Free Three Wishes by Deborah Kreiser Page B

felt the same way. Would he still, after I told him the full truth about what I was? And then, what would we do about it? And how would I break the news to Guy and our families that the arranged pairing was not to be?
    I decided to take on one issue at a time. The rest, well, I would cross those bridges when I came to them. It was time to tell Matt everything. My eighteenth birthday was approaching, and I would soon need a master, anyway. I might as well get on with it. We had already planned a date at the café where we’d first met.
    I got there early and waited for Matt to arrive. He greeted me with the traditional French bise , not knowing I was longing for what Americans call a French kiss. Flustered, I glanced around at the other patrons, but no one seemed to pay the two of us any mind. Still, I asked him if we could forgo the coffee and find someplace more private for a chat. He agreed, and we began walking to one of our favorite spots, a park located along the beach.
    Old men played boule nearby, and young children chased each other through the playground, their steps loud on the pea gravel covering the ground. We found a solitary metal bench shaded by a plane tree. I sat down, but Matt said, “Wait here,” and ran off some distance. I gazed out at the sea, still trying to decide what to say, but was soon distracted by the smell of a fresh chocolate crêpe Matt had thrust under my nose.
    â€œI spotted the vendor while we walked over, and couldn’t resist,” he said, licking his lips. He had purchased one for himself, as well, and sat down to eat.
    He inhaled his crêpe in a couple of mouthfuls, while I took one small bite. I began to cry.
    â€œGeneviève, what’s wrong? Is it the crêpe?” he asked, worry creasing his brow.
    â€œNo, no — well, yes, sort of,” I got out. “The crêpe is delicious, and it is so thoughtful of you to have bought it. You’re so perfect.” I cried more.
    â€œWhat, then, what is it?” He grew more anxious and bewildered. “Is it something I did?”
    I took a shuddering breath and faced him, the crêpe still in my hands. “Matt, you’re … amazing. You are everything I could ever wish for in a bo — in a friend.” I caught myself. We had never spoken of our relationship in so many words.
    His shoulders slumped, and he broke eye contact. “I thought we were more,” I heard him mutter.
    â€œMatt, please. You misunderstand me,” I pulled at his hand to get him to look at me. “I don’t know how to say this — I’ve never said it before—”
    â€œI get it, okay?” he choked out. “You’re breaking up with me. Why else the private chat, the tears, the friend talk?”
    â€œListen! Stop! Matt, I love you.” I stared down at my crêpe so I didn’t have to see his expression. I had never before in my life felt so vulnerable. And, in the back of my mind, I was thinking about the other confessions I still needed to make. I counted every heartbeat, fifteen in all, before I felt his arms wrapping around me, so tight I could hardly breathe.
    â€œJe t’adore aussi, mon amour,” he whispered in my ear, reached out a finger, and traced my lips before kissing me. We spent a good ten minutes like this before becoming aware the old men playing boule had left off their game to stare at us.
    We laughed, foreheads together, still in each other’s arms. After a while we separated, and the men went back to their boule. Matt took both of my hands in his and said, “Why were you so nervous? Don’t you know I’ve loved you since the first moment I spotted you eavesdropping on me in the café two months ago?”
    He put his arm around my shoulder and drew me to him. Together we watched the waves lapping the shore, and I knew he felt at peace. While I was relieved and blissful he felt the same as I, I dreaded the rest of the