“Why?”
The walls inched closer. The room wasn’t large enough for the way he thought about Vanka, and the vulnerable memories she wanted him to share. His mouth felt newspaper dry, but coffee seemed like it would exacerbate the Sahara effect. He tapped the side of the mug, then stood. He wanted fresh air and space.
Her eyes followed him to the corner of the table. “Going somewhere?”
Spiker drew his bottom lip into his mouth. Not without her. He didn’t want to leave the room, only the question. “I need to get out of here today. Do something else.”
“Don’t tease me with the potential of another field trip.”
He laughed. “You know what I mean.”
Her eyes danced. “I know.”
Of course she did. She didn’t miss much, which was why he shouldn’t have talked to that kid when she was within a fifty-mile radius, and why he needed to stay the hell away from her bedroom.
“You could go for another run around the city,” she suggested.
“Nah. Not in the mood. Do you want to go for a hike?” The outdoors always helped clear his head, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted to do. “I don’t know. What’s something you do when you can’t sit still?”
“I can always sit still.”
He rolled his eyes. “Then what about when you need a total reset?”
“I garden.”
“Bigger than gardening, princess. Hit me with your best suggestion.”
She sipped her tea and beamed. “I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Excitement radiated from her smile. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“It’s a secret?”
“A surprise, but I promise, it will be a total reset. Are you game?”
“So long as we’re out of the house” —and away from beds and deep conversations— “I’m all yours.”
The Audi fit into the last open space in the small parking lot off of King Street. An old-fashioned railway station awaited their arrival. Vanka couldn’t wait to start their trip. She killed the ignition. “Ready?”
That he hadn’t jumped up with an enthusiastic “absolutely” only made her excitement grow. “We’re going on the Metro?”
“No.” She opened her door and waited for him to join her. “King Street Metro’s on the other side.” They walked into the one-story Federalist Revival-style terminal. “This is Union Station.”
Spiker squinted and glanced around. “Nope. It’s not.”
Vanka tugged on his elbow and led him to a placard that would confirm its identity as separate from the nearby commuter hub, Washington Union Station. “It simply goes by Alexandria.”
“You’re a local history buff?”
“That’s a trite phrase that never seems to encompass what history is.”
“Oh,” Spiker mouthed. “This is another one of those learning field trips, huh? I’m going to enjoy it, but you’ll make sure I learn something too?”
“No.”
“Yeah, it is. Like broccoli with cheese. Anything to get me to eat my veggies.”
Vanka’s rolling eyes landed on his torso and upper chest with a pointed stare. “I think we both know you eat your Wheaties.” Color rose to his cheeks, which made warmth rise into her own. “You said you trusted me.”
Spiker lifted his chin. “That’s what I said.”
She checked the time.
“So we’re going somewhere,” he pried.
Vanka tried to tamp down her smile as she led them across the mostly empty waiting area. “We are.”
“Where are we going?”
She ignored his question. “Do you want to know something interesting?”
“Does it really matter what my answer is, princess?”
“Not really.” But for his sake, she’d keep her appreciation of the terminal’s aesthetic to herself. The walnut-colored benches weren’t made for a society that needed personal space and plugs for phone chargers. Instead, they backed against radiators that gave warmth during the drafty winter seasons. The black-and-white-checkered tiled floors had staying power that came from another era. There were no elevators, ATMs, Wi-Fi hotspots, or baggage carts. The window panes and wood trim were stained the same deep, chocolate-hickory shade of brown as the exposed wood rafters and dormers. “This station was opened in 1905. It was built in a Federalist Revival style that was very popular decades before.”
“Huh.”
“Hence the revival.”
“Ah.”
“I originally thought they avoided the more contemporary style of classical buildings because of the Masonic Temple on the hill.” She gestured to the soaring monument across the street. “This town does love to show off its love of George Washington.”
“In general.” He gestured to a colonial painting that hung on the wall. “This country appreciates the guy. The first president and all.”
“Have you ever considered how young this country is?” she asked.
“Not once.”
“Federalist architecture evolved because everyone here was so busy with rejecting all things British.”
“All things British? Like the way your people built their houses?” He hummed. “I don’t know about that. Sounds a little paranoid.”
“That’s idiotic. Federalist comes from federal, as in”—she made air quotes—“the new republic.”
“I mean,” he continued, “y’all did get spanked in a little something we like to call a revolution.”
“Sorry.” Vanka gawked. “Did you just say y’all?”
He winked.
The overhead speakers announced an incoming commuter train to Baltimore. She ignored the call and asked, “Would you like to know something?”
“Always.”
“You pay far more attention to what you think is my country of origin than I ever have to yours.”
“Would you want to kill me if I said something like, ‘but you have an accent, and I don’t’?”
“Yes.” Did she really want to get on a train with Spiker and be stuck beside him for the next few hours? Perhaps she needed to abort the planned day trip. “I already have a place where I’d hide your body.”
Spiker laughed, stretched his legs out and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “This is exactly the kind of day I needed. One where everything feels abso-fuckin’-lutely normal.”
She leaned against the hardwood bench and wholeheartedly agreed.
“Country of origin?” he repeated. “That’s not something that rolls off the tongue.”
The dexterity of his tongue occupied Vanka’s thoughts longer it should have. The day wasn’t going to be normal as long as she continued making those kinds of mistakes. Maybe she needed to see a psychologist. Therapy was one of her favorite things, not that she was ever truthful in sessions. But it gave her a chance to make sense of things that were directly correlated. Could the plane crash have triggered PTSD swoons? Or Spiker’s unexpected desire for a sabbatical? “I have dual citizenship.”