Page 65 of The Risks of Reuniting

Chapter 23

Chloe

I'monanovernightflight from Lima, Peru headed toward Atlanta, Georgia, and Holt is sitting beside me with his hand wrapped around mine while he dozes. His dark brows are lowered over his closed eyes, as though he's unable to hide his nerves while he sleeps. I know he's nervous. We both are. I pinch myself. Literally. I reach out a hand and pinch my thigh to make sure that this is real and I'm not actually lying in a coma in Salt Lake after a bike accident. Not that I ride a bike, but still, it seems like a greater possibility than where I currently find myself.

Holt managing to actually sleep on the plane is another mind-bender, but again, it's the truth. We weren't supposed to sit together, but during the boarding hullabaloo he talked to the woman seated next to me and told her that we were reunited long-lost loves, and she swooned a little before trading him. I can't blame her – the story is pretty romantic.

And a little bit terrifying.

All through this past week Holt has been nothing but attentive and loving, and I wonder how long it will take me to believe that this is for keeps, because I'm logical enough to know that real life has a way of messing things up and we've been in a vacation bubble. Real life is going to knock on the door soon, and she's going to knock hard.

I'm dying to talk to Allie. She's texted me here and there this week and is understandably cautious. She was the one who picked up the piecesof my broken heart when Holt left. She moved in with me, sat with me while I cried, made me so much homemade cheesy lasagna that it's a surprise I didn't have to take laxatives to survive, and got ideas from Poppy on how to send bad juju through the universe.

That failed. I think Poppy must only know how to send good juju, because instead of Holt becoming hideously disfigured like a good old Beauty and the Beast story, he ended up here with me, still as wonderful as ever. Definite win for him.

I shift in my seat, head tilted back, wishing sleep would claim me. I need the rest. The last week was a whirlwind of helping Dr. J for extra hours, and sneaking in some touring when time permitted. Our days were busy and our nights went into the darkest hours, with an unspoken understanding that we wanted to squeeze every last drop out of this trip. No regrets. We had officially become the posterchildren for FOMO, and I was tired enough that I should have passed out two hours ago when our flight took off.

In my opinion, Holt is fighting the same worry as I am. He wore himself out trying to woo me around the city he loves, and while he maintained a cheerful demeanor, I can see it when he's looking at me and thinks I don't know it. He's as scared as I am about returning home and finding out this was all a blip, a backslide. I want to comfort him, but I don't have a well to draw from right now.

Man, I can't handle a backslide. I hold onto his hand tighter –please, don't hurt me again– and he shifts a bit as though he felt it in his sleep.

A flight attendant approaches, offering dinner, and I have to tamp down a laugh. Dinner? It's one o'clock in the morning. In what world do I want to eat right now? But I nod and accept the food, hoping that eating will keep me busy and help my brain shut down a little. The speedywheel of thoughts is the reason I can't sleep. Plus, I still don't love flying, which makes relaxation nearly impossible.

I slowly release Holt's hand and open the tin foil covering the little dish to dive in to what's been promised is chicken. I burn my tongue so badly I spit it out and breathe in and out deeply, desperate for the cool air to keep it from blistering. I stick out my tongue and wiggle it. I do not care who sees me. The second attendant hasn't come with the drink cart yet, and I'm out here waggling my tongue and trying to suck back air, and obviously it wakes up Holt.

He straightens, and I look over to him with my tongue hanging out and my eyes watering, and he looks down at my dish, immediately understanding what's happened. He grins, his face still sleepy and his hair mussed, and I stop hyperventilating and simply take him in. The plane is dark, the space between us nonexistent, and he's looking at me like I'm the most adorable thing he's ever seen. I pull my tongue back in and blink away the tears of pain.

"And the mama bear's porridge was too hot," he says, wiping a finger under my eye where some moisture was still present.

I swallow. "I think it was the papa bear's that was too hot."

"Maybe."

"Yeah, because mama bears are always too busy serving everyone else to get a hot meal," I joke.

He moves his finger from under my eye and presses it against my lower lip. "Let me see how bad it is."

Butterflies dance in my stomach as I open my mouth and stick my tongue out a little bit. If I saw someone across the aisle getting their tongue inspected I'd cringe, but somehow it feels sweet when it's me and Holt in a dark tin box shooting throughthe sky.

"What me to kiss it better?" he asks with a glint in his eye that tells me he's teasing.

I snap my mouth shut and roll my eyes. "Pass."

His hand moves from my mouth to gently wrap around the back of my neck and he pulls me forward until our noses touch. I watch his eyes close and mine do the same a second before he kisses me. Burned tongue who? His lips are soft and warm, and oh my gosh I love kissing him so much even though PDA is not my jam. I will make an exception here because I want to. Hopefully anyone who cares will look away.

The kiss is brief and when he pulls back he keeps his hand around my neck for a heartbeat longer.

"We've got this, Chlo," he says whisper soft. "You and I. We've got this."

From his mouth to God's ears.

Saying goodbye to Rachelle in Atlanta makes me more emotional than I expected. She has family meeting her at the pickup zone to drive her the several hours home, but we agreed to meet in the gate area as we disembark to say our goodbyes, rather than doing it in Lima. It's awkward to say goodbye if you know you'll probably bump into them again soon. She looks as fresh as a Georgia peach, her yoga pants without even a wrinkle, and her hair cascading down her back in waves. I want toaccuse her of getting ready in the bathroom while our flight was taxiing to the gate, but I lived with her for a month and know she's just magical this way.

We stand to the side as hordes of people rush around us, and I gift her the pair of llama earrings I'd chosen for her at the Inka Market. She gets teary and pulls me into a hug, her blonde hair tickling at my nose as she pushes her face against the top of my head. I'm awkwardly aware of the airplane smell clinging to me, of my wrinkled clothes and my messy hair, but all I can think about is how this woman shared a brief part of my life that no one else will fully understand but her.

I can tell others about our bunkroom and the little bathroom, boiling water and hiking the alleyways, and helping underserved people with their teeth – but only Rachelle was there. I'll miss her.

"Witnessing the rebirth of your love was such an honor." She sniffles. "Seriously. Epic."

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