Page 11 of Love In Translation

Seb shook his head. “I’m not done, Fletch.”

Fear tiptoed up his spine. Fletch was, routinely, a calm person and never overreacted. It was necessary because, in his line of work, if you panicked, you died. But when it came to his health, his legendary composure evaporated. Did he have cancer? Motor neuron disease? ALS? His stomach knotted.

As a teenager, he’d spent a year moving from his bed to the couch, mostly housebound and unable to do much more than lift the remote control. After leading such an active life for the past twenty years, he couldn’t go back to that. The inactivity would kill him long before any disease did.

“What’s wrong with me, Seb?” he demanded, annoyed to hear the tremor in his voice. His fears about getting sick again, and his medical history, were closely guarded secrets, and Seb—both doctor and best friend—was the only one he’d told.

“You’re suffering from physical exhaustion, Fletch.”

“CFS?” he demanded. At fifteen, he’d had strep throat, then rheumatic fever, and for the next nine months suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome. All he wanted to do,coulddo, was sleep. Exhaustion, dizziness, muscle and joint pain were all he remembered from that year.

People feared spiders and flying, his monster under the bed was being confined, being made to sit and stay.

“No, just run of the mill, normal tiredness.”

Oh. Right.

“I’ve suggested that you take a break, and now I’m insisting,” Seb stated in his scary doctor voice. His expression also suggested Fletch shouldn’t argue. “One of the reasons we work well together is because I don’t overreact and I’m not overly cautious. I trust you to know the limits of your own body, what you can and can’t endure.”

Seb, like him, wasn’t a fusser, so when he looked stern and sounded resolute, Fletch had no choice but to listen.

“Your body needs a proper break, Fletch. You’ve had two bouts of malaria in three years. You’ve just recovered from a bout of pneumonia that was worse than you’ll admit. You’ve had septicemia and frostbite. You’ve recovered from all of them and, I admit, you’ve recovered well.”

There was a damn bigbutin there somewhere.

“But—”

There it was.

“—I insist you take a three-month break. You need to switch off. I don’t want you doing any physical training. And I sure as hell do not want you going to the Danakil Depression.”

Yeah, not happening. Nobody told him where he could and couldn’t go. He’d made that unbreakable promise to himself when he was a teenager, and it was sacrosanct.

“And do not let Mick and Sam tempt you into joining them on one of their endurance hikes or runs,” Seb told him.

Mick and Sam were nephews of their cameraman, Louie, who he’d met at a cookout a couple of summers ago. When Louie heard he was heading to Gilmartin, he’d told Mick and Sam—who owned a company that provided customers with outdoor experiences—to expect him to pop in. They’d already emailed him their company brochure and told him they could mix and match his adventures.

“I’m fine, Seb. And you know I can’t afford to take so much time off or to stop training. I’m scheduled to be in Gilmartin for three weeks, and then I’ll head to Ethiopia for a week. A you know, an expedition takes months to plan, and I hate delays.”

Seb’s expression remained stern and unyielding. “You seem to be forgetting you won’t be able to get cover for any future expeditions without the certificate of health your insurers require from me. Without insurance, you won’t get any sponsorship, and the producers of your documentaries won’t touch you.”

Fletch didn’t need him to draw him a picture. “And you won’t sign off unless I take a break? That’s blackmail, Seb!”

Seb’s bulldogged expression didn’t change. “You say potato...”

Fletch glared at his oldest friend. “C’mon, Seb, you’re going overboard. Can’t we compromise on me taking three weeks off?”

“Uh...let me think...” Seb briefly looked away. “No.Threemonths. Or, if you prefer, we can make it four.”

Right, he’d hit the line in Seb’s sand. His friend wasn’t going to budge, and there was no point in arguing with him any longer, so he cut the call.Shit.Tossing his phone from hand to hand, he considered firing Seb and hiring another doctor who’d greenlight him.

Shame washed over him. He was being a self-centered, spoiled prick. Seb had accompanied him on his last three expeditions and saved his life once. And—Fletcher was reluctant to admit this—Seb had a point. He was tired, mentally and physically.

But the thought of doing nothing for three months made his lungs constrict. When he’d recovered from CFS, he’d vowed to fill every moment living and not lying around. Back in Aberdeen, he’d sworn he’d delve into the world, discover every hidden nook and cranny, and he’d push himself, mentally and physically, to his limits. Every expedition he completed, every new stamp in his passport, visiting a strange town or place, was a victory against his past limitations. Unfortunately, his body was paying the price for his quest for adventure. He felt sluggish, and he wasn’t sleeping properly.

Fletch shoved his fingers into his hair, frustrated. He expected to be caught flat-footed in mangrove swamps and on glaciers, in sandstorms and blizzards—places where nature flexed her muscles—but he objected to feeling disconcerted and off-balance in an old house in a small town in Washington State.

What was that old John Lennon quote, something about life happening when you were busy making other plans? Driving into Gilmartin earlier, Fletch had congratulated himself on his decision to visit this stunningly beautiful area. Three weeks of hiking, kayaking, and climbing—that was his ideal vacation. Having Carrie join him was a no-brainer. Her love of the outdoors, knowledge of the area, and their lack of chemistry made her the perfect companion.

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