The corner of his mouth twitched. He offered me his arm. I took it, because honestly, who was I kidding?
From the top of the stairs, Lena called out, “Use protection! Like… sunscreen! Or garlic! Or whatever keeps you from getting emotionally decapitated!”
The door shut behind us, and I felt like I was walking straight into something good.
The night was waiting.
Boston smelled like sea salt, espresso, and motor oil. I always loved it.
Cristian did not.
He stood frozen on the sidewalk, expression grave, as a man in cargo shorts jogged past holding an iced coffee the size of a toddler. “Why,” Cristian asked slowly, “does every citizen carry the same chilled beverage? Is it ritual? A communal offering?”
“It’s… caffeine,” I said. “And addiction.”
We had taken an Uber to get here. Well—Ihad taken an Uber. Cristian had endured it.
He’d climbed in with the quiet resignation of someone boarding a catapult. The driver’s playlist was a mix of Taylor Swift and murder podcasts, which probably didn’t help.
By the time we arrived, he was gripping the seatbelt like it was a rosary.
He walked down the street now, eyes scanning every passing car. “Your vehicles move with reckless abandon. Do they all believe themselves immortal?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” I said cheerfully, linking my arm through his.
He was trying to look brave and unbothered, but the way his hand lingered at the small of my back said otherwise.
I didn’t mind. The contact anchored me, kept my brain from spinning too fast.
The crowd thickened as we turned the corner. A man in full colonial garb was shouting about taxation. Cristian tensed. “What exactly is the purpose of this public gathering?”
“Okay,” I said, slipping into teacher mode. “Quick version: the British-American colonies were like, ‘Hey, maybe stop taxing our tea when we don’t even get a vote,’ and England basically said, ‘Cry more.’ So we dumped the tea into the harbor out of spite and caffeine withdrawal. It’s America’s origin story: petty with purpose.”
Cristian blinked. “That’s absurd.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So, we reenact it. Every year. With wigs and paper-mâché crates of Lipton.”
He folded his arms, unimpressed. But five minutes later, he was transfixed.
We stood near the harbor railing while a man in a tricorn hat shouted about tyranny and another hurled cardboard boxes labeledTEAinto the water. Drums thundered. Children waved plastic bayonets. A woman in a corset yelled, “Down with the crown!” and nearly tripped over a seagull.
Cristian tracked every motion like he was watching a real battle. “Their blade technique is atrocious,” he muttered, taking another sip of his iced chai—the third, because apparently he’d decided it was “pleasing but not true tea.”
I hid my grin behind my straw. He looked like someone trying very hard not to enjoy himself.
Then a little boy dressed as George Washington aimed a foam musket at him. “Freeze, Redcoat!”
Cristian regarded him solemnly. “I have slaughtered armies for less.”
The child giggled and ran off. I nearly fell over laughing.
Cristian looked at me, dead serious. “He displayed admirable courage.”
“Yeah,” I said, still giggling. “That’s kind of our thing.”
He glanced back at the harbor, where the “colonists” were cheering over a few floating boxes. “You took an empire,” he said quietly, “and turned it into a play. Your people are… remarkable.”
The way he saidyour peoplehit different. It wasn’t derisive, more like he was in awe. Like he was seeing humanity again after centuries of distance.
