27 Snowflakes (1/2)

There had never been three boyfriends at Stanford.

There had never been three boyfriends anywhere. Or even one boyfriend.

Gemma didn't need a guy, wasn't sure she liked guys, wasn't sure she liked anyone.

She was supposed to meet Paolo at eight o'clock. She brushed her teeth three times and changed her clothes twice. She put on jasmine perfume.

When she spotted him waiting by the carousel where they had arranged to meet, she nearly turned around and left. Paolo was watching a street performer. He had his scarf wrapped tightly against the January wind.

Gemma told herself she shouldn't get close to people. No one was worth the risk. She would leave right now, she was about to leave—but then Paolo saw her and ran at her, top speed, like a little boy, stopping short before he crashed. He swung her around by the wrists and said, ”Jeez, it's like a movie. Can you believe we're in London? Everything we know is on the other side of the ocean.”

And he was right. Everything was on the other side of the ocean.

Tonight would be okay.

Paolo took Jule walking along the Thames. Street performers played accordions and walked low tightropes. The two of them poked around in a bookshop for a while, and then Gemma bought them both cotton candy. Folding sweet pink clouds into their mouths, they walked along to the Westminster Bridge.

Paolo took Gemma's hand and she let him. He rubbed her wrist softly now and then with the pad of his thumb. It sent a warm thrill up her arm. She was surprised that his touch could feel so comforting.

The Westminster Bridge was a series of stone arches over the river, gray and green. Light from the lamps on top of the bridge shone onto the rushing river.

”The worst thing in that Chamber of Horrors was Jack the Ripper,” said Paolo. ”Know why?”

”Why?”

”One, because he was never caught. And two, because there's a rumor that he killed himself by jumping off this exact bridge.”

”Get out.”

”He did. He was probably standing right here when he jumped. I read it on the Internet.”

”That is complete trash,” said Gemma. ”No one even knows who Jack the Ripper really was.”

”You're right,” he said. ”It is trash.”

He kissed her then, under the streetlight. Like a scene from a film. The stones were damp in the fog and glistened. Their coats flapped in the wind. Gemma shivered in the night air, and Paolo put his warm hand against her neck.

He kissed like he couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else on the planet, because wasn't this so nice, and didn't this feel good? As if he knew she didn't let people touch her, and he knew she would let him touch her, and he was the luckiest guy in the world. Gemma felt as if the river underneath her were running through her veins.

She wanted to be herself with him.

Wondered if she was being herself. If she could go on being herself.

And if anyone could love the person she was.

They pulled apart and walked in silence for a minute. A crowd of four drunk young women headed toward them, crossing the bridge precariously on high heels. ”I can't believe they made us leave,” one of them complained, slurring her words.

”They should want our business, those buggers,” said another. Their accents were Yorkshire.

”Ooh, he's cute.” The first one looked at Paolo from ten feet away.

”You think he wants to go get a drink?”

”Ha! Cheeky.”

”I dunno. Ask him.”