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either.
    In fact, it surprised me that Elise wanted to go to school in Boston so close to where we’d grown up. Because what I hadn’t told her or my dad or Grandma or even Gray was that I’d applied to NYU, Johns Hopkins, and Emory, too. Not only did they all have stellar creative writing programs, they were all at least four hours away from Hull’s Cove.
    I’m not sure why this appealed to me so much. It was like coming to Paris had somehow made my home seem smaller, and I wasn’t sure it would be big enough to hold me when I got back.

C HAPTER 6
    W ith Elise juggling two boyfriends and me trying to hide it from Owen, he and I began working long hours on the libretto for our new Phantom . Even though we’d written an outline together, I was having a terrible case of writer’s block and couldn’t seem to get the songs down on paper.
    Sitting at a café one afternoon, Owen asked me what was holding me back.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I’m afraid I might suck. I’ve never been comfortable sharing my writing with anyone. You know that. But this time, my words might be sung on a stage in front of a live audience. That terrifies me.”
    â€œWell, don’t think about that right now,” he said. “Just think of the story you want to tell. Imagine an audience of one, and write only to him or her.”
    It was good advice, because the minute I imagined myself telling the story to Gray, I could suddenly see how to incorporate elements of our relationship into the script.
    â€œSo what if I write a duet between Raoul and Christine as they’re falling in love with each other, but Erik overhears it and gets really angry?” I said. “He decides he wants to destroy not only Raoul but the entire competition. So he plans to kidnap Christine during the finale and blow up the theater with everyone still inside.”
    â€œOooh, that’s good,” Owen said. “Get writing.”
    So I did. Over the next few weeks, I wrote the duet between Raoul and Christine and a song called “The Phantom’s Revenge.” Now it was up to Flynn and Owen to set them to music. And I knew the perfect thing to inspire them: a trip to the opera for Owen’s birthday.
    The night was cool and crisp, and dry leaves scudded across the cobbled streets. Elise insisted we eat dinner at one of the swanky riverside cafés, and since she also insisted on paying, we didn’t argue. We dined on a selection of bread and cheeses, garlicky escargot, asparagus in mousseline sauce, duck cassoulet, wild-mushroom-and-saffron ravioli, followed by lavender crème brûlée. I snuck a peek at our bill when it arrived and nearly gasped when I saw 150 euros.
    On the way to the Opera House after dinner, we passed a guy selling padlocks at the Pont des Arts. Curious why anyone would sell padlocks here, we asked him what he was doing, and he explained that he was selling “love padlocks.” A couple was supposed to write their names on the padlock and then lock it on to the bridge. Then they’d throw the key into the river as a symbol of their undying love. The only way to break the bond was to find the key at the bottom of the Seine and unlock the padlock.
    â€œLet’s do it,” Elise said, grabbing Owen by the arm. I almost choked, as I’d been witness to Elise’s double-timing with Jean-Claude on more occasions than I could count. I hardly thought their love was the undying kind.
    While she was trying to talk Owen into it, I bought a double-hearted padlock. The guy had Sharpies available so I wrote Gray’s name next to my own. The man helped me find a spot along the very crowded bridge and watched as I locked it in place, tossing the key into the Seine and feeling a rush of emotions—love, pride, fear, and dread.
    â€œI suppose this means you and I won’t be snogging after the opera?” Flynn said as I walked back to