my room and then run into the shower. Gerome woke up earlier to run together. Maybe that is how he wanted to become close with me. Maybe he really wants us to become a family. No one will be able to replace my dad's place in my heart and my life. No one will be able to heal the wound left by him. But Gerome can have his place in my life. If there's something I've learned in my eighteen years is that there are way too few kind-hearted people in this world. Few will put you first or wake up at six in the morning to go for a run with a new stepdaughter. I should be thankful for it and value it.
After having a quick breakfast, Emma and I leave for school. She doesn't say a word and her attention is focused on her phone. She's typing a new message. We walk to a private school of Paul Claudel-d'Hulst that in the seventh district of Paris. I studied their website before we moved here. It's a catholic school, famous for its strict discipline and students passing their graduation exams with ninety-seven percent perfection.
There're a lot of students outside. Everyone's smoking, passing each other lighters, laughing, swearing, and sharing stupid sex jokes. Did I check on a different school website? The only thing that brightens up my mood is that I can't see Adam anywhere around me and that Emma left to talk to her friend who was dying to tell her something super-secret about her new neighbor that was most likely not meant to be heard by me. I truly hope my stepsister isn't going to become my guardian angel. God knows a babysitter is the last thing I need right now. But the moment I think the worst part of the morning is over, a green-eyed guy walks up to me. Emma introduced us yesterday. He looks so irritatingly self-assured as if he thinks I'll drop my panties at the mere look he's about to grace me with. If we met before my trip to Italy, I would no doubt find him attractive and maybe even flirt with him, just for fun. But right now, I'm far from doing anything of the above.
"Lili!" he exclaims and kisses me on the cheek. Like really kisses me, with a sly-fox glow in his eyes.  "How are you feeling today? Hope you're not going to run away again?"
I take a step back and force a smile. "I'm fine, thanks. No need to worry about me—" I get quiet, letting him know I'm trying to remember his name. I don't remember it. If he were less self-centered, I would show him my best attitude and he would never know I didn't remember his name. But not today. Today I want to put him where he belongs. Or at least give it a try.
My plan works. The guy frowns and smirks. "Paul," he introduces himself, biting on his bottom lip. "Nice to meet you."
"Paul! Right. Sorry, I couldn't remember the endless list of names Emma gave me yesterday. She wanted to introduce me to everyone in the school," I say with a charming smile on my lips. Mom always asked whom I wanted to kill when smiling like that.
Paul's disappointment deepens. Sorry, dude, but you just made it to the 'everyone' category. Shit happens. Just don't start crying. It looks like he wants to say something but then the other guys call his name. Perfect timing. If he stays at least a little longer and my sarcastic mood blooms with a new force, I'm afraid he won't be able to handle it.
"See you later, Lili," he says, waving his hand.
"Sure, sure," I say with not a bit of enthusiasm in my voice. The poor thing looks lost.
As soon as Paul walks away, a girl's voice behind me says, "That was new to him."
I turn around and meet a pair of eyes that belong to a girl I haven't met before. "It's the first time someone put Mr. Perfect in his place," she says with a bright smile. "I'm Cecil, by the way."
"Lili," I say on autopilot and Cecil smirks.
"I know . . . wait, it looks like the entire school knows your name. You're Lili from Lausanne, our new student, and Emma Delanie's step-sister."
"News fly like the air," I say, and Cecil chuckles. She's a lot higher and bigger than me. But it doesn't make her look heavy. She's a nice-looking girl, with soft-pink smooth skin, big bright green eyes, and beautiful chestnut hair. 
"Nice to meet you, Cecil," I say. "If Mr. Perfect is not your type either, I think we have a lot in common."
The bell rings, Cecil smiles and nods toward the school entrance, "Let go, Lili."
I follow her. "Are we in the same class?"
"No. But if you feel bored and if there's no one to share lunch with, I'll be at your disposal."
"Thanks," I say.
"I'm having an IT class now. It's this way. And you're having History. It's the opposite way. There are your classmates." She points to the crowd with Paul heading it.
I roll my eyes. "Then I'd better go."
"Laters, Lili. Hope you can handle it," Cecil says ironically.
I smirk and walk to my class. Emma shows up out of nowhere. She catches me by the elbow and whispers conspiratorially, "The mademoiselle you just talked to is the president's son's girlfriend."
"It's no longer news to me but every time I hear about it, I feel shocked," mumbles Emma's friend, Pauline, a tall slim brown-haired girl. No doubt, she spends at least two hours in front of a mirror before she leaves the house. "Don't get me wrong; Cecil is a good girl," she continues, "but the guy is a walking provocation. What could he have found in her? I just don't get it."
"I've never seen him," I say indifferently. The president son's girlfriend? Impressive. But anything is possible in the world we live in. Turns out a private catholic school in one of the richest districts of Paris is open for those who can afford it.
"Pauline, never judge by appearances. Cecil's very nice," Emma says, a little annoyed.
"Never judge by appearances . . . right. Says a girl who's dating Adam Vitiello himself."
My heart skips a beat at the mention of his name and I feel shivers run up and down my spine. I've been searching for his last name for so long . . .
Meanwhile, Pauline continues, "When you start dating a spotty dude then you'll have a right to mouth off." She then takes her phone and gives it to me, showing a picture of a handsome blue-eyed guy. He's well dressed; his hair is carefully styled. A generic bourgeois Ralph Lauren model. Not my type at all. Though no doubt, he's a dream of many girls.
"Nice," I say curtly.
Emma's response follows mine. "I'll never date anyone but Adam. And you know what, Pauline? I'll love him no matter what. Even if he gains weight or if his body's covered with spots from head to toe. Our relationship is on a whole different level. So, I assure you, appearance is not the key to everything. I love him for his soul. Do you understand?"
"Why are you boiling over my words?" Pauline frowns. "I'm not offending anyone and I'm not trying to make you think the same way I do. But if you ask me, I think the president's son could have any girl he wanted, but he chose Cecil."
"Which means he doesn't need anyone but Cecil," Emma interrupts her. "And neither do I need anyone but Adam. Even if Hero Fiennes Tiffin himself tells me he loves me, I'll tell him to fuck off. Because love doesn't choose the best, love chooses those you need most of all."
Pauline sighs, tired. "Whatever you say."
I don't say a word, trying to remember how to breathe and fighting with the desire to run away and never come back. I wish I could turn my head off and stop thinking at all. Or better, turn off my heart because my misery is entirely false . . .
We go up the spiral stairs; my legs refuse to obey me. Everything inside me hurts, hurts so bad I can't help it. I stop at the last step when someone suddenly bumps into me, hits my shoulder, and shouting 'pardon', runs down the stairs. And if that isn't bad enough, I lose my balance and start falling down the stairs when someone catches my hand and pulls me up full-force. I crash into a hard man's chest. That smell . . . the mixture of smoke and something unique.
Horrified, I look up and whisper, "Adam."
He immediately lets me go, lowers his hands, and gives me a darksome look.
"People here are nuts!" Pauline says.
"You can't say that twice," Emma agrees. She looks a little shocked. Then her gaze stops at Adam, "You're incredibly fast!"
Pauline switches her eyes between Adam and me. "Do you know each other?"
Emma speaks again, "Yes, I introduced them yesterday before Lili felt sick." She kisses him, and then adds in a sweet voice, "Hello, my hero."
He embraces her and responds, smiling at her, "Morning."
I look into his eyes. Brown . . . my favorite. They are unreadable. It's the first time ever that I can't read anything in them. There's a huge wall between us and all I can think about is asking him, 'Do you remember the day we met? There, in Florence?' But I bite my tongue and press my lips together. If he managed to cross me out of his life and started dating a new girl five months after we went separate ways, I can do it too. Can't I? But my inner is a traitor. It whispers, 'I wouldn't be so sure about that.'