The glass door slides open on the other side of the balcony, and Josh steps outside, swiping his hand through messy brown hair to push it back from his eyes.
“Good morning.” I slip my feet off the chair, and he pulls it out.
I feel self-conscious for a moment in my long-sleeve T-shirt and pajama bottoms, my hair tied back in a knot.
“Good morning to you,” he says. “I thought I smelled coffee.”
I push the second mug toward him. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted in it, so I gambled with cream and a packet of sugar.”
He takes a long sip. “Perfect.”
Pink light spreads slowly across the water until it illuminates the Alpine houses and stone church to our right, driving away thefog.
“Did you and Ella enjoy the ice caves?”
He nods. “She didn’t want to leave.”
“The girl embraces every moment,” I say, my fingers wrapped around the warm mug. “Like her dad.”
“Like I used to.”
“You don’t fool me, Dr. Nemeth.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Right...”
He laughs before taking another sip of coffee. “I thought you were shy, back when I first met you in Columbus, but you aren’t shy at all.” When he stares at me, I pull my sleeves over my hands, trying to ward off the cold. “You are afraid of something, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Everyone is afraid of something.”
My attempt to deflect doesn’t deter him. “I think, Callie Randall, that you are afraid of yourself.”
I hate it when people analyze me. Hate it even more when they’re right. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Or perhaps it’s more like you’re afraid of letting others get to know who you are, beyond the stories that you like to tell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with stories—”
“Unless you use them as a shield,” he says, taking another sip. “We all process differently—I get that—but it’s one thing to reflect and mull things over internally, another to crawl into a shell of your own making and hide.”
“I’m not hiding.”
The sun edges over the mountain, chasing the remaining mist and lamplight away. He unzips his jacket as sunlight sweeps across our balcony. “It’s just a theory.”
“Why must doctors always theorize?”
He laughs. “Because until you recognize a problem, you can’t make a change.”
“I don’t have a problem— ”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that.”
My skin begins to warm as well, but not from the sun.
“Did Herr Stadler call you?” I ask, ready to conclude the analysis.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at it. “Nothing yet.”
