Page 30 of The Risks of Reuniting

"Slow down, Speedy. I'm jogging here," she pants.

I look over to find that her cheeks are rosy and there's a sheen on her forehead – she really is having to move quickly to keep up. I push down the urge to tell her I'll meet her up ahead. I hate falling behind, and don't want the tour company to think they've lost us somewhere, but she's more important.

I force my legs to slow and am relieved to see the flag stop in front of a huge building that looks to be a cathedral. We join up with the group just as the tour guide finishes his blurb in Spanish and starts it all over in English. My eyes take in the grand building and my heart thuds at its beauty. When the guide tells us that construction of the gorgeous Metropolitan Cathedral began in the early 1600s, it steals my breath. The architecture is incredible. How they accomplished that without modern tools is beyond me. And to have it stand for so long, even after an earthquake shook thisarea? Amazing.

"Admit it, you love it," Holt whispers at my side. He lightly taps a finger against the back of my hand and the contact is brief but palpable.

His voice is warm and happy, and I allow the words to filter through sincerely rather than feeling cynical about it. He's just a friend, feeling happy that his pal is enjoying herself.

The group moves and I shuffle with them, doing my best to stay close and not get separated again. The guide takes us past school children in uniform entering the cathedral, past vendors selling churros and little toys, and down some stairs before stopping in front of an ornate palace. There is a tall iron fence around the entire thing, inside of which guards are standing in fully decorated uniforms. It's so cool. Salt Lake is a baby city in comparison, and it definitely has no palace.

The tour guide gives his spiel and then tells us we have fifteen minutes to look around, but to meet back here after that.

I'm not sure where to look first. The Plaza is a square, with beautiful buildings on all sides and a park in the center. The streets are wide, made of cobblestone, and filled with all manner of people. Tourists, vendors, locals, school children – it's colorful and vibrant, and worlds away from what I'm used to. I'm officially mad at myself for living in such a comfortable little box for so long and missing out on experiencing the world.

"You're only twenty-three," Holt says, at my side once more. Sneaky man. "You have your whole life to explore."

Dang him for once again knowing what was happening in my head. Didn't we sever that connection when he moved across the country?

I don't bother looking at him when I say, "I'm thinking about how much I want one of those churros."

His answering chuckle is quiet. "They're worth the soles."

I smile when he waves over a vendor carrying a large tupperware full of hot, fresh, sugar-covered churros. He converses with the seller and hands her a few coins. She, in turn, hands him four beautiful, large, crispy churros and my eyes grow wide.

"Gracias, señor," I say to him as I greedily grab one.

He laughs and says, "Enjoy, fair princess," before hunting down Cesar and Rachelle to give them each one.

I bite into the perfectly cooked confection and spin in a slow circle, taking in all that goodness.

It's kind of nice to not be enemies anymore.

The Church of San Agustín is as breathtaking as everything else has been. We're greeted at the entrance by an employee who takes note of our group and guides us inside the striking building. It's enormous and makes me feel small and inconsequential in the best possible way. Our guide tells us we have a bathroom break and Rachelle and I are thrilled to find toilets with seats, and the ability to flush the paper. Add in safe water to wash our hands with and I'm in heaven.

"It's like the Four Seasons around here," Rachelle gushes from the stall next to me. "I think we should do a bathroom break again on the way out, just to not waste the chance."

I laugh as I hear the toilet flush. "We're getting spoiled here."

We wash up and Rachelle drinks a handful of water from the sink tap just because she can. Her antics and joy over this little oasis boost my spirits, and we're all smiles when we exit the bathroom. Cesar and Holt are waiting for us at the back of the group and we join up with them, commenting on the amazing bathroom and making them both laugh. Rachelle's blonde hair is in braids and she jokingly shakes them like helicopter blades as she demonstrates her joy over the simple things of life.

The tour guide walks us through the monastery portion of the church and tells us about the Franciscan monks that have called this place home for literal centuries. I can't begin to wrap my mind around the history here, all the lives lived, the memories these walls carry.

Then we're taken down to the catacombs where the ceiling is low and the spaces are small. I feel like Indiana Jones. Brave and proud of myself. I don't really like tight spaces; add in death and bones, and it's a recipe for hyperventilating. But today I feel intrigued and calm. Until I stub my toe on a missing paver, fly forward into the back of a stranger, and then in my haste throw myself backward to get off him and crash-land into Holt. His hands immediately come to my waist, and then one arm wraps around my stomach as my back fully presses along his chest.

"Whoa," he says as the breath leaves his body.

The man I crashed into turns to look at me and I apologize quickly. He nods, forgiving, and I sigh in relief. Holt's hand squeezes at my hip and I realize that cozy warmth I'm feeling is his forearm wrapped around me. My cheeks heat as I feel his breath on my neck and the firmness of his body holding me up. I gasp and stand up, pulling away, but he's slow to let me go and I have to fight a little to get out of his hold.

"Sorry," I say over my shoulder as I tug my shirt and jacket back into place. "And thanks."

"Any time," he replies easily, like it's just another day for a hero like him.

Rachelle giggles from her place behind him. "Easy does it Chloe. This seems like a bad place to twist an ankle."

"Yeah, they'll put me down and bury me on the spot," I mutter.

Suddenly the catacombs feel a little unsafe. The walls are closer than I realized, and the headspace is nonexistent. The only light comes from flickering battery-operated candles, and I can't really see or hear the tour guide up ahead. Where is he? Did we take a wrong turn? Why are my ears buzzing like I'm hearing from under water?

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