I chew slowly and open my eyes to find Declan studying my face, curiosity dancing across his eyebrows.
He is ruining my vibe, but I don’t mind explaining. “I’m gluten-free because it can cause inflammation.” I decide not to tell him that inflammation can exacerbate my condition. Because he’ll ask what my condition is. “A lot of travel forums I’m on mention that people who have issues with gluten, dairy, or meat in the US can usually enjoy them symptom-free abroad,” I lie. It wasn’t a travel forum. It was an autoimmune support group. But the anecdotes were plentiful enough to have me enjoying this sandwich guilt-free. I take another bite, and I can’t help it. I do a little hop.
“Do you need a moment alone with your sandwich?” Declan asks.
“You said we’re a couple on a romantic trip, well, this sandwich is now part of our throuple,” I say between bites.
Declan’s eyebrows raise before he barks out a laugh. “Should we get you somebrunsvigertoo?”
I nod enthusiastically. “YES!”
With our stomachs full and a few hours to burn before our planned intercept of Monique, we stroll through the city. Declan explains that his contact in Denmark – who we will not meet in person so that their cover is not compromised – was able to confirm that Monique is meeting someone at a bar not far from our hotel this evening.
“You think she’s going to sell the evidence?” I ask.
“I hope not,” Declan says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him say the word “hope.” Maybe he’s thought it, but he’s never expressed it aloud. I wonder at how much losing X.C. messed with his head.
We arrive at the most photographed place in the entire city. The famous statue of the Little Mermaid. If I was visiting this city for fun, I’d be doing all the Hans Christian Andersen book-nerd things. But this is work, and I’ll take the opportunity to see the iconic statue since we’re here anyways.
You’re not supposed to touch the statue, so Declan and I stake out a good spot to watch her as tourists continue to clump and break away for photos.
“Are you supposed to make a wish when you see her?” I ask. And then I realize that the man standing next to me is the last person who would care about such things.
“I don’t know. I guess you can, though. I won’t stop you,” he answers and crosses his arms. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing his forearms. They’re tanned from hours in the sun riding his bike, his dark arm hair, his lean muscles, all inviting mental images that I should not be thinking about.
“Alright,” I say and squeeze my eyes shut. I let my wish run through my mind and open my eyes. I peer up at Declan, and his eyes are closed too. “What did you wish for?” I ask before I can stop my invasive question.
“Haven’t you heard that if you share your wish, it won’t come true?” He shakes his head. “I guess I’ll risk it,” he says. “I wished for us to find these weapons, get the Order behind bars, and put an end to this madness.”
“That’s a hefty wish,” I say, guilty for my much more selfish desires.
“You?” he asks, glancing over at me.
The stubble on his face is darker than I’ve ever seen it before and his brown eyes are probing mine. Is he trying to guess? His nearness is making me feel things. His attention is confusing my body. He can’t be attracted to me, right? I need my body to calm down and stop acting like I have a schoolgirl crush. I have a grown-woman workplace crush that will never come to anything. Very big difference.
“I wished for what she wanted.” I nod to the statue. “I wished for my legs,” I say, my voice low so I won’t start to cry. I might explode in tears because my wish was selfish, especially compared to Declan’s. But, also, because I never really thought aboutherpain before. The mermaid’s woes. Her longing for a body that would allow her to live on land. And now that I compare it to my own desire, it’s like I’m experiencing my pain all over again.
My body is totally different now. I’m weaker. I’m at the same weight but with much less muscle and suddenly I have hips and curves. I like how my body looks now, but I loved how Ifeltin my body then. Now it feels like something foreign, something I can’t fully trust. I keep telling myself that white-knuckling this condition is working, but the anxiety of it, always wondering when it will flare up again, is exhausting.
Declan is watching me.Can he tell what I’m thinking?
I explain myself a bit. “I miss the drive and the pain and the adrenaline of finishing first. Of pushing and pushing, pumping my legs, pounding my feet. Giving it everything I have until I crossed the finish line. It was a beautiful rhythm. Push. Pump. Pound.” I look up into his eyes and see something. An appreciation from a fellow athlete. And something else.
Becauseohmygod!I think back on what I just said and it sounded so incredibly dirty. My neck and cheeks are suddenly ablaze; I’d guess they’re as red as the Danish flag. Declan bites down on his lips, fighting a smile.
I try to recover. “I liked being in my element. Running was my thing. Now.” I pause, realizing I’ve officially launched into a pity party.
“This can be your thing,” Declan says, finishing my sentence, saving me from more embarrassing rambling. “Travel the world. Put on badass endurance events. Do what you can to save innocent people.”
A swell of appreciation builds in my chest. That he could sense I was veering into a topic that I’m not comfortable talking about. That he is inviting me into this world with him. That he didn’t dismiss anything I said or try to lecture me on keeping my head in the game for this mission.
The sun is setting and the sky is moving between yellow and orange to pink. It’s time to head back to our hotel and prepare for the real reason we’re here.
All I need to do now is prove myself.
27
