“Wow. So Doctor Kingsman. I would never have guessed.”
“What would you have guessed?”
She squints one eye and hums, considering. “Business maybe?”
“I double majored in business and energy resources engineering at Berkeley, so you’re not far off there.”
“Why those fields?”
“Just seemed smart to have a business background.” I don’t add that my family’s company has been a Forbes lister for decades.
“And the energy resources?” she asks. “How’d you come to that?”
“I’m fascinated by the climate. How we can reverse all the crap we’re doing to ruin this planet. Most importantly, how America can become less dependent on fossil fuels. Our leaders are so damn shortsighted, leaning on oil and gas as much as we do. It’s not sustainable.”
“Is that why you were there protesting the pipeline?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I rush on before she can probe any further. “So still figuring out what you want to do with the degree, huh?”
“I know I want to change the world. I’m just not sure how yet.”
I’ve never heard anyone more confident saying they don’t know something. She says it like she is the question—like as soon as she determines her plan of action, the world will be putty in her hands to shape and mold into something better. I could laugh in her face, call her na?ve, but I don’t because I feel the same way.
“I get that,” I reply, linking my pinky finger with hers on the table. “Sometimes my goals and dreams feel too big. Like you really think you can convince a nation to change its ways? And the answer is always yes. I don’t know how either, but yes.” I force a chuckle, growing uncomfortable under her unwavering regard. “Is that arrogant? Presumptuous?”
“Yes, but I think revolution requires a certain degree of hubris.”
“Who said that?” I ask, racking my brain for a reference for the quote.
“Oh, I did. Just now.”
Well, impress the hell out of me.
She lifts her beer with the hand I’m not holding and yawns into the glass. “Sorry. I guess jet lag is starting to kick in.”
I stand, pulling her to her feet, too. “Let’s get you home, or at least your home away from home. Let’s get you to your hostel.”
When we step outside, crisp, cold air greets us on the street.
“It’s much cooler than I thought it would be,” Lennix says, chafing her bare arms. “Glad it’s a short walk.”
“Yeah, the weather here can be unpredictable and cool until it’s not.” I tug my leather jacket off and drape it around her shoulders.
“Oh, no.” She starts to slide the jacket off, but I stop her.
“Look.” I point to the long sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes.”
She nods, reluctance and gratitude in her smile.
It’s a straight shot to her hostel, but I take us down a side street to stretch out our time. That and it puts us along the Amstel river, a romantic promenade if ever there was one.
Moonlight refracts from the glassy water. The slightest breeze, the breath of night, lifts Lennix’s hair, and I’m reminded how it seemed she commanded the very elements that day in the desert.
“You really were remarkable at that protest,” I say, breaking the companionable silence we’ve been walking in.
“Huh?” She looks up at me, her leisurely stride never breaking. “What?”
“At the protest that day. You spoke with such conviction and passion.”
“So many things were taken from us,” she says, her voice hushed, but strong. “They tried to strip our language, our land, our home, our family. Even our traditions.”
I listen, wanting to hear her much more than I want to hear myself.
“To me, to many of us, activism is as holy as the ceremonies we almost lost because it connects us to the land and to our ancestors. It’s how we join their fight. We take our place in the line of generations who will resist.” A snort of cynical laughter escapes her. “Even when it seems like a lost cause.”
“It’s not.” I grab her hand and tuck it into the crook of my elbow, shorten my steps to match hers. “Don’t ever think that.”
She glances up at me, searching my face before nodding, smiling.
“Why Amsterdam?” she asks, shifting the focus to me.
“Well, Europe is far ahead of us in clean energy. For whatever reason, Europeans are less resistant to the energy shifts we need. I came here to study the progress they’re making. How the governments educate the populace and persuade them the changes are necessary. The Dutch are really forward thinking, especially when it comes to wind.”
“You’re kinda smart, aren’t you?” She grins and tightens her fingers on my arm. “PhD and all.”
“I promise not to make you call me doctor.”
“I think I will, Doc.” Her grin widens, and the humor is like a candle lit inside of her, illuminating all the things I like most about her face. The pride in the jut of her chin. The strength to the set of her jaw. The kindness, intelligence, and curiosity in the metal/mettle silver eyes.
I break our stride and look down at her, and cup one side of her face in my hand. It’s cool against the dry warmth of my palm.
“Ask me how many times I’ve thought about you since that protest.” My voice scratches gruffly against the cool silk of the quiet night.
She stares up at me, and at first I think she’ll wave off my question, pretend this is normal, what’s happening between us. But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t pretend or wave it off. She meets it head-on and answers with unflinching honesty.
“Maybe as many times as I’ve thought of you.”
10
Lennix
My father would lecture me until his face turned blue.
He’d send the authorities searching for me.
A man I met only once before tonight, a stranger whose last name I just discovered an hour ago, has me alone on a nearly deserted street in a foreign country at three a.m.
It may not be wise, but I’ll be damned if I would be anywhere else right now. Not safely tucked into my top bunk at the hostel knowing Maxim was out there wanting my company. We’ve been wooing each other with tiny touches and furtive brushes and lingering glances. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it.
“So you thought of me, too, huh?” His grin is rakish on the handsome “somebody” face. There’s a Kennedy vibe about him. Not just the dark, dappled hair, or the tall, fit body, or the confidence in his shoulders. It’s his ideals and the iron will barely hidden beneath the casual manner. I’m not fooled. This man is not casual. He bleeds ambition. I wonder if he tries to hide it—to blend in with everyone else. It’s laughable to think he could camouflage his driven nature and be something that he’s not. Be domesticated when he is indeed, like Kimba said, a wolf.
“You’re probably already too conceited for me to answer that.” I grin back and start walking again.
“Tell me.” He says it like he means it, grasping my arm gently and halting our steps again. “You thought of me?”