“If time reversed itself,” I wonder, “and you knew from the very beginning I might be infertile—would you even kiss me in the stairwell at Paris?” I break into heavy tears because I imagine that scenario—where he never chooses me. It drives a cold wedge through my ribs. He holds me tightly, hand pressed caringly to the back of my head while I cry in his chest. “I’m always kissing you in Paris, Dais. Every fucking time, I’m kissing you. There is nothing that’d change my course.”
