Free The Oracle Rebounds by Allison van Diepen Page A

the baseball diamond in Scrummer’s Park, and we trek across the field to where the group has gathered. The French people kiss both of my cheeks. I’ve decided that French people are highly underrated. I don’t find them snooty at all.
    They describe the drama of their field trip to the Met, where one of the kids got caught smoking weed in the bathroom. Benoit’s already told me this, but I pretend to be interested. I am interested—in the fact that his arm is around my shoulders.
    Benoit’s friend, Yann, arrives with a bottle of wine and plastic cups. We sip it in front of the fire pit, occasionally tossing branches in.
    Evgeney comes up and sits beside me. I introduce him to Benoit. Evgeney has made an attempt at gelling his red hair; the gel makes it look greasy, but at least it controls the frizz. He tells a funny story about Mr. Granger freaking out in his history class, and we have a good laugh.
    “How’s it been with Guillaume?” I ask, seeing his exchange student across the fire pit chatting with a couple of American girls. From what I’ve heard, Guillaume hasn’t been too enthusiastic about staying at Evgeney’s.
    “He is a bitch,” Evgeney says.
    I stifle a laugh. Did he just say bitch? I’ve never heard Evgeney curse before!
    “I’m sorry you did not get someone better,” Benoit says. “Guillaume gives French people a bad name. He is in love with himself.”
    Benoit pours a cup of wine for him. I like the way Benoit talks to Evgeney. That was one of the qualities I appreciated about Jared. He always treated Evgeney well.
    Jared. I promptly shove him to the back of my mind where he belongs. Actually, he doesn’t belong in there at all—and one of these days he won’t be.
    Evgeney leaves the fire pit around eleven, and Benoit and I drift into our own little world, surrounded by chatter and woodsmoke and music from somebody’s portable radio.
    At one point Benoit just stares at me. His eyes drift over every part of my face, and I don’t feel a bit self-conscious. I feel like he’s telling me I’m beautiful.
    “You are an extraordinary lady, Kayla.”
    I giggle, because he called me a lady. “I’m glad you’re here. I feel like I’ve known you—”
    “Your whole life. Yes, I know. I feel that way, too.”
    And then he leans over and his lips brush mine, and we’re breathing each other’s breath, and it’s like time stills.
    “Beautiful.” He pulls back, searches my eyes and kisses me again.
    It’s incredible, this guy’s kiss. Intoxicating.
    “I wish I could make love to you.” His lips are drifting over my ear.
    “Me, too. But I don’t think it’s a—”
    “Shh, I know. Not when I leave tomorrow. Let us enjoy the time we have left.”
    The time we have left. It sounds so surreal. I push the thought aside—it doesn’t even matter. All that matters is this moment, and I am going to live it to the fullest.
     
    I’m not the only one who finds romance that week. When Tracey sets eyes on Iced Mocha, she is filled with relief and a double shot of happiness. He doesn’t look just like his pictures. He looks better. Way better.
    When he sees her, he gets up from the table where he’s been waiting. He’s maybe six feet instead of six-one, but he could have easily put his body type as muscular instead of fit. His skin is mocha, and his smile almost knocks Tracey off her feet. It’s big and toothy and boyish. She wonders if he’s feeling a similar sense of relief.
    Could this be it? First time’s the charm? One try at cyber-dating and she strikes gold?
    Their hellos turn into a hug. She feels his arms tighten around her in the most delicious way.
    One foot on the ground, says the voice in her head. (That voice, as she’s told me, is my voice.) Alive with nervous energy, they approach the cash register to order coffees. As he reaches for his wallet, Tracey puts down the money. He seems impressed. It’spart of Tracey’s plan to show him she’s not like other women, many of