Stones crunch under my sneakers as I tromp up the hill. With every step, my bag feels a little heavier. Maybe I shouldn't have brought the camera, after all. It’s just more weight for me to carry. The brilliant sun blazes down, drawing a thin sheen of sweat over my skin.
My chest heaves as my lungs desperately seek more oxygen. I press my hand against my sternum, like that will help my body suck in more air. I try to focus on the landscape, mentally naming the color of every flower I see.
I can do this. I’ve been fine so far, and there’s no reason to stop now. All I have to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. I’ve made it through harder things before. And I took my meds right on schedule this morning and have all this past week.
I’m totally fine.
Ahead of me, the men stop. Kostos points to our left, toward a small collection of sailboats drifting across the turquoise waters. “Fisherman,” he explains. “You can buy what they're catching in the market in the village tomorrow.”
“Beautiful,” I chirp, trying and failing to hide my increasingly labored breathing. James shoots me a funny look.
“I'm going to take some pictures,” I tell him. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
It might take me an hour, but Iwillcatch up. I refuse to be the girl who can't walk up a hill.
James doesn’t move. “Do you need a break?”
His icy eyes take in my face, which is definitely flushed pink. I force a smile.
“My lungs are just being dramatic.” I laugh. “It can't be far now. I'll be fine.”
“Are you sure? I've got water in my bag. We can sit and take in the view.”
“And let Kostos beat me to the top? Absolutely not. I have my pride.”
“You're competing with a fifty-year-old Greek man who does this hike weekly.”
“And I intend to win.”
James's lips twitch. “You know this isn't actually a race.”
“Everything's a race if you have the right attitude.”
Kostos has a few good decades on me, and he’s practically skipping ahead. I willnotbe lapped by a fifty-year-old, and I willnotbe the sick girl who can’t enjoy this hike that shouldn’t even be that hard.
James lingers closer to me for the rest of the walk, like he’s ready to jump in and grab me if I start to fall. I would snap at him to give me some space if I could spare the breath to do it. I keep my eyes trained on the path ahead of me. One more step. Another step. Another. Another.
I disappear into the repetitive motion, pretending each step can be the last one. I’m so focused, I almost miss it when the hill crests in front of us, showing us the quarry.
“Here we are!” Kostos proclaims happily, and I gasp. It’s like someone dipped a spoon into the mountain and grabbed a scoop, leaving a broad, clean hollow below. Construction equipment is lined up against the quarry walls, not currently in use. The workers must be on a break.
The stones are mostly pale-yellow limestone. The rarer stones, the ones I’m more interested in, will be deeper, in specific pockets. That doesn’t make the display any lessbreathtaking. The fact that the quarry is run by a family company, not some huge corporation, makes the whole thing feel more intimate. For generations, the same bloodline has chipped away at the earth, leaving their mark. This limestone has made buildings, statues, and memorials
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
Kostos claps me on the back, earning an unnecessary glare from James. “I am glad you like it. Come, let us take a closer look.”
I can practically hear my muscle sigh and relief at the opportunity to walk down a slope instead of up. We stroll down the incline while Kostos points out the oldest parts of the quarry, where they’ve been digging the longest. I’m fascinated by the layers of stone that have been chiseled away over the years, a measured, careful carving away.
A breeze off the sea swirls dust around us, and I laugh, watching my pale-blue athletic shirt turn practically brown.
“It gets a bit dusty,” Kostos says apologetically. “Come, let me take you to the storeroom. I can show you our rarer stones.”
The storeroom turns out to be underground, in a pleasantly cool cellar. I sit next to James on a wide wooden bench, and I practically groan at how good it feels to take the weight off my feet. He places his hand on my knee, an unusual moment of PDA from him.
“Are you alright?” he asks again.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes. I’m tired of answering the same question over and over, even if I’m giving James more than enough reason to doubt my answer.
