Outside, it starts to drizzle, so fine it’s barely visible against the light of the lone streetlight a few yards away. The glass fogs up slightly, the way it does when a place is warm inside and cold out. I lean toward the fondue again, trying to stay focused on the food.
“This is really good,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. The food, the wine, his presence—it softens the edges of a hard day.
He dips a piece of bread into the pot and swirls it around slowly. “It is. I didn’t expect to be this into melted cheese, but here we are.”
I grin. “You say that like it’s not a lifestyle.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had fondue before. Do you think Swiss people eat this regularly or it’s just one of those tourist traps that definitely got to us?”
“That’s a great question.” I laugh, then take a sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “We could ask.”
Connor smiles at that, like he knows we’ve been duped. “What about you? Do you eat steak every day back home?”
“I mean, in this economy?” I say, twisting the fork with a piece of bread into the cheese mixture. I feel the bread fall off the fork and spend an exorbitant amount of seconds trying to fish it out. “I do not. But in Argentina? I would say yes. Everyone eats beef in some style of preparation at least three times a week.”
“That actually sounds kind of amazing.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I say, leaning into the center of the table, almost conspiratorially. I think the wine is finally hitting my system because I feel loose and relaxed. I would never, ever own up to any of this so freely—except maybe with Martina or my other close friends back in Argentina—so I’m taken by surprise by my candor. “I’m a little homesick.”
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
I nod. “Yeah. I know. You would never guess.”
Instead of laughing it off, he sets his fork down and studies me. “That makes sense,” he says quietly. “You changed the whole rhythm of your life. That’s not small.”
The words feel like permission, like someone finally validating what I’ve been carrying. Of being here but not fully, afraid to say it out loud. Of dodging calls from my sister or my mother because one mention of home can break me open like a dam.
I swirl my glass gently, watching the wine catch the dim light from the lamp overhead. “New York feels a little… much sometimes. You know?”
He nods like he gets it. “I grew up there, so I thought I was immune to it. All the noise, the pressure, the never stopping. It just becomes a background hum after a while. But somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing everything else too.” He stops himself abruptly and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s so loud, right?”
I glance over at him, the glow from the table lamp casting shadows across his face. There’s a quiet honesty in the way he says it, like he’s not putting on a mask for anyone in our friend group like usual. Not even himself.
“You’re allowed to think that,” I say gently.
He gives me a small smile, one that feels like it belongs just to me. For a moment, it feels like we’re both suspended in something neither of us wants to name. Then he drums his fingers lightly against the table, a small grin tugging at hismouth, and the moment loosens its grip. The rain is falling harder outside, and the condensation on the window is forming irregular paths on the glass. “We should probably figure out where we’re sleeping.”
I blink, thrown off by the shift in topic. “Right.”
We finish the last of the fondue, letting the conversation trail into something soft and quiet. When the man comes back with the check, Connor looks at him and asks, “Is there a hotel nearby for us to stay the night?”
The man, who hasn’t shown any emotion all night, puts on a devilish smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”
12
CONNOR
The man pointsus next door, through an open-air courtyard to a semi-attached building that looks exactly like the one we’re standing on. I assume it’s part of this restaurant, maybe a small inn with an independent entrance. “They are expecting you at the front desk.”
The light drizzle of an hour ago has turned to full-on rain. We pause at the restaurant’s entrance after paying, watching the water fall in steady sheets.
“We should run for it,” Manuela says, as if the distance were large enough to get us wet.
“To what?” I say over the sound of the rain. “The entrance is ten feet away.”
“It feels more dramatic if we run.”
She opens the door with a crooked smile. “After you.”
