“I’d love that.” The warmth in his voice makes me actually believe him. “Want to know mine? The thing no one knows?”
“Very much.” Staring back at him, I find comfort in his easy, calm smile. “It’s only fair.”
“I can’t sing. Well, that’s probably a given now. But even before, I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. Not evenHappy Birthday.”
His eyes dart left and right, checking out the passersby, yet he still makes me feel like I’m the most important person in his world.
Sell it, Sloane. And maybe…enjoy yourself a little.
Dipping my head, I press my lips to his. In a single day, I’ve gone from having my very first kiss to craving them like they’re my oxygen.
“Beautiful,” the old man says with a chuckle. “New love, yes?”
“Three months,” Griff replies. “Our first vacation together.”
With a flourish of his green pen, he colors in my sweater, then nods at us. “Names?”
I spell them for him, then notice he’s left our faces for last. “Griff? Is it okay if—”Stop it. This isn’t real.
But I can’t help myself. Right now, sitting on Griff’s lap in the middle of one of the most iconic streets in Zurich, our connection is very much real, and I don’t want the illusion to end. Not yet.
“Your glasses,”I mouth.“Off.”
The look in his eyes when he removes the black frames and tucks them into his pocket? If I didn’t know better, I’d call it love.
* * *
Griff
The little cafe at the end of theBahnhofstrasseis quiet, and I pull out Sloane’s chair for her. The artist’s sketch of the two of us is tucked safely in a plastic sleeve in her purse, and despite my protests, he refused the twenty-five francs I offered him.
Between his accent and his very bushy mustache, his words were mostly unintelligible, but Sloane thought he said something about “true love being so rare.”
My seat—against the wall and facing the door—allows me to keep an eye on everyone coming in or out, and that calms me enough to take my glasses off while we eat. I don’t want anything between us. It kills me to read her words on my lenses when she’s at her most vulnerable, and for the first time since I woke up in the hospital at Bagram, I wonder if I should start practicing my ASL in earnest.
After the server brings our drinks—herbal tea for Sloane and a local non-alcoholic pear cider for me—I take a moment to study her. Cheeks flushed from the chill in the air, no makeup, her long blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, she looks free in a way I haven’t seen her before.
“On the red carpet today, when you introduced me?” Concentrating on the movements of my left hand, I switch to ASL,“You know sign language?”
“I know a little bit.”Her signs are slow—not that mine are much better—and she drops her hands before she continues. “I worked with a deaf photographer on a series of shoots five or six years ago. She was brilliant and patient and taught me a few sentences every time we took a break. I looked up the alphabet last night to learn how to spell your name.”
“No one’s ever done that for me before.”
The flush to Sloane’s cheeks deepens. “You said you don’t sign much. But…isn’t it easier sometimes?”
“To understand? Yeah. I do pretty well if someone’s signing to me. But as great as my hand is, I can’t move my fingers fast enough or with enough control to carry on a conversation. I can sign one-handed, but every time I tried to learn, it just reminded me of what else I’d lost—besides my hearing.” Admitting my failings to this woman I genuinelylike?Every word makes me feel less qualified to protect her. To keep her safe. “Lipreading was easy. I wasn’t half bad at it before the attack. After, I had a full week in the hospital with nothing to do but watch closed captioned YouTube videos. By the time they transferred me back to McLean, I couldmostlycarry on a conversation as long as the person I was talking to kept things slow.”
We stick to lighter topics while we eat—Sloane’s favorite jobs, the worst outfit she ever had to wear, books and movies we’ve enjoyed. She’s easy to talk to, and I have to continually remind myself why I’m here. To keep her safe. I don’t want to tear my gaze away from her to check our surroundings. Or look up every time someone opens the door. But if I don’t, she’ll pay the price, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
The walk back to the arched entrance of theBahnhofstrassetakes us twice as long because we stop often along the way, Sloane window shopping while I use the reflections in the glass to check out our surroundings. More than once I spot a shadow ducking into an alley, but unless I want to blow my cover, I can’t investigate any further. All I can do is text Austin and Wren and ask them if there are any security cameras in this area.
With my arm around her, Sloane’s bag rests against my hip, and her phone vibrates. “Let me check and make sure it’s not Marina.”
With a nod, I pull out my own phone and snap a couple of pictures of the street—like any good tourist would—and then take a candid shot of Sloane. She’s beautiful with her head bent forward, her hair tucked behind one ear. Until her hands start to shake and the phone falls back into her purse.
“What is it?” I’m at her side in two steps, both hands on her shoulders.
All she can do is shake her head and whisper one word.
