Page 20 of Roaming Holiday

Instead of speaking, I point to the view in front of us. Golden hour falls upon the cityscape, blanketing the world in bright orange. I slide on my sunglasses.

Nina huffs. “You’re impossible.”

I unlock the door and get out of the car. “I’ll get the food—the owner gives me a good deal. Do not go anywhere.”

I take the keys with me just in case. I don’t need to lose my client for the second time on my first day. As I head inside, a man stumbles—five-seven, dark hair, olive skin—and bumps his shoulder into mine.

“Sorry—!” he exclaims.

Instinctively, I snatch his arm in an iron grip. He winces as fear crosses his freckled face.

Not everyone is an enemy. I need to integrate.

I soften my hold and pat the same spot, offering an apologetic smile before walking away. He mumbles to his friends about how hard I grabbed him.

Is this the way I want to live? Stuck in trauma?

I can’t cite my time as a soldier for being horrible at socializing. I withdrew from my comrades more as I worked underground. How could I sit and joke with them over lunch when I poisoned a man six hours earlier? It became harder to face them until, at some point, I didn’t at all. I spoke when spoken to—sometimes. I was hollow, knowing I didn’t want this, not knowing how to stop myself, and questioning what I deserved. I killed a target because I already killed the last one; it was too late for me.

Was too late.

Stop.

That’s not what I’m doing now. I may not be convinced that I’m a different person, but my current job is to protect the woman who ignored my instructions and got out of the car anyway. She gushes over a wiener dog, who jumps up and sniffs her face. She giggles as it licks her chin.

I bite back a groan and step inside. The Moritzi family is happy to see me, and I feign enthusiasm. It gets harder to slap on a fake smile, but I manage to get the deal and keep up appearances. Once I pay with Nina’s designated credit card, I glance back to check on her, and both she and the wiener dog are nowhere to be found. But with a quick scan of the area, I spot her a few hundred feet down the hill, watching the sky.

“Is this going to be a normal thing? You, not listening?” I ask when getting close enough.

Nina looks over her shoulder, the backlight giving her a halo. The golden hour sun silhouettes her curls and profile, outlining her body with light. All I can think of is the word angel. She looks like an angel. I clench my jaw to crush the thought.

“Probably,” she says without an ounce of sarcasm. When I stop beside her, she blurts, “I’m not a snob, you know.”

I steal a look at her. I don’t care about what she’s saying. The light turns her brown skin into a radiant golden shade. It’s all I want to pay attention to.

“I never said you were.”

She snorts. “Right. I’m offered luxury, riches, a country. Who wouldn’t want that?”

“It comes with a loss of freedom,” I find myself saying. Despite struggling to adjust to and empathize with the issues involved in civilian life, there’s something about Nina’s contemplation that has a small part of me wanting to comfort her.

She folds her arms across her chest, and I’m keenly aware of the cleavage it gives her. She nods down the hill. “Enough people in that city down there would think a loss of freedom is a price worth paying.”

I shrug, continuing to be impressed at her self-awareness. “You’re right.”

“I know,” she replies, and a chuckle at her conceit escapes me before I can hide it. “So what does it say about me if I decline it?”

I don’t want to lose what little faith I already have with her. If a deadly situation occurs, I need her to trust me. But my desire to get out of this conversation intensifies with her rumination of moral conflict. Morality and my lack of cost me my career and the life I knew.

“I, uh… I can’t answer that,” I say quietly, forcing myself to turn and leave her alone.

12

NINA

I wake up to a memories notification in my photos. It takes all my willpower not to throw my phone at the wall when a picture of James and me pops up.

I groan and bury my face in the pillow. One month. One month has passed of not waking up to a good morning text from him and two weeks since slinking onto his Instagram page. The mere thought of him ignites anger. I have nothing but animosity toward my ex-boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what his life is like now and whether it looks better than mine.

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