Running Back (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

In the late morning, we met up with the other four at a
chocolate room on rue Rivoli. The boys grumbled about fitting their long limbs
and broad shoulders into the limited space, but I noticed they ate plenty of the
food.

Afterward we strolled through the Tuileries, the royal gardens
that had become a public park before the Louvre. They seemed to stretch on
forever, filled with manicured bushes and graceful statues and low pools of
glinting water. Rachael had extremely strong opinions about what to do in Paris,
which mostly consisted of art and food, and the rest of us were content to drift
after her as she argued with Ryan about directions.

So we followed her down through the glass pyramid and back up
into the palace. Bright wooden floors matched up with marble walls and grand
arches, while high above egg-and-dart crownings lined the glass skylights.
Endless art and people filled it, so much it was hard to know where to begin. We
went heavy on the Egyptian, Near Eastern and Classical work, and then did a
hit-and-run tour of the rest.

A crowd milled in front of The Mona Lisa, which, as I’d been
warned, was kind of small and dark, but it was worth it, especially for the two
girls who took one glance and then buried their heads in their phones in order
to make it their statuses.

But I liked the next chambers better, light and airy despite
the burgundy walls. If I turned around I could see a straight shot back to the
Winged Victory, framed through a series of arches. These rooms were all filled
with paintings I’d studied in art history classes. There was The Coronation of
Napoleon and another portrait of Josephine reclining on a moss covered rock, as
she was likely wont to do. Now I studied a suspiciously white Dido of Carthage
as she chatted with Aeneas, pre break-up and suicide.

To my surprise, Ryan Carter came up as I stared at the huge
expanse of paint. “So, archaeology.”

“Um.” I glanced at him a little nervously. Ryan was the golden
boy of the New York Leopards, a triple threat quarterback. I’d never spoken
directly to him, and despite spending the past couple months in close confines
with one of his teammates, the fame and celebrity still shell-shocked me.
“Uh-huh.”

“That’s what I wanted to do as a kid. Egyptology. Bet you get
that a lot.”

I peeked at him quickly, but he still looked dead ahead at the
painting. He was right, of course; half the people I encountered told me they’d
wanted to be an Egyptologist. It was the kind of thing I usually just grinned
and bore, though sometimes I wanted to jump down their throats and explain there
was a huge difference between thinking and starting to do something and
actually, say,
doing it.

Not that I would ever say anything like that to Ryan Carter.
“It’s not uncommon.”

He let out a breath of laugher. “Nice way of putting it. You
finding a lot over there? At Kilkarten?”

Oh, boy. He knew about Kilkarten. “Not yet. I mean, we’ve found
the basic stuff you’ll find digging anywhere in Ireland, but no burials or
building remains.”

He nodded at the painting. He kind of looked like one of the
busts we had walked past earlier, an idealized youth from the Classical Era.
“Rachael really likes you.”

What did I say to that? “Thanks?”

“Because you’re smart and focused and dedicated to your work.
That’s what matters to Rachael.”

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like it boded well. “And I’m guessing
you’re telling me this because you value other things.”

A small smile slipped out. “I figure it makes sense to check up
on anything not part of the pattern.” He paused. “And so I wanted to know if
you’re dating Mike out of convenience.”

Because I wasn’t part of Mike’s pattern. I turned so I stared
straight at Carter, and waited until he turned and faced me. He stared me down,
blue eyes cool, and I could see why opposing teams faltered under his steadfast
gaze. Instead, I locked my shoulders and lifted my chin. “It’s not out of
convenience.”

His eyes didn’t even twitch as they studied me, just scanned
back and forth, like he was trying to read every move I’d made in the past and
everything I planned for the future. “Good.”

I let out a breath. “Okay. I’m just gonna, go...” I jerked my
thumb over my shoulder.

“Cool.” He locked his hands behind his back and turned back to
the painting.

Holy shit, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

I walked over to Mike. I almost wanted to make a joke, like
“Your quarterback just interrogated me about my intentions towards you.”

But instead, I slipped my hand into his, and tugged slightly
until he looked my way with a questioning lift of his brows. I raised my mouth
to his lips. “Hey. I like you. You know that, right?”

He kissed me.

* * *

All the walking-and-stopping of the museum starved us,
so we followed Rachael up to the Marais to get falafel. The Marais felt like
Williamsburg, or maybe the West Village—trendy and hipstery and filled with
boutiques. Rachael led us next by the Hôtel de Ville, the massive and stunning
seat of Parisian government, then through winding streets toward the two tiny
islands in the middle of the Seine. She got distracted by the Mémorial de la
Shoah, turned bright red as she tried to dissuade the rest of us from feeling
like we had to go in with her, and muttered to herself when Ryan grabbed her arm
and towed her inside with the rest of us following. Then she squeezed Ryan’s
hand hard enough that that I could see the white imprints from her fingers and
nails.

We crossed a bridge onto a tiny, practically pedestrian island,
where we stopped for ice-cream and to watch several street musicians. Then it
was onward across another bridge to Notre Dame, which we came up at from behind,
giving us the chance to admire the swooping flying buttresses and a small garden
filled with roses.

While we waited in line in the grand plaza before the
cathedral, the boys started wrestling. It began when Ryan started ribbing Mike
about Notre Dame, Mike’s alma matter, and Mike had come back with some equally
snarky remark about Ryan’s and now all three of them were jumping and turning,
displaying a strength and flexibility that appeared almost unreal. People
stopped to watch—not people who knew they were celebrities, just casual tourists
struck by the beauty of their bodies, by the amazing abilities of the human
form.

I watched them laughing. Watched Mike, the brightness in his
eyes, the joy on his face. And my heart flipped. Just flipped over and said,
yes, that’s right. That’s him.

Somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with Michael
O’Connor.

I turned away, my heart beating wildly. What was I supposed to
do now? What did you do when you ended up over your head?

I tried to focus on the church, on the saints and the
gargoyles. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Rach and Bri, who had also paused to
watch the boys, small smiles on their faces. Smiles I doubted they knew were
there.

They had figured it out. Most people figured it out. Emotions
were part of human life.

But I dealt with people and places long gone, not modern love.
Not things that could affect me. And I stood by what I’d said; I agreed that the
emotion of love was real. I was chock full of dopamine and norepinephrine and
serotonin. But that didn’t make it lasting.

What did I do now? Let it run its course, enjoy it while it
lasted, love Mike with all my heart—well, with all my complimentary
brain-produced chemicals? That was surely the healthy thing to do, the way most
people functioned.

But if you
knew
pain was coming—how
did it make sense to put yourself straight in the path of all that agony and
depression? Wasn’t it stupid to stand on train tracks, even if you couldn’t hear
the train?

I lifted my gaze above the Cathedral’s three arched portals to
the gallery of kings, all carved drapes and endless crowns. But there were no
answers in the stone.

I was beginning to think that was always the case.

* * *

We returned to Ireland, and rain.

The O’Connor women picked us up at the airport. They’d
cancelled their northern trip due to the endless downpour, and spent the weekend
in Dublin, where they could stay dry in museums.

They were not thrilled to hear about France’s lack of rain.

I found all the water soothing. The way it streaked across the
windows, the way the ocean pounded against the land and sent up angry white
sprays. The world was bleached of every color but green and gray, turned into
some strange altered landscape where everything blurred together.

Back at the inn, we settled before the fire, talking about our
trips and drinking hot tea and devouring the pastries we’d brought back. I
studied Mike’s face, the curl of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. The dimple
when he laughed out loud.

Maybe I could just tell him and follow up by saying I didn’t
expect anything. That I just wanted to share. That I was trying to be
emotionally open, but I didn’t want to tie him down or anything.

A knock sounded. Jeremy leaned on the doorframe. Scruff
roughening his jaw, and two lines folded the skin between his brows. “Natalie.
You’re back. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course.” I uncurled and stood. I could feel Mike’s eyes as
I followed Jeremy, who led me up to his room. “How was your weekend? Is
everything okay?”

He shook his head and dropped into his desk chair. I hovered
nervously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

He kept his eyes steady on mine. “An article was published
about you this morning.”

I actually placed my hand on my chest, I was so surprised. “Me?
What did it say?”

His head wavered back and forth. “About Tamara Bocharov’s
daughter, actually.”

My throat dried up. “I don’t understand.” Why would anyone
write an article about me as my mother’s daughter? And if they did, why would
Jeremy care?

Unless it was really an article about Kilkarten. My arms
wrapped around my waist. “What did it say?”

He let out a deep sigh. “The original article was gossip.
Nothing really.”

“Because it is nothing. How did anyone even find out?”

His gaze went over me. “Because of him.”

I whipped my head around to find Mike crossing from the top of
the stairs to Jeremy’s door. He stopped close enough that I could feel his
warmth, and stared right back at Jeremy. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

“Natalie’s always been able to fly under the radar before. No
one cared who her mother was. But apparently when a famous running back’s dating
a supermodel’s daughter, it gets some attention. Especially when she’s searching
for a lost city.”

Oh, God, it sounded like a made for TV movie. It could only get
worse if there were aliens. “You said the
original
article. There were more? There were pictures from Paris, weren’t there? And
someone followed up. And...Ceile? He hasn’t said anything, though, has he?”

Jeremy looked away.

My stomach dropped. “Already?”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not pretty.”

Mike tried to get an explanation once more. “So some articles
were written. Who cares?”

Jeremy sent him a hard, sharp, glare. “Natalie is a
professional. She’s smart and dedicated, and you made her look ridiculous.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s the absurdity of it all,” I said miserably. “It’s hard
enough to get people to take us seriously. No one will fund Jeremy to look for
Ivernis anymore, since there’s been too much failure in the past. And Ceile’s
done too good a job at making us look like we’re ridiculous questers. And now if
I come across as some ditzy blonde who’s just—who’s just playing around in her
boyfriend’s backyard with money a wonderful establishment gave me—it’ll look
like a joke. No one will fund us, and we’ll never find Ivernis.” I looked up at
Jeremy. “What are we going to do?”

Jeremy’s gaze softened slightly when he looked at me. “We keep
digging.”

“I am so sorry. I’ll fix it. I promise.”

He closed his eyes. “The only way to fix it is to prove Ceile
wrong.”

I was still nodding when he shut the door.

I sagged. Mike caught me, and for a minute I rested against him
and wished I didn’t ever have to leave his arms. And then I straightened and
walked into our room.

He closed the door and sat down across from me. “If anyone
thinks less of you because of your mother, and because you’re dating me,
they’re
the idiots.”

I pulled my laptop closer. “And it would be fine if it was just
about me and you. Then it would be funny. Silly, sweet.” The first article that
popped up was exactly that, a saccharine account of our romance, accompanied by
a picture of us in our formal wear. “Or at least just celebrity gossip of no
interest to the real world.”

He lounged in his seat. “I forgot I didn’t live in the real
world.”

I clicked back. The first article had been dumb and flirty and
flattering, if you were a football player or a model and wanted to be
flattered.

I didn’t want to click the second link. Instead, I looked at
Mike. “But it’s ammunition for Dr. Ceile.”

I opened the page.

Mike sat down behind me, reading off the screen. “‘Delusion
Diggers.’ Catchy.”

I rubbed my hands over my nose and mouth, unable to look
away.

Mike leaned closer. “‘Professor Anderson persists in his
ridiculous quest for the lost city of Ivernis, accompanied by the daughter of
’80s supermodel Tamara Bocharov, playing Willie Scott to his Dr. Jones.’” He let
out a snort. “The nightclub singer? Played by Spielberg’s wife?”

“We have a limited number of pop culture references.”

“‘Sullivan may be easy on the eyes, but she spends more time
frequenting Parisian galas with her American footballer boyfriend than working
in the field.’” He leaned back and grinned at me. “I don’t know, isn’t this a
case of being so ridiculous it’s funny?”